Clear Pebbles of the Rain by StarSpray

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
- “Wild Geese”, by Mary Oliver

- - 

Late Autumn
TA 2941

The messenger from Lothlórien arrived just as the weather began to turn from colorful autumn toward an austere winter, at the same time as an eagle swooped down to tell of the happenings at the Lonely Mountain. Both messages—a letter from Galadriel, and the spoken message of the eagle, brought as a favor to Gandalf—were brief. The Lonely Mountain was retaken and Smaug dead, and plans made for the rebuilding of Dale—but so, too, had died Thorin Oakenshield, and his nephews. Relief mingled with grief, as it always did in these days. 

Galadriel’s letter was more surprising. Elrond had expected his own sons, or at least Glorfindel, to return before winter blocked the mountain passes. Dol Guldur had been emptied and Sauron driven out. Galadriel mistrusted the ease with which it had been accomplished, but wrote that Gandalf would tell him more of it when he passed back west come spring. At the end of it she spoke briefly of the captives rescued when they had at last breached the fortress. There had been fewer than feared, mostly Woodmen now either returned to their homes and families or brought to Caras Galadhon to live out the rest of their days in what comfort the Elves could provide. There had been a handful of Thranduil’s folk, too; Galadriel feared that very few of them would find healing on these shores, and expected that they would find their way west to the Havens in due time. But at the very end of the letter she spoke of one more prisoner that Elladan and Elrohir had discovered in one of the deepest dungeons, locked away behind a door unopened in so long that the hinges had rusted. 

Maglor. 

The letter fell from Elrond’s suddenly numb fingers, fluttering to the ground and catching on the grass at his feet. The breeze caught it, but Erestor rescued it before it could be blown into the nearby stream. “Ill news?” he asked, looking at Elrond with concern. “Did something go wrong at Dol Guldur?”

“N-no.” Elrond gestured for him to read the letter before letting his face drop into his hands. He heard Erestor make a small noise of surprise, but his mind was whirling with questions. How had Maglor come to be there? How long had he been there? Too long, far too long, if he had been locked up and forgotten about, as it seemed. Yet Elrond could not believe that he had been forgotten, or that his identity had escaped the notice of Sauron. Galadriel had not written any more than that he had been brought to Caras Galadhon and was resting in as much comfort as she could provide, and that Elladan and Elrohir intended to bring him back to Imladris in the spring or summer, when the passes were clear and he was strong enough to make the journey. 

“My lord?” Erestor touched his shoulder lightly. “What preparations should we make for him?”

Elrond took a breath, and got to his feet. “The room with the blue hangings, that overlooks the river,” he said. “That will be his.” It had always been his, in the hope that he would find his way to Imladris. That hope had steadily faded over the years, but never quite left. “There is no hurry. We have all the winter to make it ready.” It was hard to say what else should be done, as he did not know what Maglor would need. “…A harp,” he said after a moment, as they began to walk back to the house. “I would have a harp waiting for him.”

“I know just the one,” said Erestor. “I will find it.” He quickened his pace, no doubt making a list of all the things that Elrond could not think of in the moment, and a schedule for them that would have everything in perfect readiness by the time Maglor entered the valley. Elrond kept his own pace slow, unwilling to leave the bright sunlight just yet. He paused by a fountain to listen to the water’s gentle music, and looked up toward the mountains, casting his thoughts to the lands beyond. Wilderland would know peace, a real peace, for the first time in many years. The mountains had been emptied of orcs, and Smaug lay at the bottom of the Long Lake. A king ruled again under the Mountain, and Dol Guldur was emptied of its horrors. Still, Elrond’s heart ached. The Council could have acted sooner—Gandalf had wanted them to, and Elrond had agreed, until Saruman had counseled patience, lest they overreach themselves. Better to watch and to wait, he had said, so at least they might have some idea of what the Enemy was doing. And so they had watched, and they had waited. 

How much had that patience cost Maglor?

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It was dark, and it was cold. Maglor was frozen in place, unable to move, unable to make a sound as before him suddenly arose a great Eye, lidless and yellow as a cat’s, wreathed in red flame. It was searching, seeking—not for him, but he was caught in its gaze. The pupil widened as its focus bore down on him like a physical weight. He could not breathe. Distantly he heard laughter like the roar of a wildfire. 

He woke with a start, gasping for breath. His face hurt, lips swollen and tender with their healing wounds, and his jaw aching and stiff. The room was dark, except for a small lamp that cast a soft golden glow over the rugs, but that only deepened other shadows, and at the end of his bed Maglor glimpsed his brother, ghostly, watching him, before someone else leaned over him. “Maglor? It’s all right. It was only a dream.” Elladan. Or Elrohir. In the dark it was hard to tell which twin, and still Maglor thought first of Elrond or of Elros. He was trembling all over, and unable to explain that it had not only been a dream. 

The lamp brightened, just enough that Maglor could look up and see that it was Elladan and not Elrohir—and when he looked back into the dark corner, Maedhros was not there. He let out a shaky breath. Elladan squeezed his shoulder before turning to put water over a brazier to heat. Maglor closed his eyes and let himself sink back into the pillows. 

Nothing felt quite real—or, no, that wasn’t right. He did not feel real. The pillows and the blankets, and the windowsill and the wall—they were all solid enough. But it was still a surprise when he reached out to touch them and found himself equally solid, for he felt untethered and strange, as though he would dissolve at any moment with a stray breeze through the open window. No wind came through it then, but he heard a strange sound outside, a soft pattering that it took several moments for him to recognize. Rain. He struggled to sit up, pain and fear momentarily forgotten. It was raining. He could feel it on his hand when he reached out, cool and wet and clean. He could smell it, too, damp wood and leaves and the fresh scent of the rain itself. If he had had the strength he would have climbed fully through the window just to feel it on his face. 

“Maglor?” Elladan sat by him on the bed. He had a bowl of steaming water in which he had dropped athelas. It was fresh and clean smelling, and when he used it to clean the scabs on Maglor’s lips that he’d somehow managed to reopen, it helped to ease the pain. Elladan caught Maglor’s face in his hand afterward, looking into his eyes as though searching for something. Maglor did not know what he thought he would find. Whatever he saw, Elladan said nothing of it, but there was a grief behind his eyes that Maglor did not think had anything to do with him. It was an old sadness. If he had been able to speak—if he had been other than he now was—he might have asked about it. But he couldn’t, and he wasn’t. 

Weariness rose up in him as Elladan moved away, setting aside the water and dimming the lamp again. The rain continued to fall outside, as comforting as a song that Maglor had once known but had long forgotten; the sound of it lulled him to sleep, and filled his dreams until, upon waking, he almost thought that he could recall the sound of the Sea. 

Morning brought an end to the rain, and bright sunshine to make the raindrops on the golden leaves outside his window glitter, as though someone had tossed diamonds all over them. Maglor found himself waking alone, and sat himself up to lean on the windowsill, looking out of it properly for the first time. He was startled to find tree branches both above and below, and no sign of the ground. The tree branches were of a smooth, silvery wood, and all the leaves were that same bright golden color. On a sudden whim he reached out to pluck one off the nearest branch. It came easily, as though the tree were glad to let him have it. Water drops rained down onto the boughs below, and Maglor leaned back inside. It was autumn, and the air was cool—not unbearable to most, he thought, but he found the warmth of the blankets welcome. He was shaking from the effort it had taken to sit up and even just to reach out his hand, but he could ignore that in favor of marveling at the leaf in his hands, at the crisp smoothness of it, and the brilliance of its color. There was something familiar about it, but he could not recall its name. He had forgotten much of what he’d once known of trees, and the shapes of their leaves, and the quiet music of their thoughts.

“Malinornë,” said a voice from the doorway. Maglor started. He had not heard it open. When he looked over he stilled, fingers losing their grip on the leaf stem. Galadriel stood there, and suddenly the power that he had felt striving against Sauron in Dol Guldur, and the power that held sway over this place, was made clear to him. Of course it was hers. She stood with her hands clasped loosely before her, her hair in a simple braid laid over her shoulder. Maglor met her gaze and looked away, though he thought that she had seen into him already. “Tar-Aldarion gifted the first seeds to Gil-galad, long ago,” she said, and for a moment he wasn’t sure what she meant, until his gaze landed again on the leaf. “They would not grow in Lindon, so he gave them to me, and I planted them here.” 

Maglor picked up the leaf again, rubbing his thumb over the thin veins branching out from the stem. He recalled them now, from his youth long ago and far away in Valinor. They grew in towering groves there, most beautiful in the spring when the golden leaves fell at last, to be replaced by equally golden flowers, so that all was gold and silver above and below. They had been most beautiful at Mingling. He had never seen them under the Sun until now. 

Galadriel moved into the room to sit beside the bed. Someone had cut Maglor’s hair, ridding him of the matted uneven snarls of it, but he wished that it was longer so that he might have something to hide behind. They had never been close, she the youngest of Finwë’s grandchildren and he almost the eldest. And now—she had surpassed them all in power and in wisdom, that was clear from the timbre of her voice and the way that she carried herself, all quiet assurance. The fiery pride of her youth had been banked, burning lower but steadier, here in this golden realm that she had planted and tended. And Maglor? He had diminished as she had grown, and now he did not even have the voice for which he had been known. After all that he had done and all of the years that had passed since, he did not know why she seemed so ready to welcome him there into her realm. 

Perhaps it was for Elrond’s sake, though Maglor could not imagine Elrond offering him such a welcome either, after all this time. His sons, then—they seemed to be remarkably forgiving, or perhaps were young enough that it was all so distant as to not matter to them. 

“Elladan tells me you have not spoken since you came here,” Galadriel said after a few moments in which he could feel her gaze on him. He did not look up. “He believes it is something the Enemy has done to you.” She reached out to touch his face, careful of his mouth, her thumb brushing lightly over the scar a stray whip crack had left, long before. “Is that so?” He nodded, and heard her sigh. “Oh, Macalaurë. I am sorry.” She spoke in the Quenya of their youth, and the sound of its made tears prick his eyes. Maglor closed them as Galadriel withdrew her hand. “We did not know you were there. Had I known, I would have acted sooner, regardless of what Curunír said.” 

That did make him look up, startled. Galadriel met his gaze, and a look of deep sadness passed over her face at whatever she saw there. He didn’t understand it. “I would be the last to deny that you have done terrible things,” she said, reaching out again, this time to place her hand over his. Her touch was soft and warm. “But what has happened to you is beyond any punishment that you could deserve. Even your long isolation is too much. It is long since I have forgiven you, but even if I had not, I would never knowingly leave anyone in the hands of the Enemy. Least of all my own kin. Nor would Elrond,” she added, and at that Maglor did look away. “He spent many years seeking you. Did you know? Elros searched, too, before he left for Númenor.”

He had not known. His chest felt tight, and the tears that had threatened before now spilled over, the room blurring before him. Without thinking he raised his hands to cover his face, but his jaw and his lips were still sore, and touching them only made it worse. 

“Telperinquar searched, too,” Galadriel went on. “He kept a place for you in Ost-in-Edhil for many years, hoping that you would make your way to the city.” Maglor could only shake his head. He didn’t want to think of Celebrimbor—to think of him was to remember what he endured at the end, and Maglor couldn’t bear it. “And I searched for you, but could never see more than mist over the shore. You kept yourself too well hidden.”

He had not thought that he was hiding, though he had never wanted to be found. He had just…wandered, with no real destination and no real thought beyond where he might camp the next night, or what he might manage to get for food. Sometimes he came upon villages or cities of Men, and they were always willing to trade for his songs, but he had avoided Elves where he could. They would not have been so welcoming. It had never occurred to him that anyone might look for him. Elrond and Elros had been better off with Gil-galad than they ever had been with him, and with Maedhros gone there had been no one else who had cared what became of him. 

Even Maedhros had not cared, in the end—not been enough to keep him from the fire. 

Maglor tried to swallow the bitterness that threatened to rise up and choke him. He’d thought he could leave it behind in Dol Guldur along with the impenetrable darkness of its dungeons, but perhaps it had been in him all along, buried deep beneath the surface so that even he had forgotten it, and Sauron had only known how to bring it to the surface. 

And now here was Galadriel, offering both kindness and protection that he did not deserve and did not know how to accept. He did not even know if she would allow him to leave this place, or if he had only traded a cage of dark stone for one of gold and silver boughs. 

She sighed, seeming to catch the direction of his thoughts. “I am no jailer, Macalaurë. I will not keep you here, but you are not well. I do not know if it is within my power to restore your voice.” He felt her hand in his hair, combing briefly through the short strands. “For now, you need only to sleep, and to eat, and to let yourself be cared for. Elladan and Elrohir must depart today on an errand, escorting Radagast back to his home in Rhosgobel; one of my handmaidens will care for you in their absence. Her name is Eleryn; she once dwelt in Eregion.” With the soft rustle of her skirts she rose. Maglor lifted his head to watch her go; at the door she stopped to look back at him. “I know what you dreamed of last night,” she said. He flinched. “I see him, too—but he will not find you here. Not while I remain the Lady of Lórien.” And with that, she departed. 

In the quiet, Maglor wiped the tears from his face, and looked back down at the mallorn leaf. He picked it up, rubbing his fingers over the surface for a moment. Then he reached out of the window and let it fall, drifting gently to the ground somewhere far below. 

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Eleryn proved to be a cheerful presence, with dark hair cropped as short as Maglor’s was, and with bandages on one of her arms. “I was at Dol Guldur,” she told him when she saw him looking, “and underestimated one of the orc captains. He got the worst of it, though.” She smiled, showing teeth, and he could imagine that she was a fierce presence on the battlefield. Off of it, she proved to be brisk but gentle, changing the bandages on Maglor’s own arms and rubbing something cool and smooth over the raw skin of his wrists and ankles. She brought simple foods that did not require much chewing, for his jaw remained stiff and painful, and she filled the room with chatter and gossip, knowing that he did not know any of the people she spoke of, and also that it didn’t matter, for the stories were silly and lighthearted, of domestic disputes and lovers’ spats. She spoke Sindarin in the accent of one who had known Beleriand, but she drifted out of it into the Woodelven tongue more than half the time, and it was only slowly that Maglor realized it was to help him learn it. 

