First Contact by polutropos

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Chapter 1

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To Canafinwë Macalaurë (Maglor), esteemed colleague, from Daeron, chief minstrel of the Eldar and loremaster of Alqualondë, greetings.

Let me begin by expressing my regret that I have not attempted to reach you sooner. My time has been so full since coming to the Blessed Realm, you would not believe! There is simply so much to discover here, so many extraordinary people to meet, so much to learn. But I have been primarily occupied with gathering the lore and wisdom of my people—I still cannot comprehend how the Teleri of Aman kept no written records for five ages.

I have recently returned from a journey to the Telerin fisher villages along the northern coast where some of the more reclusive of my folk reside, and it brought you to mind. Have you been? I think you would like it. Though perhaps you are quite sick of the sea, I do not know.

In any event, I would say that we two are long overdue for a visit. Do not worry—I will come to you. I have been meaning to make the journey to the country around Formenos and this is an excellent excuse. So, it is likely that I will already be on my way (on foot, as usual) by the time you receive this letter, but I thought it would be rude to show up unannounced. I do not wish to intrude on the privacy of your family, especially at this time.

I will be staying at the inn in the village and will send a messenger when I’ve arrived. I look forward to seeing you there.

For the third time that afternoon, Maglor flipped the parchment face down and dragged a thumb along his jawline.

“What is so strange about it?” asked Nerdanel. “You have a great deal in common. Minstrelsy. Arrogance. Legendary self-pity.”

Maglor glared. Without averting her gaze from the vase taking shape on her pottery wheel, Nerdanel smiled smugly. Then, twisting up her features, she asked, “But what did he mean by that bit about ‘especially at this time’?”

“I assume he means Father’s return.”

It had been over a year since Námo had dismissed Fëanor without the slightest fanfare or warning, not even to his family; but it had been done so quietly that others were only beginning to hear of it. Fëanor, who was greatly enjoying being alive again and did not wish to have any drama spoil it, was keeping his existence as private as possible.

Nerdanel bit her lower lip. “I suppose that’s considerate of him.” She sighed. “I am surprised you have not corresponded at all before this. How long since he sailed to Aman?”

“I have no idea,” said Maglor, throwing up his hands. As a matter of fact, it had been one hundred forty-five years and seven months that Maglor had held off on being the first to reach out, but he did not tell his mother this.

“You were acquainted in Beleriand, were you not?”

“Yes,” Maglor hissed impatiently. “We met, once.”

“Only once? Endor is large but I would think in several millennia of wandering you might have run into each other, no?”

Maglor glared, again. ”No. Only once.” Nerdanel gave him that gentle but withering glance every mother everywhere gives when she knows her child is lying to her. “All right,” he admitted. “Yes, we crossed paths a handful of times.”

“I see,” said Nerdanel. “You slept with him.”

“What!” Maglor slammed the desk and whipped his neck round to face her.

“Please, Lauro, you may be thousands of years older than you were when I first learned to recognise the meaning of that blush on the tips of your ears, but it is as obvious as ever.” She flicked her eyes at him again. “You really ought to grow out your hair again. You have such nice hair. Well, did you last part with Daeron on good terms?”

Maglor bit down on the flesh of his cheek. Sneaking off before sunrise was impolite, certainly, but it could have been worse. It also could have been better.

“Neutral terms,” Maglor answered, and sighed. What was the use of discussing it? He could not very well refuse an invitation from the minstrel of the Eldar and loremaster of Alqualondë, and Daeron’s tone made it clear that he knew as much.

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It was Maglor’s suggestion that they meet in the morning. To have it over and done with, but also because he was less likely to make a regrettable decision by the light of day.

After glancing longingly over the list of the sparkling wines, Maglor settled on black tea. Daeron ordered the same, and a tray of scones.

“How long until you are allowed back in Eldamar?” asked Daeron, marking the end of meaningless pleasantries and the beginning of awkward unpleasantries.

“What?” said Maglor. Tea sploshed from the spout of the teapot as he set it down. “I am not banned from Eldamar. It is my choice to live here.”

“Oh, my mistake. I suppose I assumed since you made the decision to sail here that you yourself deemed the term of your exile ended.”

Maglor huffed. “I live here because I like living here. Besides, I didn’t—” he started to say. “Never mind.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that I chose to sail.”

“So she did find you!” Daeron laughed that bright, musical laugh that had never left Maglor’s memories. It sent a rush of warmth through him, momentarily distracting him from the realisation that—

“Wait. You told her where to find me?”