It wasn’t hard. He was Fëanor’s son, even still, and it was not so unlike Sindarin as to be unintelligible. He could not answer in kind, but Eleryn did not seem to mind. 

“I was born in Himlad, you know,” she said suddenly, some days into her caretaking of him. Maglor had been gazing out of the window at a sparrow perched among the mallorn leaves. He turned to look at her, where she sat near the foot of the bed with a basket of mending at her feet. “My father followed your brother Curufin from Valinor, and my mother followed him. After the Bragollach we went down to Nargothrond, and there—well.” She shrugged. “We stayed with Lord Celebrimbor, after.” 

Maglor remembered his brothers arriving at Himring, both of them bitter and furious—though not as furious as Maedhros had been. He, too, had been more angry than words could describe—angry and grieved, for he had loved Finrod; they had been friends in their youth and again in Beleriand, in spite of everything. Some of Celegorm’s followers had made their way north in the weeks and months afterward, in addition the others who had already joined with Himring after the Bragollach, but many had, like Eleryn and her parents, remained behind in Nargothrond. Maglor had not blamed them—not then, and certainly not now. 

“Most of us—those who followed you and your brothers—who survived the War of Wrath made our way to Eregion with Celebrimbor,” Eleryn went on. “And of those of us who survived that, most are in Imladris with Master Elrond. I was already in the service of my lady, and had accompanied her here with Lady Celebrían when they left Eregion. Which is all to say: there are many in Imladris who will be glad to see you. And Master Elrond not least of them.” She held up the shirt that she had been working on to examine her work, nodded in satisfaction, and folded it neatly. 

Maglor turned his gaze back to the window. There had been nothing said before of his going to Imladris, though he supposed if Galadriel did not think she could heal his voice, she might believe Elrond could. He also did not think that he would find such a welcome there as Eleryn seemed to believe. None of his own people had survived the First Age; the Bragollach had taken most of them, and the small handful who had remained had died in the War of Wrath, before Maedhros had sent the rest of his own people to Gil-galad with Elrond and Elros. He was glad to know that some of them still lived, but he did not want to see them. Not as he was. 

Galadriel did not return, but Maglor remained aware of her presence—it was impossible not to be, with her power soaked into the trees and present in the very air—and as the days passed he started to regain his strength. His jaw loosened enough for him to eat proper food, and his lips healed, though he would forever bear the scars from the needle. At least he could move them, and soon touch his face without pain. Eleryn helped him to get out of bed and take a few unsteady steps across the room so that he could sit by another window, and she and a few other giggling maids could change the bedding. He did not know what they were laughing at, and kept his gaze averted, leaning out of the window to try to see the ground. He glimpsed it, far below, and he could see other buildings in other tree tops, connected by swinging bridges and, in places, nothing more than lengths of slender rope. He saw one elf dart, laughing, across one such rope bridge and felt dizzy just watching.

Once he was safely ensconced in his bed again, beneath fresh blankets that smelled of lavender, Eleryn reappeared with a basket of clothes—clothes for him. They were of finely woven cloth dyed in blues and greys as he had once favored, when he had thought about such things. The robes and tunics sported delicate embroidery of stars, and other designs that Maglor couldn’t make out until Eleryn brought one over to show him. Musical notations, though he did not recognize the melody. “Lady Arwen has made these for you,” Eleryn told him. “What do you think? They are lovely, are they not? She is very skilled.”

Maglor nodded, because she was very skilled, whoever she was, and he did like them. But he also knew that he would feel strange and out of place wearing them; it had been so long since he’d worn anything truly fine. Not since—not since before the Dagor Bragollach at least, he thought as he watched Eleryn fold the clothes and tuck them into a chest. Like most other things made by the Galadhrim, the chest was made of pale mallorn wood, and it was carved with leaves and nuts and other woodland motifs. 

More and more he was coaxed out of bed, and dressed in these new fine clothes. He couldn’t stop running his hands over them where they hung loosely over his too-thin arms, and examining the stitches of the embroidery, feeling as though he should know the songs that Lady Arwen had sewn there—but his mind was clouded when it came to music, and he could not remember how to read the notes. It didn’t matter, anyway—he had no voice with which to sing them. One sunny day when he was dressed to her satisfaction, Eleryn took him by the arm and steered him out of the bedroom and out onto a wide balcony. Vines wined around the railings and pots of various sizes and shapes sported other plants. None were in bloom, but most were still green even though autumn was getting on, turning toward winter. Cushioned benches and chairs were set among the plants, and it was a relief to sink onto one; even that short walk had left Maglor out of breath and trembling. 

But it was an even bigger relief to be outside. He had not even realized how desperate he had been for a glimpse of the sky until he looked up to see it, clear blue peeking between the tree branches. The air was cool and fresh, without the bite of frost that should have been there. He was seated by the railing, and peered down to see a square far below, with a fountain surrounded by green grass dotted with yellow flowers. Nearly all of the homes and buildings of Caras Galadhon were in the treetops, and there were few going about their business on the ground. He could hear voices, though, singing and talking and laughing just far enough away that he could not catch any of the words. It was not a bustling city as Tirion had been, or any of the other cities and towns that Maglor had visited over his years of wandering, but there were lives going on as normal just out of sight. It was both strange and strangely reassuring. No one could live wholly untouched by the Shadow, but there were many who escaped the worst of it. 

Eleryn draped a blanket over his knees, and placed a steaming cup of fragrant tea in his hands. “It isn’t good to be shut away from the sun,” she said, smiling at him as she sat in the next seat over. Maglor nodded in agreement, and sipped at the tea. It was sweet and floral, and a welcome heat in his throat. He looked up at the sky again, abruptly and keenly missing the Gap, and the wide grasslands of Ard Galen, without a tree to be seen for leagues upon leagues. The winds had often blown strongly over the plains, and he and his riders had chased them, galloping through the waves of grass and singing for the sheer joy of it beneath the young bright sun in a cloudless sky. They had laughed their defiance of the Shadow in the north, then, and thought themselves strong and invincible. 

“Maglor?” Eleryn leaned over to touch his face, and he blinked, noticing the tears on his cheeks for the first time. “Should I fetch you something? Are you in any pain?” He shook his head. “A distraction, then? Shall I tell you of Eregion before the troubles came? It was a beautiful place.” At his nod—he rather desperately wanted to hear something good of Celebrimbor’s life, even if he knew how it all ended—she smiled and sat back, sipping her own tea, and began to speak, describing the wide avenues and the holly groves, and the busy halls of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain where marvelous things of all kinds were made, from jewelry to mail to delicate crystal and glass work. He could see it in his mind as she described it—the towers covered in rose vines, and the gardens filled with lilac and wisteria, so that the smoke from the forges was always cut with the sweetness of flowers. There had been holly everywhere, of course, but there had been apple orchards and cherry groves, too. Roads came up from the southwest, passing through Tharbad, and going north to Lindon and east to Moria, and trade had flowed in and out along with many travelers. Men and Dwarves and Elves had all mingled together, teaching and learning from each other. 

It had not lasted, but it had been beautiful. Remarkable. Everything that Celebrimbor had once dreamed of. Maglor leaned back against his seat and closed his eyes as he listened to Eleryn. She was a good storyteller, but his mind drifted. The sunlight on his face was warm when the breezes faded, and he dozed, half-dreaming of Ost-in-Edhil as Eleryn described it. But, as always, darker dreams crowded in, of the city’s burning as orcs swarmed over it, hacking, burning, destroying—and the laughter of Sauron behind it all. 

He startled awake to the sound of voices—Eleryn’s and another, speaking quietly. Maglor did not open his eyes, or move; in spite of the dream he was still comfortable, and warm—someone had covered him more fully with the blanket while he dozed. “…thinking of finding him a harp, but I am not sure that he would play,” Eleryn was saying.

“It is a good idea,” said the second voice—another woman, whose voice was fair as a nightingale’s song. “My grandmother will have one she can spare, I am sure. If you like, I’ll sit with him.”

“Thank you, my lady. I won’t be long.”

Maglor heard the soft swish of fabric, and then turned his head, opening his eyes as the unfamiliar lady sat down. Well, her voice had been unfamiliar. Looking into her face made him start, half-sitting up before panic gave way to reason. Of course Elwing had not somehow returned to Middle-earth, and even if she had she would not do something so kind and quiet as offer to sit with him while he napped in the sun like a cat. The lady smiled at him; he could see now that the resemblance to Elwing was great, but not absolute—like Elladan and Elrohir’s to Elrond. “I am sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to startle you. I am Arwen, Elrond’s daughter.” She held out her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Maglor reached to take it. “I am very glad to meet you at last.” It was a polite and kind thing to say—meaningless, really, except that there was something almost painfully sincere about the way she spoke to him, not unlike her brothers. He dropped his gaze and realized belatedly that he had extended his right hand, the Silmaril-scarred one, but Arwen said nothing of it; nor did she withdraw her own hand. 

Eleryn returned then, triumphant with a small lap harp in her hands. It was made of mallorn wood, and when she passed her hands over the strings their sound was sweet and clear. Arwen released Maglor’s hand as Eleryn set the harp on his lap. When he grasped the frame to steady it before it fell, it felt strange in his hands, and he did not touch the strings. They would not sound so sweet under his fingers. He knew without needing to try that music had receded from his reach as surely as the tide from the shore—but unlike the tide, it would not return. 

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Arwen soon began to appear daily, inviting Maglor to sit outside with her, or to walk with her through the city—on the ground, along wide green avenues, little used by the Galadhrim but still adorned with fountains and statues and gardens mostly empty now with the winter. On the wide lawn in the center of the city was the largest fountain, and it was there that they had stopped for Maglor to rest his still too weak legs when her brothers returned. Arwen leaped up to greet them, leaving Maglor sitting by the fountain. He watched the reunion as he trailed his fingers through the water, listening to the quiet flow of it, trying to catch the music that he knew was there, that he had once known, had once been able to hear even in the lightest patter of raindrops on grass. It was muted now, though, slipping through his grasp like the water itself through his fingers. 

“Did you fall into the river and float back down, then?” Arwen was asking as she led her brothers back to the fountain. They were both damp and rather bedraggled, and Maglor could not quite tell if the discoloration on Elrohir’s face was bruises or a smear of dirt. 

“We may as well have,” Elladan said with a grimace. “It rained all the way back—cold rain, and with snow on its heels farther north. No one will be doing much travel through Wilderland the rest of the year.”

Elrohir smiled at Maglor. “It is good to see you outside,” he said.

“I’ve been showing him the city,” said Arwen, coming to sit by Maglor again. 

“Have you taken him out of it yet?” Elladan asked. When Arwen shook her head he declared, “Then we must go to Cerin Amroth—tomorrow, perhaps, or the day after. We have not picnicked there in ages.”

It was midmorning the next day when Elrohir came to fetch Maglor. Bathed and clothed in lighter clothing than his travel gear, bruises on his neck and hands stood out more clearly, though he did not move like one badly injured. When he saw Maglor staring he smiled. “It looks worse than it is!” he said. “We encountered a few spiders on the way back from Rhosgobel, but they will trouble no one else now. Are you ready?” Maglor nodded, and trailed after him, going down one of the many ladders that led up and down the tree. Maglor had been going up and down for days now, at Arwen’s insistence, but he still needed a moment to catch his breath when they reached the ground. 

Wherever Cerin Amroth was, he hoped it was not far. 

“It is a short walk, though we must go around the city,” Arwen said, coming up to take his hand. Elladan was with her, carrying a large hamper. “The gates open to the south, and our destination lies to the north.” 

They passed out of the gates, which opened for them on silent hinges. Outside of the walls was a wide green space on the other side of a deep fosse which surrounded the hill upon which the city stood. Maglor glanced back at it, up at the high green walls and the towering trees beyond. Overhead the sky was cloudless and very blue. He would have been pleased enough to sit on the grass right there under the open sky, but Elrond’s children were intent upon their destination. Every part of Lothlórien that he had seen thus far was lovelier than the last; he did not doubt that Cerin Amroth could continue the pattern. Elrohir ranged ahead, whistling bird calls and laughing when the birds darted out of the trees to flutter about him, chirping and cheeping, before returning to the trees. Arwen and Elladan kept to a slower pace for Maglor’s sake, one on either side of him. They spoke little, but after a short time Arwen began to sing. It was a simple walking song, and Elladan soon joined her. They had fair voices, and soon Elrohir joined them also, though he remained ahead of them on the path. When he disappeared into the forest his voice floated back like an echo, beckoning them onward. 

The way to Cerin Amroth was, as Arwen had promised, not long after they made their way to the northern side of Caras Galadhon. As they passed through the first trees they caught up to Elrohir, who had stopped to speak with a party coming the other way. They were clad in the strange garments of the Galadhrim that shifted color and hue as they moved, or as the dappled sunlight danced over them; their hoods were thrown back, and their expressions all smiling and carefree. At their head was a tall elf with silver hair. He greeted Elrond’s children with great affection, and Maglor was startled to hear them call him Grandfather. 

As the rest of his party passed by to continue on to the city, the silver-haired elf turned to Maglor, his gaze as keen as Galadriel’s. “Well met, Maglor son of Fëanor,” he said, inclining his head in greeting. Maglor echoed the gesture, pressing his own hand to his chest. “We have not met before. I am Celeborn, Lord of the Galadhrim. I am glad to see you regaining your strength.” He turned to speak to Elladan a moment more before leaving them to rejoin his party, and leaving Maglor in a state of confusion. 

He had not known that Galadriel and Celeborn had had a daughter. Of course, he had also not known that Elrond had married at all until he had learned that he had children, but that was less strange than that he had married the daughter of Galadriel. Or that no one had told him of it before now, or even mentioned her name—unless they had, and he had not heard. That happened often, that Maglor’s mind drifted and he found himself returning to himself to find Eleryn or Arwen talking of something quite different from what they had been saying before. 

Arwen took his hand again. “We did not expect Grandfather to return today,” she said, smiling a little ruefully at him. “I think you both would have appreciated a little warning before meeting. He is not usually so stiff.” Maglor could only shake his head. A little stiffness was far less than he deserved from Celeborn of Doriath. She squeezed his hand, and as they set out again she asked Elrohir, “Did they say anything of the northern marches?”

“All quiet,” said Elrohir. “Whatever went on in the north, the mountains seem to have been emptied orcs—and of wargs. I suppose they all slipped through Mirkwood to the Lonely Mountain while we were busy at Dol Guldur.”

“Grandmother told me something of a great battle that took place at the feet of the Lonely Mountain,” Arwen said, lifting her skirts to step over a stray root. “Elves and Men and Dwarves fought the orcs there—and even the eagles joined the fight, and they had the victory in the end. There is a King under the Mountain again, and Dale is to be rebuilt.”

“That is a tale I cannot wait to hear in full,” Elladan said. “I would have liked to be there, but I suppose we will need to wait for Gandalf to tell us about it.”

The golden canopy closed around them again. There were other trees too, bare with the winter, strange and naked shapes among the leafy mellyrn. The occasional pine was a shock of dark green against the silver. All about him still Maglor could feel the power of Galadriel that lay over the land, holding at bay both time and Shadow. He felt as though he were a strange exception, a dark blot on an otherwise clean place. When he looked back he was almost surprised to find no dark footsteps marking his path. 

They came at last to a wide open space, with a carpet of lush green grass covering the hill the rose up, crowned with two rings of trees—one of white-barked trees, leafless but shapely, and beyond them mellyrn rising tall and graceful and crowned with gold. One tree in the center, larger than the rest, held a white talan the gleamed in the midday sun. Overhead the sky seemed bluer than it had when Maglor had looked up at it outside the walls of Caras Galadhon. 

Scattered over the grass were many flowers, pale niphredil, and another flower that Maglor did not recognize. He stooped to pluck a small blossom, turning it between his fingers. It was yellow, of a different shade than the mallorn leaves, and its petals formed the shape of a many-rayed star. Ahead of him, Elladan and Elrohir went partway up the hill to spread out the blanket for their picnic, and Arwen trailed after them, picking handfuls of niphredil and the yellow blossoms as she went. Maglor remained where he was, listening to them laugh and to the wind in the trees behind him. The air smelled sweet and fresh, and the sun felt warm on his face. 

And he wanted to flee. 

It was only the knowledge that he would not get far before Elladan and Elrohir caught him that kept Maglor rooted to the spot. He could not leave but he could not make himself go up the hill to join them. This place was too bright and too beautiful for him to mar it by his presence. As he stood there he became aware of Galadriel again—of her attention focused on him rather than just the presence of her power in the forest. He flinched from it, and she withdrew. The breeze picked up briefly, moving over him like the caress of a soft hand. 

“Maglor?” Arwen had come back down the hill. “Come join us.” She took his hand and gently pulled him along behind her up the hill. He was seated in the middle of the three of them, all jostling around him as Elrohir unpacked the picnic hamper, and Arwen braided flowers into Elladan’s hair. They ate soft bread and fresh cheese, and apples baked into golden pastry and drizzled with honey, and drank a cordial that tasted fresh as spring water, and sent warmth and new strength flowing through Maglor’s limbs. 

Afterward, he found himself agreeing to braid flowers into Arwen’s hair, as she was busy by then with Elrohir’s, and his own hair was too short for braiding anyway—let alone adornment. “The golden flowers are called elanor,” Arwen told him as he carefully wove in the first blossom. His fingers were clumsy and the braids uneven, but she did not seem to mind—and she was lovelier than the flowers and the winter sky regardless. “I love them, like little suns peeping out of the grass even in winter.” 

“Sing us a song, Arwen,” Elrohir said as Maglor tied off the braid. “Elladan brought his flute.”

“Did I?” Elladan asked, and laughed when Elrohir shoved at his shoulder. “Of course I did! What should I play?” He drew out a flute of carven wood, etched with flowers and stars, and played a few notes that warbled like birdsong. 

“Something merry,” Elrohir said as he leaned back on his elbows. 

Arwen laughed and began to sing a very merry song indeed, full of tra la la lally and other nonsense. Elrohir joined her for the choruses, accompanied by the harmonies of Elladan’s flute. Maglor sat and listened, and found himself thinking of other picnics where other cheerful and silly songs were sung. Only he had been leading the singing, and was accompanied by many more than three other voices. Picnics outside of Tirion had been frequent and chaotic, with cousins and brothers coming and going, bringing friends, with games and bickering, all under the golden light of Laurelin, amid grass and wildflowers so numerous that Maglor could not now recall all of their names, if he had ever known them to begin with. 

There had been far fewer such gatherings once they crossed the Sea, and much smaller, but he’d picnicked with Maedhros and Fingon by Lake Mithrim, or with Finrod and his brothers when they came east to visit the Gap. Those days they had all gone armed, even in the safety of Hithlum behind the Ered Wethrin. Maglor had no weapons now, and neither did Arwen or her brothers, at least at first glance. Perhaps such things were unnecessary within the bounds of Galadriel’s realm, but now that he had thought of it, it made him uneasy. He had not carried a sword for many, many years—he’d lost it to the tides long ago—but at least then he had had his voice, even if it had not been enough to save him in the end.

In between songs—each one sillier than the last—Elladan and Elrohir took turns telling stories of their adventures, mostly in the north of Eriador among the Dúnedain who still dwelled there. Arwen spoke more of Imladris, appearing to be intent upon convincing Maglor that it was the most welcoming and homely and lovely place in the world. All three of them spoke a great deal of Elrond—for to speak of Imladris was to speak of him, Maglor found. He was a healer and a loremaster, one of the Wise, counselor of kings and friend to all. He had once been Gil-galad’s herald, and had led the first armies against Sauron during the war in Eriador, when Eregion had fallen, and he had been there on the slopes of Orodruin when Sauron had fallen at last, though Gil-galad had died with there too, alongside Elendil of Númenor. 

None of them spoke of their mother, though. Not until Elladan and Arwen got up to walk around the other side of the hill, feeling restless and in need of movement. Maglor remained where he was, twisting elanor blossoms together into an ever-growing chain just to be doing something with his hands. Elrohir picked up Elladan’s flute and played a few short notes before lowering it. “It is not only for your sake that we want to take you to Imladris,” he said. “Though I think you will find things easier there than you are finding them here. But Adar—he so rarely speaks of his own past, but it is marked by loss after loss. The latest is our mother.” Maglor did not look up, but he stilled his fingers. “She was set upon by orcs in the Redhorn Pass on her way here to Lórien. Elladan and I set out as soon as we heard, and we found her—but she had taken a poisoned wound, and even after she recovered she could not remain. She took ship many years ago, now. Elladan and I have not spent as much time in Imladris since as we should—we have spent much our time among the Dúnedain, hunting orcs and trolls and keeping the passes clear. Arwen has split her time between here and there, but that often leaves Adar—not alone, for Imladris is never empty, but you know what I mean. He has no other close kin.” 

Maglor understood what was being said—that his going to Imladris would be as good for Elrond as it would be for him. It was a kind thought, but he could not really believe it to be true. Wherever he went, he would be nothing but a burden. It was one Elrond’s children did not seem to mind shouldering, at least for the moment, but he could not ask it of Elrond. Not when he had so many other cares and other griefs. 

Elladan and Arwen returned to them, and Elladan asked Maglor, “Do you wish to climb up to the talan? It offers a wonderful view of the wood and of the River.” 

Recalling his desire for wide open views, Maglor nodded, and he and Elladan left Arwen and Elrohir at the blanket to climb up to the trees at the top of the hill, and then up a ladder to the talan high above. From there the wood spread out before them, a golden sea of leaves. The sun was sinking westward, and would soon pass beyond the Mountains; already the shadows were growing long. To the east Maglor could see the Misty Mountains rising up, snow-clad, their peaks invisible through the thick wreaths of clouds that hovered over them. To the south Caras Galadhon rose, green and gold and silver. To the east—Maglor glanced that way and recoiled, for Mirkwood lay there, dark and forbidding and with clouds hanging low over it, though the Necromancer was gone. The stamp of evil he had left behind would not be cleansed so quickly. Perhaps it never would, unless a way was found to rid the world of him forever. Yet he could almost feel Sauron’s hands on him again, and the brand upon his chest burned. 

Elladan took his arm and turned him away. “Dol Guldur is empty,” he said. “You need not look back that way. Look instead southward. There is Caras Galadhon, and the Celebrant where it flows into the Anduin.” Beyond the southeastern borders of Lothlórien the land opened up; in the far distance it was a brown haze, empty of trees or really much else. Maglor had passed through those lands and wondered at the lack of life there, and now he wondered if that, too, was the work of the Enemy. “And to the west, there flows the Nimrodel. We will pass over it on our way to the Redhorn Pass come spring, and from there we will go north up the Bruinen that will lead us to Imladris.” He spoke of Maglor’s going with them as a certainty, and not something that of which anyone needed convincing. 

Maglor thought, wearily, that he had the right of it. What did he think he would do instead—flee from them somewhere along the road, unarmed and voiceless? No. Even if he could slip away uncaught, he had no desire to die of starvation, or worse, out in the wilds—or to die at all. Mandos would not open for him, and he did not doubt that Sauron’s reach would grow long again indeed, long enough to ensnare any hapless Houseless spirit that he might find. No, he would live on, as he always had, as it seemed it was his fate to do. He would go to Imladris, and receive whatever welcome Elrond had in store for him there. 

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When Maglor descended from the hilltop with Elladan, Arwen thought that he seemed somehow resigned, though still unhappy. He had a habit of ducking his head, as though attempting to hide behind a curtain of hair, forgetting that it was now too short. It was only long enough to curl gently about his ears, and there were threads of white at his temples—another mark of his long suffering that he would bear the rest of his days, alongside the scars. 

They remained at Cerin Amroth until night fell, and the stars came out. Maglor gazed up at them as though seeing them for the first time, or as though he had forgotten what they looked like. He had a look of longing on his face that grieved Arwen, though she did not know what it was he longed for—only that it seemed to be something he thought out of his reach. Elladan picked up his flute again, and Elrohir sang a hymn to Elbereth that was often sung in Imladris. 

Night brought a chill, which Maglor felt more than they did. When Arwen saw him shiver she decided it was time to return home. As Elrohir and Elladan picked up the blanket and the hamper, and argued cheerfully over the last bit of pastry left, Arwen slipped her arm through Maglor’s, and smiled at him when he looked down at her. He was very tall, though it was sometimes a surprise to realize she had to look up to speak to him—he held himself as though he wished to go unnoticed, wished to shrink, with his shoulders hunched and his eyes often downcast. 

He also, Arwen noticed as they began the walk back to Caras Galadhon, seemed to see things that others could not. Not always, but she watched him glanced toward the deeper shadows under the trees and then quickly away, badly-disguised pain passing over his face. He had been left alone in the dark for so long, Arwen thought as the night deepened around them. Was it any wonder that the shadows held phantoms and fear? She hoped at least that he knew them for what they were, even if he could not so easily dismiss them.

By the time they returned home Maglor was showing signs of fatigue. Arwen parted with him and her brothers near his room, kissing his cheek and not missing the look of surprise on his face at it before she turned away. Always there was surprise whenever anyone showed the slightest kindness—let alone affection. He never seemed as though he believed it to be genuine. 

Arwen went to Galadriel, finding her sitting outside with Celeborn, who sat on the floor with his head resting against Galadriel’s knee. “How was it?” Galadriel asked, smiling up at Arwen as she approached. 

“Cerin Amroth was lovely, and the day was very fine,” Arwen said. “But I do not know what else to do for Maglor. He is growing stronger in body, but not in spirit.”

“Has he been given a harp?” Celeborn asked as Arwen sat down beside Galadriel. “Or some other instrument? He cannot sing, but surely he can play.”

“Yes,” Arwen said, “but he has not touched it. Eleryn tells me that he moved it behind a chest in his room, out of sight.”

Galadriel frowned. “I would not have expected that,” she said. “Music has always been such a large part of who he is. My first memory of him is his singing.” She shook her head, strands of hair escaping her braids to brush over her cheeks. “I do not know what fell enchantments Sauron used to steal his voice, but I cannot think of a worse injury that he could have inflicted.” Celeborn reached up to take her hand. 

“Is there truly nothing you can do for him?” Arwen asked. 

“I do not think so. He does not trust me.” Galadriel smiled briefly, rueful and sad. “The past weighs heavily on him—and even before the Darkening, and the Oath, and our long Exile, we were not close. I disliked Fëanor and was not shy in saying so, and so could not be friends with any of his sons.”

“You were not wrong,” Celeborn said, “in your judgment of Fëanor.”

“Perhaps not. But had I been less prideful and more circumspect, perhaps I might have been better friends with my cousins, and perhaps Maglor would not be so shocked now to find forgiveness rather than condemnation.”

“He seems doubtful of finding any welcome in Imladris,” Arwen said. He had listened to their stories of the valley all the afternoon with a longing and a sadness that did not suggest a hope at any joy in his reunion with Elrond. “Did he and my father part badly?” Elrond very rarely spoke of his past—of his childhood in Sirion or his years with Maglor—and though he never refused to answer a question, Arwen had learned early to see the grief that such questions awoke in him, and that was not worth any idle curiosity, so she had ceased to ask. 

“If they did, Elrond has never spoken of it,” Celeborn said. “At least not to us. He and Elros both spent many months searching for him until Elros could no longer be spared from the Edain, or Elrond from the building efforts in Lindon.”

“After the Edain departed for Númenor, and Lindon was stable, Elrond went searching again, as often as he thought that he could be spared,” Galadriel said. “Celebrimbor, too, went looking—but he was already planning for Eregion, and it was his hope that Maglor would hear of it and come to him. Of course, he never did.” 

“I wonder, though, how it is that the Enemy came to have him,” Celeborn murmured. “Did he come up the Anduin on his own, or did the Necromancer’s reach stretch that far?”

“He was taken near the Gladden Fields,” Galadriel said. “I looked into his mind as he slept, after Elladan and Elrohir brought him here. I do not think it was more than a whim that brought him north—a desire to follow the river and see where it led.” A look pasted between Celeborn and Galadriel, with a meaning Arwen could not parse. She knew, of course, what had befallen Isildur at the Gladden Fields, though she did not know why the Necromancer would take an interest so long afterward. In the end, though, the whys and hows didn’t matter. He was gone, and Maglor was freed, even if he did not believe himself to be so. 

“There is still the rest of winter before the mountains open,” Arwen said. “What are we to do for him in the meantime?”