Daeron winked. “I figured if anyone could force you to board a ship West it was Galadriel. She was right, you know. It’s not really up to us to decide how we ought to atone for our mistakes, is it? Anyway, what was the judgement of the Valar?”

“That my self-imposed exile was more than sufficient punishment and I am forgiven.”

“Hah!” Daeron clapped his hands. “She must have hated that!”

“She did,” Maglor said. “And she hated the subsequent release of the rest of my family even more. She’s convinced that was my doing, and she is not alone.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the rumour. That you sang before Mandos. I never believed it. Not even you could sing a song like that.” At the allusion to Lúthien, Daeron’s eyes clouded like one who is far-off, walking in wistful memories. To Maglor’s surprise and embarrassment, he felt a prickle of jealousy.

“Yes,” said Maglor, “and that is another reason I don’t visit Tirion—let alone the other cities of Eldamar. People do not like me there.”

“The Valar do seem more willing to forgive than our own kind, don’t they? Your father for example! That was a surprise!”

“Mm, yes.” Maglor brushed a few crumbs of scone from the tabletop.

“How is he?” asked Daeron.

“What?”

“The great Curufinwë Fëanáro. How is he since his re-embodiment?”

Exuberant, thought Maglor. Delighting in life, more brilliant than he ever was, inspired, and positively overflowing with the most eloquent and heartfelt apologies.

“He is well.”

“Really? Wonderful news. Will he return to Tirion, do you think?”

“I do not think so, no.” (What Fëanor actually said was, “Oh no! Not this time. This time I am staying well away from it all! With all due respect to our noble kindred, I have no interest in getting myself entangled in that marble-domed, gem-encrusted pit of vipers.”)

“A shame,” said Daeron. “Though I can understand the impulse. It must all be a bit tedious for a brilliant mind like his. I find it a bit tedious myself, but well. My talents were needed in Alqualondë. And then the High Kings approached me about my newest position, and I am sure you of all people understand that one does not simply refuse an invitation to become the official minstrel of the Eldar.”

“No,” said Maglor, swirling his tepid cup of tea. “No, that is not a title someone simply refuses.”

“In any case, I was wondering— Well, I’ve become familiar with his works since coming here— It is difficult not to when half the library of Tirion consists of his works and those building upon them— What a relief none of it was destroyed! It is fortunate that the Noldor value lore and wisdom as highly as they do— I think I would have made a good Noldo, you know— Funny, you would have made a good Teler—”

“Daeron,” Maglor interrupted. “What are you getting at?”

“Sorry.” Daeron knit his excitedly fluttering hands on the table in front of him, then looked into Maglor’s eyes. “I’d like to meet him. Your father.”

---

The first elf Maglor had courted had been a gorgeous, silver-haired Teler. In addition to being one of the most talented flautists in Alqualondë, Halorniel was charismatic, clever, and had an excellent sense of humour. It was with great pride that he had brought her to dinner with his family for the first time.

It was with burning envy that he had watched her held thrall by his perfect, brilliant, and captivating father through the entire evening. Halorniel was the first, but not the last; just as Maglor was the first, but not the only of his brothers to suffer this indignity.

Maglor had all but forgotten about this consequence of being a son of Fëanor when Fëanor himself was alive and available for comparison. Until Daeron had expressed his enthusiasm to meet Fëanor.

Maglor also realised that, despite setting the early morning date, he had held out hope of reigniting something with Daeron. How foolish, to imagine the loremaster of Alqualondë and chief minstrel of the Eldar had had any interest in him, the Noldor's notorious hermit-bard.

Not even an intellectual or artistic interest, it seemed. Maglor was not sure that Daeron or Fëanor had noticed when he rose and left them together in the sitting room several hours ago, having been left out of the conversation for at least a half-hour before that.

He had spent some time walking in the gardens, and accepted Maedhros’ invitation to help with pruning the grape vines to distract himself. But, incapable of focusing of the task, he kept cutting back too far, and had been somewhat brusquely dismissed. So he found himself back at the house and listening outside the window to the excited exchange of ideas between his father and Daeron.

“It is extraordinary,” said Daeron, “I could find no commonalities, no relation to any other linguistic grouping in Arda. It is almost as though the whole people came from outside.” Daeron laughed. “Which is of course impossible.”

“You think so?” said Fëanor. “I am not so convinced that Arda is the only place in Eä with speaking peoples.”

“What do you mean?” said Daeron, a charming tone of wonder in his voice.