“What we have been doing,” Galadriel said. “I do not think he will accept more.”

Arwen left her grandparents soon after. It was her habit in the evenings to visit the other rescued prisoners from Dol Guldur. There were very few of them, but the Woodmen in particular were glad of her company, for she knew more of the ways of Men than did the Galadhrim, and they could speak to her more easily. She sang for them, and when she went among them she wore the elessar stone that her mother had given her, so that it might lend extra potency to the teas she brewed of athelas, and to the steam that curled through the rooms when she cast the leaves into wide-mouthed bowls of boiling water. Their bodies were easy to tend and to mend, but their spirits had been oppressed by the Black Breath, and even in Lórien under Galadriel’s power and care they were slow to recover. Arwen often wished that she knew less than she did of the Nazgûl and their evil ways, but at least it allowed her to bring them a measure of comfort, and to speed their healing. 

As she returned to her own rooms, she turned the elessar over in her fingers, watching the starlight sparkle on it. It was Celebrimbor’s work, and so she had been hesitant to show it to Maglor, knowing how deep his grief ran. But perhaps it would be a comfort to him to see it—and perhaps its power would help him, if he would allow such a thing.

She found him the next morning after breakfast. He sat curled up like a cat in a patch of sunshine on the balcony, leaning over the arm of his seat to watch the goings on below. Overhead the sky was blue, but with clouds moving in from the north—the rain that had dogged Elladan and Elrohir on their return journey would soon pass over Lórien, though it would be a gentler thing there. “Good morning,” she said, sitting by him as he looked up at her. “Did you sleep well?” There were dark circles under his eyes, and his shrug in reply to her question suggested that he had not. “I have something I would like to show you.” He sat up, and Arwen thought that his curiosity was a good sign: the way he kept reaching out into the world rather than turning from it. 

“Celebrimbor made this,” she said, taking out the elessar. It shone in the sunlight, deep emerald green set in gleaming silver. “He made it for my grandmother, and when my mother married, it passed to her. She gave it to me before she set sail into the West. Its power is for healing.” 

Maglor took it, turning it over in his hands much as Arwen had done the night before. His fingers were long and slender—a harper’s fingers, though he had lost the callouses, and bore other small and faint scars from ancient blades. He paused at the back of the brooch, finding the small maker’s mark etched into the silver, almost invisible among the detail of the eagle’s feathers—a very tiny star, the symbol of Fëanor’s House. Arwen could not read the look on his face, and his mind remained shuttered. “Many things that Celebrimbor made were for such a purpose,” she said. “All minds were turned to rebuilding and healing, after the War of Wrath.” And for a time it had seemed that they would be permitted to do so unchallenged—until Sauron had reemerged. And again after the Last Alliance, all had seemed bright and fair—until Angmar, Minas Morgul, and at last Necromancer. Now the minds of those who only wished to live in peace had to be turned to war, and defense, and defiance against the growing Shadow, for there could be no doubt that Sauron had fled only to regroup, and would return soon and stronger. The foundations of Barad-Dûr had been laid bare, but never destroyed. Still, though—spring came after winter, and snow after fire, and dawn after darkest night. Hope remained, even amidst the grief. 

“I thought perhaps,” she said, “it might be of help to you.”

But Maglor shook his head. He handed it back to her and turned to gaze out into the treetops. Arwen did not know if he did not think it could help, or if he just did not want to try. Perhaps knowing it was Celebrimbor’s made it too painful to consider. 

“Very well,” she said quietly, and slipped the elessar back into her pocket. Then she reached out again to take Maglor’s hand, purposely grasping the one with the Silmaril’s scars. “I never met Celebrimbor,” she said, “but I think that he would be grieved to see you suffer so, and he would want you to find healing.”

Maglor offered a small, sad smile—there and gone in the blink of an eye—before he kissed her fingers and released her hand, and left the balcony. Arwen watched him go, thinking of her mother’s last days in Imladris, and sighed. 

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Time passed strangely in Lórien. It passed but also seemed not to, somehow. The sun rose and set but beneath the trees it was impossible to watch its progress, and even less so the changing moon. Maglor wondered if it had been thus in Doriath long ago, and if this was something Galadriel had learned from Melian. It didn’t matter, really. He had nowhere to go, and nothing to wait for, and so he would not have been counting the days anyway. But still he could feel Galadriel’s power at work, and he wondered a little at it. There was something of Valinor in the feel of Lothlórien—and not only because of the mellyrn—and it made something ache deep inside of him.

No one seemed to care where Maglor went or what he did within the walls of Caras Galadhon. He took to wandering the city, glad to escape the treetops and walk on firm ground, learning the pathways and roads, and and learning something of the Galadhrim who lived there. Eleryn showed him the gardens and orchards where, come spring, the trees would blossom all pink and white. He stumbled upon rope-makers and found himself learning the makings of hithlain, which would hold any knot, no matter how clumsily tied, until whoever held the rope wished for it to come loose, and not a moment before. The day after that he was set upon on purpose by the potters, who set him down with a lump of clay and insisted he join them in their craft. They sang as they worked, and told him of the best places on the Anduin’s banks to find clay—in case he ever found himself wandering along the river and in sudden need of it, Maglor supposed. To please them, he worked the clay that he had been given, rolling out coils of it to stack into a clumsy bowl the way that his grandfather Mahtan had once taught him long ago. As then, his efforts were uneven and unlovely, but the Galadhrim were happy to show him how to fix it, and he left them that afternoon feeling odd, with clay underneath his fingernails. 

Another day he came upon a group of children at play on the grass. The games were unfamiliar, but the sound of their laughter pierced his heart; he could not remember when he had last seen so many elven children in one place. Surely it had been in Valinor, before the Darkening? There had been children in Beleriand—Eleryn was one—but very few had been born among his folk that dwelt in Lothlann, or at Himring. And they had never been so carefree as these children of Lothlórien, who ran barefoot through the winter flowers, fearless and full of joy. 

A few days later he found the bowl, painted a pale green, with yellow flowers around the uneven rim, in his room. Someone had etched a small M rune onto the bottom. He sat on the bed and turned the bowl over in his hands, marveling a little at it. He had made this thing, and if it was clumsy it was not unlovely. 

Music had always been his first love and his passion, but Maglor was also his parents’ son, and he had made many things with his hands in Valinor—metal and glass, clay and stone. Wood had been his preference; Finwë had been his teacher, and some of Maglor’s fondest memories of his youth were from his grandfather’s workshop, smelling of sawdust and fragrant finishing oils, sounding of Finwë’s gentle laughter. In his wanderings, when he had not been playing, he had been carving. There was never any shortage of driftwood. He’d made combs and flutes and sets of pipes—and knife handles, and bowls, and other useful things that he could trade to the fishermen he encountered sometimes for new clothes or a hot meal, or even just a few hours or days of company. He had never been as good a maker of things as his father or his grandfather, or even any of his brothers. But there had always been a quiet sort of satisfaction when he finished making a thing, sanding the wood to silky smoothness, and carving a small M intertwined with his father’s star somewhere unobtrusive (in the same way, he remembered with a pang, that Celebrimbor had marked the brooch that Arwen bore).

He did not feel that now. It was good, he supposed, to know that he could make something—but then he recalled why he still had the use of his hands, and could take no joy in it. He set the bowl down and flexed his fingers, and thought of his nephew, of the crushed and broken mess of his fingers that Sauron had left him with before the end—the assurance that even if he was permitted to live, he would never make again. Maglor had been kept whole—his hands and his voice, until the very end, because Sauron had desired his service. He still did, Maglor thought. When he returned to his full might, when he claimed victory over all the Free Peoples, he would come looking for Maglor again, with promises of comfort and finery and the restoration of his voice, if that voice would but be used for his pleasure. 

The very thought of it made Maglor feel ill, and to cast a shadow over the bright sunshine outside his window. The mallorn leaves were dulled and darkened, and he could feel again the iron grip of Sauron’s hand—almost solid flesh—around his throat, and the heat of his gaze upon him, crushing him until he could not breathe. He shuddered until he could no longer sit up, and then he could only press his face into the pillow until the tremors stopped. And then he just felt cold and weary and all too aware of the fact that, should Sauron find him and take him again, he would not be able to resist. His strength had been spent beneath Dol Guldur, and it would not return. 

When he turned his head away from the pillow, the sunlight had brightened again, and he could hear birds flitting about outside, cheeping at one another and fluttering their wings. The light caught on the bowl, on the bright sheen of its glazing, and he looked away, rolling onto his back to stare out of the window instead. The wind picked up, and a few leaves broke away to fall, gently spiraling, away to the ground. Spring was coming, and soon the flowers for which the mellyrn were famed would be blooming. It should have been something to look forward to, but spring meant also the melting of snows in the mountain passes, clearing them for travelers. 

Indeed, the opening of the passes came sooner than Maglor would have thought. A messenger came from Imladris on a sunny afternoon as golden leaves rained down upon the green lawns. Maglor watched them catch and swirl about in the fountain as he sat with Elrohir, who was mending some leather traveling gear and cursing with increasing creativity whenever he stabbed himself with the needle. “I could do that for you, you know,” Arwen said, coming to join them. She sat beside Maglor, leaning her shoulder into his as she spoke to Elrohir on his other side. “It would look prettier, too.”

“I don’t need it to be pretty,” Elrohir said. “I just need it to survive the journey home, where I intend to make a new one.”

“Oh, just give it here.” Arwen reached over to take the bag, which looked to be more patch than the original material. Even Maglor had never let his things get to that state—and he had gotten very good at sewing patches, over the years. Elrohir protested, but not very strongly. “You should have replaced this ages ago,” Arwen informed Elrohir as she re-threaded the needle. 

Elrohir shrugged. Then his gaze shifted away and he sat up. “Haldir is back!” He rose to his feet to greet a lone elf who had just entered the city, cloaked and hooded, though he pushed it back upon hearing his name called, revealing pale hair and a smiling face. 

“Haldir was sent to Imladris after the victory at Dol Guldur,” Arwen told Maglor as she sewed the patch more securely over the tear in Elrohir’s bag. “He took word of the Council’s success, though Elladan and Elrohir will tell Ada the full story. I was not expecting him to return so early. The winter must have been mild.”

Haldir parted from Elrohir after just a minute or so of speech. Elrohir returned to the fountain with a bundle of letters in his hands. “Letters for you from everyone, Arwen,” he said, separating most of them to hand to his sister. She laughed as she accepted them. “And one for me and Elladan from Adar, one from Lindir…and, Maglor, here is one for you.”

Maglor’s attention had been drifting as he watched more leaves fall, and he started, looking up as Elrohir held out a folded letter. It was thinner than the rest, a single sheet, and sealed with a bit of green wax—pressed down with a thumb print, rather than a seal. He took it uncertainly, and turned it over to see his name written in neat, flowing script that he recognized immediately even after so long, though when he had last seen it, the writer had not yet managed to consistently avoid smudging the ink when writing left-handed. Aware of Elrohir and Arwen watching him, though they were not looking at him, he broke the seal and unfolded the letter. 

There was no formal greeting at the top, only a strange-shaped ink blot that looked as though the writer had set his pen to the paper more than once, before taking it away again as though he had been unsure of what he wanted to say. Maglor imagined a pile of discarded paper under a desk, full of such blots and of lines scratched out or abandoned halfway through the writing. Under the ink blot on this sheet of paper was a single line, drawn like an arrow aimed directly at his heart. 

Please come home. 

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The falling of the mallorn leaves was a gradual thing, a steady rain of them from above until the branches overhead were bare and pale in the spring sunshine, and the ground beneath was a carpet of gold through which patches of green grass only peeped here and there. The coming of the spring flowers happened overnight, a burst of gold and a sweet fragrance carried into Maglor’s bedroom on the breeze—warm now, as winter truly faded away. He sat on his bed and leaned out of the window, catching a branch and bringing it to his face so he could inhale more deeply the scent, and feel the silky petals against his skin. They smelled like no other flower he could remember, and he wanted to commit the scent to memory before he departed.

It was evening when he ventured out, needing to stretch his legs and escape the kind but constant gaze of Elrond’s children. He felt more solid these days, less like he would fade away into mist and misery at the slightest nudge, but he had dreamed the night before again of his brothers, all six of them falling, one by one, to blade and to flame, and had woken with his father’s voice echoing in his mind, though he could not recall the words. The spring flowers had chased away most of the dark thoughts that the dream had brought, but not all. As he walked Maglor found himself brooding on Fëanor, and what he would say if he could see him there now, silent and scarred and reliant upon his youngest cousin’s grace. Nothing good, certainly. Last and least, Sauron had called him, and it was all too easy to hear those same words in Fëanor’s own voice.

As he walked he heard a soft voice call his name. Galadriel. Maglor stopped and hesitated before turning. He did not wish to see her, to have her know the direction of his thoughts. But he did turn, finding her standing near a high green hedge, clad in soft grey, her hair tumbling loose about her shoulders and down her back. She seemed to shimmer in the gloaming, like a last bit of sunlight had caught and clung to her hair before the evening set in. She beckoned to him, and then disappeared through an opening in the hedge that he had not seen before. With a sigh, Maglor followed.

Beyond the hedge lay a garden where no trees grew, so that the stars shone down bright and silver from a patch of clear sky. As Maglor entered it he looked up, and saw the bright gleam of Gil-Estel almost directly overhead. He looked away. Once he had taken heart and hope from the sight of it, but he did not want to look upon his father’s works that night. Before him lay a deep hollow, shadowy, down into which Galadriel was passing. Maglor followed down the long steps, but he paused by the stream that fell down the hillside, glimmering silver in the starlight. He could almost hear music in it, but it remained out of his reach. He thought of his first encounter with Sauron in Dol Guldur, when he had been able to call upon all the knowledge he had gleaned from the waters of the world—and he had very nearly succeeded in his resistance. But years of dark and cold and silence had crowded it all out and now he felt almost as deaf as he was mute. He knelt and dipped his fingers into the water, and found it icy cold.

As he withdrew his fingers he looked down into the hollow, where Galadriel was filling a silver ewer from the stream. She glanced up at him and smiled, briefly, before turning to a shallow silver basin that was set upon a pedestal carved into the seeming of branches twined about one another. Maglor remained on the stairs, and watched her pour the water in, and breathe over it. The air thrummed with power, and he shivered. The water stilled, and Galadriel remained standing over it for some minutes, gazing into the basin. What she saw there, Maglor could not guess. He slowly descended the last of the stairs, stepping onto the soft grass at the bottom as Galadriel raised her head.

“It will not be long before the Enemy returns to his stronghold in Mordor and declares himself,” she said without looking at him. Maglor couldn’t stop himself flinching. He stepped back, and his legs hit the edge of the steps. “He gains power by the day.” She touched the edges of the basin, her gaze distant as her thoughts drifted. “The Seven he has, and the Nine,” she murmured, “but not the One. Still he seeks for it, but it remains out of reach—of him, and of us all.” Maglor did not know if she was speaking to him or only to herself. He knew of those rings only by chance, and he did not know why they had been made, or for what purpose Sauron so desired them. And he knew nothing at all of the One—whose it was, or made by whom, or what had happened to it.

Finally, she looked to him. “Yet time remains to us,” she said. “It will be long before he has strength and armies enough to wage war—and Gondor yet stands strong. Dale is being rebuilt in the north, and Erebor restored. Thranduil holds the north of Mirkwood, and we Lórien. There is yet hope.”

Maglor was aware, still, of the evening star hanging above them. It seemed to shine even brighter with her words, just for a moment, as though Eärendil himself had heard them.

Galadriel gestured to the basin, and the still water it held. “My mirror shows many things,” she said. “Some things I can command, others it shows as it will. Will you look?”

He took a few steps forward, but did not step up to the pedestal’s edge, and so all he saw in the water were the reflected stars. Maglor looked from it to Galadriel, and caught sight of a gleam upon her finger. He reached out before he could think better of it, catching her hand and lifting it to reveal the ring upon her finger, silver and diamond, glittering like the stars above them.

One of the Three. He could see Celebrimbor’s work in it, and feel the way that it amplified Galadriel’s power. He did not doubt that she could do what she had done here without it, but with it upon her finger, her reach was longer, stronger. So this was what Sauron so desired.

“That is Nenya,” Galadriel said softly, not withdrawing her hand. “The Three are hidden, and not spoken of, but they are not idle. Air, water, fire—these things Celebrimbor put forth into his greatest work, alongside the will to preserve and to heal, and to hold the darkness at bay.”

Maglor dropped her hand, feelings his lips twist into something rueful and unhappy. Air, fire, water—the long homes of the Silmarils, and the powers of Celebrimbor’s Rings. It was no accident, and he wondered at it, and at the change that seemed to have taken place in his nephew at the start of the Second Age. Celebrimbor had disowned his father in Nargothrond and turned away from their House—and Maglor had not blamed him, not then or after, while Curufin had raged to mask his grief. Now he was learning that Celebrimbor had in a way modeled his greatest work after Fëanor’s, and that he had kept a place in his grand city for Maglor himself, and that he had used Fëanor’s star as his own maker’s mark. Perhaps it would have been better if he had not.

“Maglor.” Galadriel caught his face in her hands. They were of a height, and when he met her gaze he was unable to look away. She searched his eyes for a long moment, and when she at last released him he stepped back, tilting his head back so he could see nothing but the stars overhead. They were cold and uncaring, and there was some strange comfort in that. It was some time before Galadriel spoke again. “I bore your father no love, that is no secret,” she said finally. “But he was not always what he became in the end. I saw the darkness growing in him, but failed to see that it was the same that grew in all of us in those days. I do not know all of Celebrimbor’s thoughts before he began to use the star of your house again in his work, but he did not want death and darkness to be the only legacy of his family.” She sighed, and it was heavy with grief and regret. “He did not, could not, fully succeed. But there are those for whom the Star of Fëanor is a symbol of friendship and of peace, when holly covered the land of Eregion and bells rung in Ost-in-Edhil.”

Maglor looked back down when Galadriel took his hand. She turned it over, revealing the scars from the Silmaril. “Does this pain you?” she asked. Maglor shook his head. It had seemed wrong to him when his hand had begun to heal, though he’d been pitifully grateful all the same. There was no pain like the burn of the Silmaril. Not even Sauron had been able to replicate it. He was surprised to see her smile. “It is said that they burned Morgoth, and he was never rid of the pain of it.” She released him, and went to pick up the basin, tipping it back into the stream that flowed along unceasingly. Maglor rubbed his own fingers over the scars, watching the starlight glimmer on the water.

It must have meant something, that he had healed and others had not. But he did not know what.

He left Galadriel’s garden and walked the rest of the night. He passed by deep tree shadows in which the ghosts of his past watched him. There was no sea to drown their voices here, and not enough light on moonless nights under the trees to chase them away. They had followed him from Dol Guldur, keeping to the edges of his dreams and the corners of his waking eyes, but he thought that maybe they had been with him all along and he had only learned, before, to ignore them. Or sing them away.

As dawn came, making the flowers glow far overhead, Elladan came to find him. Maglor had stopped to rest his aching legs beside one of the many fountains, and was watching the water glow faintly golden in the owning light when Elladan joined him. “Have you been out here all night?” he asked. Maglor shrugged. “Elrohir and I have heard from the wardens on the northeastern march; the road over Caradhras is clear, and we may leave at any time. Arwen and Eleryn have packed for you. Arwen says you would not take anything at all if it were left up to you.”

Arwen was not wrong. Nothing here was really his . It was only things given or lent to him. Well, there was the bowl that he had made, but Maglor had already given that to Eleryn, who had accepted it with a warm smile and thanks that had seemed genuine, although he was sure that it would not do anything but collect dust in a cupboard somewhere. Still, he owed her a great deal, and that was all that he had to show it.

“Are you willing to leave today?” Elladan asked. Maglor swallowed a sigh and nodded. Elrond’s sons were eager to be home, and who was he to delay them unnecessarily? Elladan smiled and rose, holding out his hand. “Then we will take our leave of the Lord and Lady. Arwen will ride with us as far as the Nimrodel.” He pulled Maglor to his feet and then along the path to Celeborn and Galadriel’s talan, where traveling clothes had been set out for Maglor. They were both familiar and not, for he had worn similar styles as Lord of the Gap, but of course these were not of Noldorin make…although he saw Arwen’s hand in some of the stitching, and in the embroidery along the collar—more musical notations that he did not recognize, and dotted with tiny silver stars.

Elladan and Elrohir both retrieved him to say farewell to Galadriel and Celeborn. They met in a small but airy room, sunlight and bright with woven rugs on the floor, and bright-colored murals on the walls. Galadriel was there, clad now in soft white with her hair unbound, and Celeborn in green with his silver hair in simple braids, and Arwen joined them too, clad for riding like her brothers. Maglor hung back as the twins bid their grandparents farewell, receiving blessings for the journey alongside the kisses and embraces.

Then Galadriel turned to him. “One last gift I have for you, Cousin,” she said, and brought out a cloak, alike to the ones Elladan and Elrohir and Arwen wore, that shifted shade and hue subtly as the fabric moved in the sunlight. She set it around Maglor’s shoulders, and secured it with a brooch in the shape of a sprig of mallorn flowers, delicately wrought of pale gold. “May the stars light all your ways, Maglor,” she said softly, “and may you come again to joy in the house of Elrond. I hope our next meeting is a happier one.” Maglor bowed his head.

Horses awaited them below, light-footed and eager to be on their way. Maglor could not recall when he had last mounted a horse, though he remembered that once he would have leaped into the saddle as lightly as Elrond’s children did. His own horse was a mare with soft brown eyes, who nuzzled her nose into his hands when he held them out. When he finally swung himself up it felt strange indeed to be back in a saddle, like he was pretending to be someone he had once been but no longer was. They left the city through the gates and turned north again, taking the same path that led toward Cerin Amroth.

Spring was a busy time in any wood, and in Lórien there was a constant chorus of birdsong, and nonstop rustlings and noises in the underbrush as animals awoke and went about the business of the waking year. Arwen sang as they rode, a song of springtime and blooming flowers. They passed by Cerin Amroth, and Maglor paused only a moment to look up the hill, covered now with flowers of all colors and kinds in addition to the golden elanor and pale niphredil. The white-barked trees were no longer naked, instead sporting pale green leaves that fluttered gently in the breeze.

Farther on they jumped across a swift-flowing river, and turned northward until the woods began to thin, and at last they came to another river. It flowed before them with an echo of a woman’s voice singing, as though she were somewhere just upstream and out of sight. “This is the Nimrodel, named for the maiden who lived here long ago,” Arwen told him. “It welcomes weary travelers to the wood and washes away the cares of the road. And it is where I leave you. I will come soon back to my father’s house, but not yet!” She embraced her brothers, and last of all Maglor. “I hope I will find you in Imladris when I come there again,” she said, smiling at him before pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Farewell!” Maglor caught her hand and kissed her fingers—a clumsy gesture, for he had long ago forgotten how to be gallant. She smiled at him again, though, ever forgiving, and remained on the banks of the Nimrodel as he and her brothers splashed across it, and until they passed away out of sight through the trees.

As the wood fell away behind them, Elladan tipped his head back, smiling in the sunlight. “There is our road,” he said, pointing to the mountains ahead. One gleamed redly in the bright sun. “Over Caradhras, with hope that he is sleeping! And then on to the Gwathló, following it to where the Mitheithel joins the Bruinen.”

“And then following the Bruinen the rest of the way to home!” Elrohir added.

They rode on, and Maglor looked back only once to see the Golden Wood retreating behind them, a glowing beacon in the shadow of the Misty Mountains. He did not lift his gaze beyond it, where the horizon was dark, and storm clouds gathered.

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Caradhras did remain asleep under them as they crossed over the pass. They had camped on the side of the mountain, looking down into a vale where a dark still pool lay, with a single stone beside it that jutted up as a monument. “That is Mirrormere,” Elladan told him, “and somewhere beyond is the eastern gate of Moria. It has been long since the Dwarves tried to return there, after they were driven out of the Lonely Mountain by Smaug. But Smaug is dead, and perhaps one day they will find similar luck in Moria.”

In the bright sunshine of a spring morning they rode up and over the pass, descending the western slopes late in the afternoon on the second day; Elladan and Elrohir pushed on quickly in spite of the fine weather and no sign of trouble anywhere on the mountain; they lit only a small fire when they camped, and Maglor suspected that neither of them slept. He himself only dozed fitfully; the winds were cold, and he did not like the whispers that he heard on them as they passed through the stones and around the cliffs.

“Here is the land of Eregion,” Elladan said, pointing out before them as they descended, “that Men call Hollin, though there is little holly here, now.” They came to the remnants of an old road and followed it. The land was overgrown with heather and stands of dark pine trees, and other copses of different trees just putting for their spring leaves. Birds sang, and puffy clouds drifted lazily across the sky. They camped beneath the stars, and Maglor slowly grew used to spending hours in the saddle again. The first few days were hard, especially in the mountains, all his muscles sore and knotted even though their pace was easy. Eager as Elladan and Elrohir were to be home, after the mountain pass they did not hurry, being as at home in the wild as they had been in Lórien.

When they stopped at night he lay on the grass and listened to the whispers of the waking trees. They had no memory of the Elves who had dwelled in that land long ago, and had thoughts only for the elves who passed by sometimes, on their way to and from Lothlórien, and of the wind and the sun and the rain. Only the stones remembered, and whispered to him as he lay atop them, mournful and melancholy. Fair they wrought us, high they builded us. Now they are gone.

There should have been ruins, he thought as he gazed about them when dawn came. Remnants of walls, piles of stone long tumbled down, or indentations in the land where once had been ditches or canals or streets—but there was nothing. More than time had ruined Eregion. This was deliberate, with malice behind it—a hatred that was more than just a conqueror’s ambition or a desire for treasure, no matter how powerful the rings made there had been. Sauron had hated the people of Eregion. Maglor turned away, pulling his hood up against the wind that picked up, coming down off the mountains and cold with the lingering snows from the peaks.

At last they came to the river, and turned north without crossing. The Gwathló was deep and wide, rushing ever on south toward the sea. Maglor listened hard to it as they rode along the western shore, but all he heard was the rush of water, and only the faintest whisper of music in it. It remained lost to him. He had forgotten so much in the dark; he could not even remember the sound of the waves on the seashore. Even when he dreamed of it—which was seldom—it was silent.

The lands of Eriador were quiet and empty. Maglor had been told once that they were covered in forest, but that had been long ago, and now trees were few and far between, with heather and long grass covering the rest. It was a lonely land that they traveled through on the way north. Once there had been much traffic, when the realm of Arnor still stood, Elladan told him, and people came and went often between the Northern and Southern kingdoms of the Dúnedain. But that all went up the road that was now overgrown with grass, though still firm and visible, and very few now traveled it. “We are going farther east, and have our own paths, else we might have crossed over the Gwathló to find the Road. In Bree they call it the Greenway.”

Maglor had been relieved when they had passed out of Lórien, looking forward to wide open lands and even wider skies, missing the openness that he had enjoyed in his wanderings by the Sea—but now that he was there he just wanted to find somewhere to hide. It was too open. Anything could find them. Maglor had to resist the urge to be constantly looking over his shoulder, and more than once he found himself thinking that at least in Dol Guldur he had had walls at his back, had been able to see who came for him. It was a terrible thought, and always it heralded bad dreams that had him waking up in the middle of the night, shivering and shaking until Elladan or Elrohir, whichever one was keeping watch, came to sit by him, a warm hand on his shoulder or on his forehead anchoring him again in the present. Daylight was a little easier; Elladan and Elrohir filled the silence with easy speech and with stories and sometimes with songs. Maglor was still often lost in his own thoughts, but the sound of their voices was a comfort even if he couldn’t focus on their words.

They passed very few other travelers—none at all, in fact, until they came to the confluence of the Mitheithel and the Bruinen and passed north and east of it. These were tall and fair-faced men and women, dark-haired and grey-eyed for the most part, hunters and wanderers. They traveled alone or in pairs and only rarely in larger parties, and greeted Elladan and Elrohir by name as old friends. Maglor drew his hood up, wary of strangers and not wishing to be stared at, though aside from a nod of greeting no one paid him much heed. Elladan and Elrohir asked after news of lands even farther to the north, with more names strange to Maglor—the Shire, the Angle, the Breelands, the Barrow-downs—and received word that all was quiet, all peaceful.