Maglor could practically hear his father’s self-satisfied smile. “I have created an instrument that can allow one to see across great distances in the heavens—well, my grandson invented it, but I have improved upon it—and I have discovered that there are other bodies like to Arda throughout Eä.” He lowered his tone conspiratorially. “I have not told anyone besides Telperinquar, lest the rest of the family think I have gone mad, but I do not believe the Eldar and Atani are the only Children of Ilúvatar. I believe there are many—dozens! hundreds!—of other peoples, with their own cultures and traditions and languages.”

Daeron gasped. “Do you think they know of us?”

“Perhaps,” said Fëanor. “Perhaps. I intend to find out. I am devising a language based on the principles of music, since music is after all the language of Creation and underlies all things, that could be reduced to simple waves of sound capable of travelling across the vast distances required to— Say! You might be just the person to help me!”

Maglor punched the side of the house. They both fell silent.

“Did you hear that?” asked Daeron.

“Yes.” Fëanor paused a moment. “Probably nothing. But what do you think? I know you must be terribly occupied with your various roles, but your expertise would be invaluable.”

Maglor did not hear Daeron’s answer, for he was trudging through the garden, away from the house, with his fists clenched at his sides. When he reached the river, he kicked the bank and let out a petulant cry of frustration.

---

“So I am going to stay in Formenos!” said Daeron, beaming. “To help your father with a project.”

Maglor grunted and did not look up from his book. “That’s nice.”

“You are not pleased.”

“Very clever observation,” said Maglor, and flipped a page.

Daeron sat down on the bench beside him, his hands folded over his knees. “Hm. Have I offended you?”

This got Maglor to look up. He shut the book. “Yes, actually. You have.”

“How?” Daeron’s thick silver-grey brows beetled over his deep-set black eyes and sharp nose. His pink lips gathered in a little pout.

“You are arrogant, presumptuous, and a shameless abuser of friendship.”

“Abuser of friendship?” asked Daeron. His laughter was disarmingly nervous. “I admit I can be the first two, but what friendship have I abused?”

“Ours!” Maglor cried, and came close to hitting him on the head with his book. “You used me to befriend my father, and now you are—” Maglor gestured helplessly. What? Claiming his father’s attention? Taking Maglor’s place? That sounded absurd, when he actually considered it. “I know what your project is. I heard you. You are going to help him devise a language. A language of music. Hah! It is as if he has forgotten—” Maglor broke off, suddenly aware of the tremor in his voice.

“What!” Daeron seemed genuinely taken aback. “You clearly did not hear all. I told your father you would be better for the task. He’s afraid to ask for your help. He does not think you have forgiven him.”

Maglor felt as if he’d been struck in the chest with a hammer. “Oh.”

“Have you?” asked Daeron.

“What?”

“Forgiven him?"

There was a long pause. Maglor rested his chin in his palm and considered. He had. Or he had thought he had, a long time ago, when it was just him and his musings and the sea, and forgiveness seemed easy. But he’d never expected Fëanor to live again. He’d never expected to see him again, thriving and well. He resented him for it. He resented all of his family, he realised, for the healing he’d never received. The healing of which he’d deprived himself.

“No,” he said at last. “I haven’t.”

“There, you see,” said Daeron, and he took Maglor’s hand. Maglor’s fingers naturally fell into place between his. “I see how it looks that way. That I abused our friendship, as you say. I think I actually used your father’s re-embodiment as an excuse to finally write to you, and to pretend it wasn’t because of you. For that I have deserved your accusation of arrogance—or pride, at least. I did want to meet him, and I am glad I have, but…” Daeron sighed. “I know how it is. To have had no rest. Our situations are obviously different, so I won’t presume,” he looked at Maglor and a smile played at the corners of his lips, “I won’t presume to know what it is like for you, but I think it is much harder to start over when you’ve just kept on living and living without pause. I hoped that coming here would help you. That’s why I told Galadriel where to find you. But I suppose—well, I know now—that it’s not simply a matter of being whisked away on the Straight Road and having all your pain trail behind—mmph!”

The end of Daeron’s sentence was trapped in his throat, for Maglor had grabbed his face in both hands and planted a kiss firmly over his mouth. The utterance of surprise turned to a honeyed whimper of delight as Daeron graciously received the kiss.

Maglor pulled back, smiling. “I’m glad you’re staying." He patted Daeron's pinkened cheek. "Though you may find my father no longer requires your assistance.”

Daeron shrugged. “I think I’ll stay awhile anyway, if that’s all right with you.”

“I’ll allow it,” said Maglor, and kissed him again.