“They are called Rangers in Bree—not a kind name, really, but they’ve adopted it cheerfully,” Elrohir told Maglor after they parted from a group of half a dozen of them. “They are the Dúnedain of Arnor, sons and daughters of forgotten Kings that once ruled in Annúminas, and later in Fornost.”

“Descendants of Elendil, through the line of Isildur,” Elladan added, “and he descended from Elros, long ago. Our father has always held the Dúnedain as close kin, our cousins, and they are always welcomed in Rivendell. Many of their princes and chieftains have been fostered there in their youth.”

Maglor watched the Dúnedain disappear into the distance behind a hill, and thought of Elros, who had laughed and sang much like Elladan and Elrohir did. He had been filled with the fire of life, and the knowledge of his death, long ago and peaceful though it had been, was a constant ache in Maglor’s heart. But it was something to know that his line had not failed with the island’s foundering, and that his sons and his daughters still walked through the world and laughed and sang beneath the sun and stars.

As they went farther north, they drew closer again to the mountains. The weather remained fair. They came to a hilly country covered in pink and purple heather, and moved away from the riverside as Elladan and Elrohir found a path that Maglor would have never seen had he come this way alone; it avoided all of the sudden chasms and deep valleys that would have swallowed him if he had not been with those who knew the way. “Ah!” cried Elrohir suddenly one afternoon, spurring his horse forward. “There is Gandalf!” He cantered ahead to a trio of figures in the distance—two ponies and a horse, upon which sat a man in a grey cloak with a long beard, and a strange pointed blue hat.

For a moment Maglor was back in the dungeons of Dol Guldur, and that hat was but a shadow in the doorway, lit dimly from behind. He blinked and shivered, finding himself back under the sun beside Elladan, who was looking at him with concern. “Maglor, are you well?” He nodded. “That is Gandalf ahead, and with him is the Halfling he took on the journey with the Dwarves, to Erebor. I am glad that he’s made it back west safely. Halflings are not made for such dangerous quests.” Maglor shook his head, not understanding Elladan’s words until he looked again ahead and saw a small figure on one of the ponies, no bigger than a child. Elrohir had caught up to them and was exchanging words with both Gandalf and his companion, who rode on after a few minutes, away toward the Road heading west. “Well?” Elladan said when he and Maglor caught up to Elrohir. “What news?”

“Master Baggins is quite a wealthy hobbit,” Elrohir replied, laughing. “And he was named Elf-friend by Thranduil himself, if you can believe it! And all is well at home. Gandalf was surprised to see us, and he promises to return to Imladris later this summer. He very much wishes to meet you properly,” he added to Maglor, who looked up in surprise. He had been letting the talk wash over him as he examined a heather blossom by his knee. “Well, come on! It isn’t far now.” They pressed on, following a path now marked here and there by white stones. Some were half-covered by moss, and Maglor would have missed them if Elladan had not pointed them out. “You cannot rush up this path,” Elrohir said over his shoulder. “For it comes to—ah. Here.” He halted, and Elladan drew up beside him. Maglor came up on his other side and blinked, for the earth fell away before them, and below a valley opened up, nestled at the very feet of the mountains. Streams tumbled down the mountainsides beyond into the river that flowed through the valley, glimmering silver under the sun. The grass was green and the trees were tall, and he could hear fair voices singing far below, a merry song filled with laughter. The air smelled of fir trees, though lower in the valley they faded away to oak and beech, and birch, and other trees Maglor could not recognize at a distance.

“There it is,” Elladan said, all quiet pride and deep love for this place. “The Last Homely House east of the Sea.”

“Home,” Elrohir added.

The House was nestled amid gardens lush with spring growth; it was large and rambling, but not unpleasantly so, with many chimneys with smoke curling gently out of them. Before it over the river arched a graceful and slender bridge; Maglor could see small figures walking about in front of the house, and passing along the river, or through open walkways between wings.

It was truly a beautiful place, and Maglor understood why Elrond had chosen to make his home here. Yet now that he was come here he found that he could not go on. This was not a place for him, any more than Lothlórien had been. He had to fight the instinct to turn and flee, for he knew that his horse would not carry him far, and Elladan and Elrohir would find him quickly even if he slipped away on foot. So he sat frozen until Elrohir reached over to tug on his horse’s reins. The mare followed obediently, and Maglor tore his gaze from the valley to the path in front of him, which switchbacked down the steep hillside. It was narrow but firm, though he had to keep his gaze between his horse’s ears to avoid looking at the almost-sheer drop down the side. His heart beat hard in his chest.

Though it had not been a cool day to start with, it grew even warmer as they descended. Maglor could feel a power in that valley, too, though it was gentler and—not weaker, but less of it was put forth than the power of Galadriel was put into Lórien, or at least it was of a different kind. There was a timelessness in her realm that was absent here. There was a closed off feeling there that here, too, was absent. This valley was hidden, but meant to be found by those who needed it. The warm breeze was a soft caress over his face, and the smell of pine settled over him like a blanket. And there was something else, a feeling of warmth and of comfort, the way a much-used childhood blanket felt when wrapped around small shoulders by a parent’s hands.

Elrond loved this place.

As they approached the bridge over the river, unseen elves in the nearby trees burst into merry song, teasing and laughing at the Sons of Elrond arriving home at last, many months after they had been looked for. Maglor looked at them, startled at this sort of greeting, but they were both laughing, and Elladan turned in his saddle to call back to the singers with the same kind of jokes. One elf dropped out of the trees and bowed to them. “Your father has been pacing all through the house for a week and more, awaiting you!” he said. “Hurry on now, before he wears a hole in the floor and falls into the wine cellar!”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Lindir!” Elrohir replied. “Adar knows all the best places to pace in his own house, and none of them are above the wine cellar!” Lindir laughed. “Is Glorfindel home yet?”

“Glorfindel returned before Midwinter,” Lindir said, “and has been out to the Ettenmoors and back twice since then.”

“To the Ettenmoors?” Elladan said—and there was a note of alarm in his voice rather than of laughter. “What’s been happening in the Ettenmoors?”

“Nothing, so far as I have heard,” said Lindir. “Glorfindel can tell you more.” With that he vanished into the trees, and a great peal of singing laughter erupted from the branches. Under different circumstances Maglor would have loved to linger, to listen or even to join in, for it was much like the music of his youth, when all had been merry and bright in Tirion. Even on that afternoon he might have lingered, had Elrohir not glanced back at him with a beckoning smile. Across that bridge lay a meeting that Maglor was not ready for.

Still, his horse carried him over the arching stone. Below the water flowed swiftly over a stony bed, and violets and daffodils bloomed on the banks. The house rose up before them, with ivy growing on some walls and pink and white climbing roses on others. A courtyard opened up, and their arrival was heralded by the sound of hooves on flagstones. Around the perimeter of it many paths branched off, some graveled, some paved with flat stones, others only dirt, winding away into the gardens and beyond into meadows and woods, through hedges and stands of trees, and passing under arches of stone or of wood where more flowers had climbed and hung, curtain-like. The scent of trees was replaced by flowers of all kinds, and of woodsmoke from several of the many chimneys above them.

Maglor dismounted slowly as both Elladan and Elrohir sprang from their saddles to hurry up the steps to the door, which swung open. Maglor did not see who emerged, because they disappeared into the double embrace of the twins. He turned away, pretending to take an interest in a nearby statue. It was Nienna, veiled and with her hands held before her, open as though in welcome or entreaty. He could see bits of her face through the carven veil, so skilled had been the sculptor. Moss grew about the hem of her robes. Someone had placed a river stone in one hand, and a small bouquet of chamomile flowers in the other. Wisteria grew behind her, draping over her shoulders in a gentle purple embrace.

Then his name was spoken, in a voice he had not heard since before Beleriand had broken and sunk into the Sea. Maglor turned, and there was Elrond, descending the steps. He had been only a youth when Maglor had last seen him, scarcely an adult even by the measure of Men. Their parting had been bitter, for both Elrond and Elros had begged Maglor to go with them to Gil-galad, and he had refused—because Maedhros had refused, and he could not leave his brother. He had refused to promise, also, that he would find them when the war was over, and that more than anything had infuriated them, and the last words they had shared had not been kind.

Maglor had not believed the war would end in their favor, then. And when it had—when the West had won…well. There had been no going back after that.

Elrond was of course full-grown now, in body and in power and wisdom, one of the Wise, an ageless child of Lúthien’s line, a lord among Elves and Men. He wore no jewelry or ornaments, but he needed none. His hair was long and dark and his eyes were grey and held the light of the stars. Maglor’s first instinct was to look away, to shrink back, but Elrond crossed the courtyard with swift strides and pulled him into an embrace so tight it was startling. Maglor’s arms came up on reflex, holding Elrond close as he had long ago when Elrond had been smaller and younger—the one in need of comfort rather than the one offering it. His head dropped to Elrond’s shoulder, tears burning his eyes and escaping to soak into Elrond’s fine robes. Then it was as though a dam inside him had burst, and he was shaking and shuddering in Elrond’s arms, silent sobs wracking him as the tears spilled, and spilled. His knees gave out, and Elrond knelt with him on the stones.

“Maglor,” Elrond said, and there were tears in his voice also. “Oh, Maglor, I have missed you. Let this be the end of your long exile.”

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The winter seemed to pass with agonizing slowness. Snow blanketed the valley, to Estel’s delight, and he spent his days building snow fortresses and digging tunnels in the deep drifts, and ambushing anyone who happened to walk by with a flurry of snowballs. When he tried it on Gilraen she gave as good as she got, and the two of them came stumbling inside afterward, covered in snow and red-faced both from the cold and from laughter. 

Elrond put on a smile, but his thoughts remained far away. He scoured his library for accounts and reports of those who had suffered under the Black Breath during the Angmar Wars, and even older accounts of prisoners rescued or escaped from Angband. He learned nothing knew; most of the texts he had written or copied himself. 

Glorfindel had returned to Imladris at the start of December, having come up the Greenway from Isengard through the Gap of Rohan, bringing a more detailed picture of the events at Dol Guldur and also of Maglor’s state. Silent and in pain and afraid he had been, shrinking away from them in the darkness of his deep cell rather than believing it to be a true rescue. Elrond had not been able to listen to the full tale in one sitting, and even months later it was hard to think about. The knowledge that Maglor had been languishing in the dark, in pain and alone and forced into silence, while Elrond had been enjoying the sunlight and the starlight and the music that was ever present in his valley, laughing with his sons and singing in his halls—it made him want to scream and throw things. He did neither, because he knew it wouldn’t help, and it would only worry those around him. So instead he buried himself in old accounts and old remedies and songs of healing and of peace, and tried to tell himself that this time they would work.

Spring came, with snow melt swelling the river and turning all the garden paths to mud, which Estel then tracked all over the house before Gilraen scolded him into being more careful in what had become a yearly ritual. It also brought Estel’s eleventh birthday, which was a merry affair—even though Elladan and Elrohir were not there. They had never missed Estel’s birthday before, and though he was old enough to understand that it could not be helped, Elrond could see that he was disappointed. Still, he had all his favorite songs and stories sung and told in the Hall of Fire after a merry feast of all his favorite foods, and fell asleep halfway through the tale of Túrin Turambar. Glorfindel carried him to bed. 

Later that night, though, as Elrond sat in his room sorting through several treatises on athelas, he heard a soft knock at the door. “Enter,” he called, and was not surprised to see Estel. “Something amiss, Estel?”

“I dreamed,” Estel said. His hair was sleep-tousled and tangled, and his slightly too big nightshirt hung off one shoulder, making him look smaller and younger than he was. 

Elrond set the papers aside and gestured for Estel to join him on the bed. Estel darted across the room and crawled up to curl himself against Elrond’s side, as he had done since he was very small. “Tell me about it,” Elrond said, smoothing a stray curl back from Estel’s forehead.

“I stood on a high place,” Estel said after a moment, speaking slowly and haltingly, reluctant to remember the dream, “and there were green fields and hills before me—and towering over all of them was a great wave, and the sky above it was dark. It was coming in fast, and I couldn’t move or speak or do anything—” He broke off, shuddering, and turned his face into Elrond’s shoulder. “It means something,” he said, voice muffled, “but I don’t know what.”

“It is a memory of Númenor, Estel,” Elrond said gently. 

“Not my memory,” Estel said. “It happened so long ago! Why should I remember it?”

“It is a memory of the Dúnedain. You are not the only one to dream of it, and you will not be the last. Try to put it out of your mind—as you said, it happened long ago.” Elrond himself dreamed of it, sometimes. He was never able to return to sleep afterward, especially on rainy nights. 

Estel turned his head and looked at the papers on Elrond’s lap. “What are you reading about?”

“Athelas.”

“But you already know everything, don’t you?”

Elrond couldn’t help but laugh. “I know much, yes, but not everything. And even I need to refresh my memory at times. Elladan and Elrohir are bringing someone here soon who will need all of the help that I can give him, and I want all of my knowledge fresh in my mind.”

“Who are they bringing? Is that why they did not come back in the fall?”

“One who was rescued from Dol Guldur,” Elrond said. Estel knew something of it, though Elrond had been careful not to speak in detail of its horrors when he might overhear—or eavesdrop. “And, yes, that is why they have tarried east of the mountains. I hope they will return very soon, as the mountain passes clear.” He shifted so that he could pull the blankets up over Estel. “Try to sleep, Estel. It is late.” Estel murmured a protest through a yawn, but his eyes were already drifting shut. As Elrond picked up the papers again he hummed a lullaby, and before long Estel was sound asleep, again a tired young boy rather than the heir of Númenor, with all its glories and all its troubles. Time was passing too swiftly, Elrond thought as he stroked his hand over Estel’s hair. Too soon Estel would be grown, and ready to shoulder his name and title and all that came along with it. He spoke often of wishing to go with Elladan and Elrohir when they left the valley, to cross the mountains and to follow the river all the way to the sea, and Elrond knew that he would do all of that and more—that his feet would carry him far from Rivendell and to dark and dangerous places, as the Shadow grew again—like the wave that had overrun Númenor. 

But no. It was not yet so inevitable. Spring still came after winter, and the sun still rose each morning, and in the gloaming Gil-Estel shone bright as it ever had, out of reach of whatever shadows Sauron cast across Middle-earth. Elrond could not yet see how he would be defeated, but Estel would play a part in it—Estel the man, and estel, the hope that they call must carry within them.

The days lengthened and the sun grew warm; crocuses and daffodils burst into bloom along the riverbank, and were soon followed by budding leaves and other flowers. April passed into May—which brought Gandalf and Bilbo Baggins back into the west. Bilbo was quite a different hobbit from the one who had come to Rivendell the summer before, and Elrond was very glad to welcome them both back, and to hear the tales of their adventures. It was a distraction, if nothing else, from his growing anxiety for his sons’ and Maglor’s arrival, which must come any day. 

“Once I see Bilbo safely back to Hobbiton,” Gandalf said as he and Elrond walked through the garden under the blooming lilac, “I think I will go on to Mithlond, and have a bit of a rest by the Sea. But after that I think I will come back here for a spell, if that is agreeable to you.”

Elrond looked at him in surprise. “You are always welcome here, Gandalf,” he said. 

“I thought it best to ask in this case,” Gandalf said, “since Glorfindel had mentioned having several debates with Saruman over his desire to come north—which surprised me, as I thought him rather settled at Isengard, and also at your apparent reluctance to welcome him here.”

“He wishes to speak with Maglor,” Elrond said. 

“Ah. About his doings by the Anduin, I presume—before the Enemy caught him?”

“Yes.” Under normal circumstances Elrond would not begrudge Saruman taking an interest, considering his long study of the Rings, and of the One, but there was no reason to believe that Maglor knew anything at all about Rings, or even about what had befallen Isildur there at the Gladden Fields—and Saruman’s own belief had long been that the Ring had been carried down the current even to the Sea, and so there was no reason for him to come to interrogate Maglor, who could not even answer him, when what Maglor most needed was rest. From somewhere else in the gardens a peal of a child’s laughter reached them. Estel and Bilbo had become unlikely but fast friends, and no doubt Bilbo was entertaining him with tales of his exploits. If Saruman came to Imladris too soon he would have questions about more than just Rings and rivers; he was wise but fond of his authority, and while he appreciated Saruman’s counsel in many matters, and held him high in his confidence, Elrond did not care to hear his opinions on what he did in his own household concerning his own kin. 

Gandalf had probably already guessed at the secrets Elrond was keeping, but Elrond knew that they would not leave the valley on his lips. He was no stranger to secrets; Vilya rested heavily on Elrond’s finger, and he knew Narya’s weight was no less. 

“You have never spoken of Maglor,” Gandalf remarked as they continued to amble down the path.

“No one ever asks,” Elrond replied with a small, wry smile. “I did speak to Pengolodh, long ago when he was first recording his histories.” 

“Yes, I’ve read them, and I can see where you must have made a few rather pointed remarks to him,” said Gandalf, sounding amused. He would be. Elrond had apologized for his manner later, and Pengolodh had been gracious about it. But he’d said all that he was willing to put into the histories. No one else needed to know all the details of his childhood. “And Galadriel told me once that you used to search for him as often as you could managed to slip away from Lindon.”

“I did. I never found him.”

“Why do you suppose he never let himself be found?” Gandalf asked. “I confess, I did a bit of searching myself some time ago, but he kept himself well hidden.”

Elrond shook his head. “I cannot say.” He could not deny that it hurt to know that Maglor had been out there all this time and that he had never sought out Elrond, or so much as left a message or some sign that he was alive. He had begged Maglor, at their last parting, to come find them after the war was over since he would not go with them to Gil-galad. Maglor had refused to make any promises. They had learned why, to their grief, later. He and Elros had both gone after them as soon as they had heard what had happened, in spite of Eönwë counseling against it. They had come upon the casket that had held the Silmarils, and nearby a satchel that had belonged to Maedhros, but nothing else. The Silmarils were gone, and Maglor and Maedhros with them. 

Gandalf regarded him from beneath his bushy eyebrows. He puffed on his pipe, sending smoke rings floating lazily up over the lilacs. “I am sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to dredge up old griefs.”

“They have already been dredged.” Elrond offered a smile. “I’m just—I’m not sure what I can say. I loved him, and I love him still. I have spent many years thinking of what I would say to him when we finally met again, but I never expected it to be under such circumstances.” 

“I have been trying to think of what I might have done differently in Dol Guldur,” Gandalf said. “If he was there then, as I fear he was. I tried to seek out anyone that I might help, since I could not save poor Thráin, but I was very nearly caught and only barely escaped myself.”

“What makes you think that he was there?” That would mean it was more than sixty years that Maglor had lain in the dark, more than half a century of needless suffering. Elrond had never hoped before that Gandalf was mistaken, yet…

“There were…cracks, you might say, in the Necromancer’s defenses. I was able to slip in undetected because of them. They felt rather like…” Gandalf paused to blow another smoke ring as he thought. “Like the damage water does to stone, when it seeps into cracks and freezes and thaws over time. But someone put them there, and I rather think it was Maglor. There was someone that I thought I saw in one of the deeper dungeons, but I cannot know if it was him, or even if that person was alive.”

“I wish that we had acted sooner,” Elrond said. “For many reasons, not least of all for Maglor’s sake.” Gandalf grunted agreement. “But I do not think there is anything you could have done. As you said, you barely got yourself out.”

“If I am right, and that it was Maglor’s power that stuck in the Necromancer’s and started the weakening, there is great strength in him yet—strength and defiance, for whatever the Necromancer wanted from him he never got. The fire of the House of Fëanor may burn low, but it burns hot, and does not go out.”

Gandalf and Bilbo stayed a week before Bilbo grew anxious to be home in his own home again. Elrond was sorry to see them go, for he had grown very fond of the hobbit. Bilbo had expressed a desire to read more of the great tales and histories, and Elrond foresaw a great deal of correspondence to and from the Shire in the near future. He would ask Gildor to take some books to Bag End when next he came to Imladris; he thought that Gildor would find it very amusing. 

Elladan, Elrohir, and Maglor arrived mere hours after Gandalf and Bilbo departed. Elrond had thought himself prepared. He had thought that he would know what to say, how to assure Maglor that he was welcome there—more than welcome, that he had been loved and missed and longed for. In the end he did not know if his words were enough, or even if Maglor truly heard them. Tears, Elrond had expected. For Maglor to appear to crumble and break down before his eyes, he had not been prepared. He knelt on the flagstones before the statue of Nienna as Maglor shuddered and shook in his arms. He had known to expect silence, but it was still a shock. Maglor had never been silent, not in all the time that Elrond had known him, except when absolutely necessary. There had always been humming or quiet singing, or speech, whether teasing someone to make them all laugh, or whispering to Maedhros, or calling out an order or a warning. 

He had known that Maglor had suffered and was still suffering, but somehow Elrond had still not expected to see him diminished. He loomed so large in Elrond’s memories that it seemed almost a different person had come to Imladris instead, wearing his face. 

Elrond got him inside and to the room that had been sitting, cleaned and fully prepared for him, for months now. Elladan and Elrohir had gotten everyone else out of the way so that Maglor would not have to suffer an audience, though Elrond wasn’t sure that Maglor would even have noticed them. He did not seem fully aware of anything but Elrond, even if he wouldn’t look him in the face—which was just as well, because Elrond did not think he was doing very well at hiding his own feelings.

Once in the privacy of Maglor’s room, Elrond sat him in a chair by the hearth, which had a fire crackling low even though the day was warm, and knelt in front of him. There were lines on Maglor’s hollow-cheeked face that had not been there before, and scars—one over his cheekbone, and other smaller ones that were only truly noticeable up close, around his lips. Needle marks, and indentations where the cords had bit into his skin which had then healed around them. But even those were not as distressing as the look in his eyes, of exhaustion and despair and fear and loneliness all rolled together. Elrond’s heart ached for him. “Maglor,” he said, but had to stop to gather himself. “Maglor,” he tried again, “you are weary. Will you let me help you rest?” 

Maglor’s eyes fell closed and he nodded. He let Elrond wash his face and hands and undress him, and then lead him to the bed. It was nothing Elrond had not done hundreds—thousands—of times for so many others, but it was as hard to care for Maglor in this way as it had been to care for Celebrían. He sang a quiet lullaby, putting forth his power into the words. It was not a lullaby that Maglor had ever sung to him—those were too burdened with memory for the moment—but one Gilraen had sung to Estel when he had been a baby. Slowly, Maglor relaxed, and slowly he drifted to sleep, his hand in Elrond’s going slack, and his face softening a little in rest. Elrond placed his hand on Maglor’s forehead, singing words of dreamlessness and deep rest, which Maglor sorely needed. He was too thin, too, even after months in Lórien under Galadriel’s care. 

When the song was done, and Maglor asleep, Elrond sat by the bed and buried his face in his hands, allowing himself only few minutes to weep before regaining his composure to go speak to his sons. 

He found them washed and changed out of their traveling clothes, outside again in the garden where Estel had found them. There was much laughter and talking over one another as the three spoke. Gilraen stood nearby, watching them with a smile as Elrond stepped up beside her. If she noticed his slightly reddened eyes—and he had no doubt that she did, for Gilraen missed very little—she said nothing. “How is our new guest?” she asked instead. 

“Resting,” Elrond said, and had to cough to clear his throat when the word came out rough and broken. 

“Is it so very bad?” Gilraen asked softly. Elrond glanced toward Estel, but he was distracted by Elladan and Elrohir’s pair of late birthday gifts, which included a bow made by the Galadhrim, and a quiver full of arrows. 

“He was a prisoner of the Necromancer. It is very bad.” Elrond’s voice did not shake, but it was a near thing. 

Gilraen laid a hand on his arm. “Then he will not be here long?” she asked. Rivendell was often the last stop for Elves seeking the Havens, and it was not an unreasonable question—in fact it was one Elrond should have expected. But hearing it said aloud still felt like a blow, and all he could do was shake his head. There would be no ship awaiting Maglor at the Havens. Whatever happened, whether he faded or healed, or simply continued as he was—it would happen there, in Middle-earth. Elrond wasn’t sure that he would agree to go even if he had that choice. 

Estel came running over to them then, eager to show off his new bow and the knife that Elrohir had given him, made of sharp steel and with a carven handle made of mallorn wood. Gilraen immediately took the knife, saying that Estel could have it when he needed it, and no he did not need to carry it around with him at all times. Estel might have argued if Elrond was not there, but as it was he relented with only a little grumbling before forgetting all about it when Elrohir called to him. 

“Let’s go out to test your new bow!” he said, and Estel nearly tripped over himself as he scrambled after him, crowing in delight. 

Elladan hung back, and Gilraen went inside to put the knife somewhere safe. “I hope that makes up a little for missing his birthday,” Elladan said as Elrond joined him by the fountain.

“I think it does,” Elrond said. “He’s been very eager for you to return.” He put his arm around Elladan’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to his temple. “As have I. How is Arwen?”

Elladan leaned against him. “She is very well, but we are all worried for Maglor.”

“Thank you for bringing him here,” Elrond said. 

“It was easier than I thought it would be,” Elladan admitted. “We were half afraid he’d bolt somewhere in the middle of Eriador. I think it must be because Arwen asked him; he would do anything she asked. Well,” he added after a slight pause, “almost anything.”

“Tell me all of it,” Elrond said. They walked into the gardens in the opposite direction that Elrohir and Estel had gone, and came to a secluded spot where the paths were only barely kept clear of trailing roses. It had been Celebrían’s favorite place, and now Elrond and his children came there when they wanted a moment of quiet. Elladan told him everything, from finding Maglor in one of the deepest cells, to his various physical injuries, to the way that he seemed sometimes unable to keep himself in the present. His mind would drift, to where or when Elladan could not say. 

“But what Arwen most wished me to tell you,” Elladan said, “is that when Eleryn found a harp for him—just a small one, light and easy to hold on one’s lap—he would not touch the strings, and when it was placed in his room he moved it behind something else so that it was out of sight.”

That was troubling. Elrond stared at a half-bloomed rose without truly seeing it. “I’ve put a harp in his room here,” he said finally, “but it’s too large to be easily hidden.”

“Will you take it away?”

“No, not unless he asks. We can only hope he’ll find his way back to his music eventually.” It had been such a huge part of who he was, both pride and comfort wrapped up in it, at least when Elrond had known him. If the sight of a harp turned out to be truly distressing, he would have it moved, but he hoped that would not be necessary. “He was left alone in silence for too long.”

Elladan nodded in agreement. “We have tried not to leave him alone for too long,” he said. “But we also feared that giving him no solitude would do harm of its own. I think that he is getting better. He is more…he seems a little more settled in himself, now, that he was at first. And even from the beginning he has wanted…” He paused again, trying to find the right words. “He keeps reaching out into the world, rather than withdrawing from it into himself. One of the first things he did on his own, when he was barely strong enough for it, was to sit up and reach out the window to feel the rain.”

Elrond took a breath. “Then there is indeed hope,” he said. 

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He woke slowly, hearing birdsong outside of the window, and laughter and singing somewhere in the distance. For a moment Maglor thought himself back in Lórien—but the singing was of a different kind than he had heard there, and the bed was bigger, and the warm breeze drifting through the window smelled of roses and apple blossoms. Of course. He had come to Imladris.

Maglor opened his eyes, and rolled over to look at this new bedroom. It was much larger, with hangings on the walls—tapestries in various designs and shades of blue—and rugs on the flagstone floor. There was a hearth across the room, though no fire burned; the breeze coming in through the several open windows was warm. One of the windows was quite large, and set into the wall to make space for a seat piled with cushions and pillows. And beside it stood a harp. Maglor stared at it for a long moment. It was much larger than the little lap harp that Eleryn had given him in Lórien, made of dark wood inlaid with gold. There was something familiar in the design—something Dwarvish, perhaps?—but Maglor could not quite figure out what it was. Nor did he really want to.

He turned away, and saw bookshelves partly filled with a selection of books, and with a few pieces of decoration to fill the empty shelves. There was a wardrobe and a chest beside it, and hooks on the walls, one of which sported the cloak that Galadriel had given him. It was a beautiful room, built for comfort. Maglor got out of the bed and went to the nearest window, which provided a view of much of the valley—but especially of the river. He could hear it flowing along merrily down its stony bed, fed by streams of snow melt from higher up the mountains, which towered over Imladris. Nearer at hand many flowers were in bloom, and birds and butterflies flitted between the bushes about their business. The sun was already high, and the sky blue and cloudless. Maglor had no idea how long he’d slept, but it had been dreamless, and he felt better rested than he had in a very long time. His arrival in the valley now felt like a strange dream, painful and comforting all at once. He could not recall much of what Elrond had said to him, or even the way from the house’s entrance to this room.

Clothes had been laid out for him on the bed, and when he went to the wardrobe he found more inside—robes and tunics and trousers for every occasion. Boots and shoes were lined neatly along the floor of the wardrobe, too. He turned to look at the room again, at the tapestries depicting scenes from Cuiviénen or the seaside, with stars over dark waters, or over wide open fields. There were scenes of Valinor, too, of the Two Trees and of Tirion with its white towers, and the Mindon Eldaliéva shining above all others.

He moved to the bookshelf, finding books of music and poetry there, alongside collections of stories from faraway places whose names he did not recognize. Precisely the sort of books he might have chosen for himself. He found there a flute on one of the shelves, and on another a set of pipes. And there, just at his eye level, a porcelain figurine of a dancer, pale and delicately wrought. He turned from the bookshelf to look again at the rest of the room. The rugs were very soft beneath his feet, and the chairs set around the hearth were plush and inviting. On a table by one of them he noticed a tray with fresh bread and butter on it, alongside a jar of honey and a jar of jam, and a pot of tea gently steaming.

All of this was more than a single winter’s work, Maglor realized. This room had been waiting for him for a very long time.

He poured himself a cup of tea and stirred in some honey, and went to the large window to sit and look out over the valley. He saw paths and trails winding away out from the house. People came and went along them, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups, sometimes in pairs. He saw a woman of the Dúnedain go by not far from his window, arm in arm with Elladan or Elrohir and laughing at something he had said. He saw a shining figure with golden hair go singing down another path; had he not known the tale of Gondolin, Maglor would have thought him to be Glorfindel.

The tea was hot and soothing, but when he finished the cup Maglor did not turn away from the window to get another. Instead he drew his knees up and leaned back against the paneled wood, closing his eyes. He drifted, thinking of nothing in particular but listening to the birdsong and the flowing river, and did not notice the door behind him opening until he heard footsteps closer at hand. When he looked he found Elrond pausing to look at the tray, untouched but for the missing teacup. When he looked up and saw Maglor watching him he smiled, and came to stand by him at the window. His hand rested on Maglor’s shoulder, a warm and comforting weight. Maglor found himself leaning back against him before he could think better of it.

“I hoped you would like this view,” Elrond said. Maglor could only nod. It was a beautiful view. And a beautiful room, in a beautiful house, in a beautiful valley. It was precisely the sort of place that he had hoped Elrond would find, or make for himself, and precisely the sort of place he did not belong. Especially now.

Elrond did not speak again for a little while. Instead he took Maglor’s cup and refilled it, stirring in precisely the right amount of honey. Then he poured himself a cup as well, and came to sit with Maglor by the window. “You should eat, too,” he said as he handed over the new cup. Maglor took it, but shook his head. He had no appetite. A slight rippling through the dark tea betrayed the trembling in his fingers. “Do you no longer like raspberries?” Elrond’s tone was light, but when Maglor looked up he saw the concern in his eyes beneath the slight furrowing of his brow. “I can find another flavor of jam if you wish. There are plenty to choose from in the pantries.”

Did he still like raspberries? Maglor remembered eating them and claiming to love them, but he could no longer recall the taste on his tongue. He turned away, looking out into the valley again. Of all the things to cry over, berries had to be the most ridiculous yet.

The next thing he knew Elrond had spread jam over one of the slices of bread, and brought it back over to him. “It’s all right if you cannot eat all of it,” he said, “but please try to eat some.” His fingers brushed lightly over the scar on Maglor’s cheek. “And then—will you let me see what can be done for your voice?”

Maglor nodded—who was he to deny Elrond anything?—and he ate the bread. He did still like raspberries, and the bread was so soft it melted on his tongue under the rich butter and the tart sweetness of the jam. Elrond did not press him to eat another slice, and after they both finished their tea, Elrond took the cups away and sat directly in front of Maglor. When he raised his hand, something glinted on his finger, and Maglor reached out to catch it before he thought better. It was a ring, of course, and it was both like and unlike Nenya that Galadriel wielded. It was gold, and the sapphire set into it was blue as the sky in high summer.

“It is called Vilya,” Elrond said. Maglor released his hand. “Sometime soon I will tell you the tale of the Rings in full, for it concerns you now at least in some small part. But not now.” He lifted his other hand to cup Maglor’s face, tilting it so their eyes met. His gaze was not so direct as Galadriel’s, not so piercing though Maglor did not doubt that he saw just as much as she did. Also unlike Galadriel, Maglor knew that he could look away if he wished. He did not, until Elrond drew back and dropped his hand. Then Maglor realized he’d been holding his breath, and he dropped his head, taking a few deep breaths and trying to stop himself shaking.

Once, it had been his job to protect Elrond—protect him from all the things he had just seen in Maglor’s mind and in his recent past.

Elrond reached out again, both hands covering Maglor’s where they were clenched on his knees. “I am no stranger to the torments of the Enemy,” he said softly. “All that happened to you has happened to others. I could not save them all, but I have saved many. If you will trust me, I can help you.”

Maglor turned his hands to grip Elrond’s, and he nodded. Everyone he had once trusted had long ago left the world—except for Elrond. Their roles were reversed, now, in strange and painful ways. But the trust remained. Somehow, in spite of everything.

Elrond then coaxed Maglor into dressing and leaving the bedroom. There would be plenty of time, he said, for Maglor to get to know the house as a whole. It was difficult to get lost, but if he did there would always be someone to point him back to more familiar ground. That morning Elrond showed him the way outside into the gardens, where all the paths leading up and through the valley branched out, and to the dining hall, and to the Hall of Fire, where a fire burned low on the hearth, and many seats and benches were scattered about the room. “There is always a fire here, and it stands empty most of the time,” Elrond said, “except on days of celebration, or in the winter when everyone gathers to sing and tell stories in the evening; in the summer those gatherings move outside under the stars. All are welcome at any time—for singing or for just sitting and thinking.”

They went to the library next, where they found the young woman that Maglor had seen earlier, sitting by a window with a book. She rose as they entered, and Elrond greeted her warmly, and introduced her to Maglor as Gilraen of the Dúnedain. If Gilraen was surprised to hear Maglor’s name, she did not show it, and instead smiled at him warmly as he bowed over her hand. She returned to her book as Elrond guided Maglor farther into the room. There was something almost anxious in Elrond’s manner as he described the sorts of records and books kept there, and as he repeated several times that Maglor could take whatever he wanted at any time, and go wherever he liked whenever he liked.

To stay, to make the valley his home, as it was Elrond’s home.

They returned to Maglor’s room, which Elrond pointed out was not far from his own rooms. Maglor happened to glance at the bookshelves as they entered, and nearly tripped over one of the rugs. The figurine was different. Instead of a dancer, from the doorway it looked like a spray of flowers. “Maglor?” Elrond said as Maglor went to look at it up close again. Standing in front of it, it was again a dancer. When Maglor turned it, it became the spray of flowers again, and when he kept turning it, it became a tree, until he came full circle to the dancer again. Looking at it now he recognize the face of her—Vána, as she danced through the glades of Valinor in the spring. Now he understood why it had felt so familiar. There was only one sculptor he knew of who could create such a work. And when he lifted the figurine to look underneath, he found the stylized hammer and chisel that was his mother’s mark.

“It was given to Amandil by the Elves of Tol Eressëa,” Elrond said, coming to join him. Maglor set it back on the shelf with shaking hands. “It was the last visit they made to Númenor, for the days were growing dark then, and Elves were no longer welcome. Their last gifts were the palantíri and a few smaller tokens of friendship, including this. Amandil’s wife Nesseldë escaped the downfall with her son Elendil and his family, and before she died in Annúminas, she gave it to me.” He touched one of the fragile-looking flower petals with a fingertip, and looked at Maglor. “I have long suspected it was made by Nerdanel, but none of her other works have crossed the Sea, and there was no one to ask. It is hers, then?” Maglor nodded, throat tight. “I thought that you would like it, but if it’s too distressing—”

Maglor shook his head. It was distressing, but he did not want it taken away. He’d not seen his mother’s work since they had left Tirion for Formenos, and he had never known her to work porcelain, or even much with clay of other kinds. Stone and metal had been her preferences, at least when he had been young. He missed her, suddenly and painfully, but when he tried to remember her face all he could see was the not-right image of her that Sauron had conjured once in the dungeons of Dol Guldur.

“Maglor, come.” Elrond’s hands were on his shoulders, turning him from the bookshelf, returning him to the window seat. The scene outside was blurred, and only then did Maglor realize he was weeping. He pressed his hands to his eyes, wishing he could go a single day without tears, without something appearing to remind him how far he had fallen. He felt ancient and weary down to his very bones, but at the same time, like a child, he just wanted his mother—all the more, knowing he would never see her again.

He felt Elrond’s arms encircle him, and leaned into the embrace, as a hand rubbed circles on his back. He was so tired, and Elrond was so kind. The sun was warm, and the breeze smelled of lilac and hyacinth. “You have been alone for too long, Maglor, with the ghosts of the past. Let them rest.”

If only it were that simple.

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The days passed, and Maglor slowly began to venture out of his room on his own, learning the ways of the house and of the gardens immediately surrounding it. In time, perhaps, he would explore the other paths that meandered through the rest of the valley, through its flowering meadows and shady woods. Sometimes he met Elladan or Elrohir, or both, and they walked with him, telling him more of the valley, showing him the forges and workshops, and other places of interest. Often Elrond appeared to walk with him. He spoke less than his sons, offering quiet companionship rather than chatter. Often he twisted the ring on his finger as he walked, seemingly without realizing that he was doing it—not Vilya, but his golden wedding band. Celebrían must have been much on his mind—and not for any joyful reasons. Maglor wished he were not the cause.

He also found himself wishing that he had gotten to meet her, the daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn who had won Elrond’s heart. He wished that he had not stayed away, and had come seeking Imladris years and years ago. Maglor had thought himself, if not happy, at least content in his solitary exile. He had had his music and the company of the Sea and of the birds that sometimes brought him news. If he had wished for more—well, that had not been possible.

Except that it had been, if only he had let himself hope for it.

Elrond did not speak again of attempting to restore Maglor’s voice, though Maglor knew that he was spending a great deal of time in the library. Perhaps someone else had suffered the same affliction. Maglor hoped, if there had been someone, for their sake that it had been cured—though he rather suspected that if there was a cure it was not to be found on these shores.

He found himself down by the river more often than not, watching it rush on by over the rocky bed. The current was too strong in most places for wading or fishing, but he saw others sitting by the banks or walking along them, talking and laughing or gathering flowers. Maglor found a place a little ways downstream from the bridge where a few large rocks jutted out into the water, providing a good place to sit, or to lay down as he often did, stretched out on his stomach with the sun warm on his back as he trailed his fingers in the water, feeling the tug of the current. He listened hard, searching for the music that he’d once known as well as he knew his own self, but all he heard was the rush of the water, and the wind in the grass behind him.

On one sunny afternoon there was a sudden shout and a splash from upstream. Maglor raised his head to see a small dark head bob up out of the water, drifting quickly away from the slender bridge. Whoever it was made a valiant effort to swim to the shore, but the current was just too strong, and bore them swiftly down toward Maglor. He reached out as they drew nearer, and managed to grab a flailing wrist. Somehow he managed to pull them out of the water without falling in himself—he could have done it so easily at one time, but he was far from having regained his former strength—and Maglor found himself more or less drenched, and sitting on the rock with a child: a boy of ten or eleven, with bedraggled curls and grass stains on his trousers and bare feet.

Once he’d gotten his breath back the boy laughed, and looked up at Maglor with an impish grin. “Thank you!”

“Estel!” Gilraen appeared at the top of the bank. Her expression of fear turned to one of exasperation when she saw that the child was safe and out of the water. Her fists went to her hips, and to his own surprise Maglor found himself almost ready to laugh at the look on poor Estel’s face. “What did you think you were doing? This is the third time you’ve fallen—”

“Crossing the bridge!” Estel replied. “I’m all right, Naneth.”

“You’re going to catch a horrible cold if you don’t come get out of those wet clothes right now. And I told you not to bother Maglor!”

“I’m not!” Estel protested. He got to his feet and grimaced at Maglor. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to fall in the river, I promise!” And with that he scampered up the bank to follow Gilraen back to the house, presumably to find dry clothes. Maglor stayed where he was. The sun was warm, and would soon dry him. He leaned back on his elbows and tilted his head back, watching a few puffy clouds drift by overhead. He did not think Estel had been in any real danger, now that the shock of the incident was fading. The river widened and slowed a little in a place just within sight downstream of Maglor’s rock, and he thought that Estel, evidently a capable swimmer, could have gotten himself to shore there. But the water was quite cold, having begun as snow far above in the mountains. He tilted his head farther back, just glimpsing the cloud-wreathed peaks behind him.

He lay down fully and closed his eyes against the bright sunshine, and listened to the birds and the wind in the grass, and the rush of water before him. There was music all around him, but try as he might he could not hear it. On the other side of the bridge a group of Elves burst into merry song, laughing and tra la la lally-ing.

Once he was dried, Maglor left the riverside and made his way back to the house. As he stepped inside Estel came barreling down the hall, in clean clothes but evidently determined to dirty them immediately. Maglor stepped aside to avoid being knocked over, and watched Estel disappear around a corner. When he turned back he saw Elrond down the hall, shaking his head as he approached at a more reasonable pace. “He’s just been told there’s a litter of puppies being born in the kennels,” he said to Maglor. “I heard you fished Estel out of the river. Thank you.” Maglor shrugged. “It isn’t how I had hoped you would meet Estel, but I suppose it was going to be something like that, anyway. At least he didn’t fall onto you out of a tree.” Elrond’s voice was warm and fond as he spoke of Estel—a fondness that Maglor recognized, for he’d heard it in his own voice once upon a time when he had spoken of Elrond and Elros. Both of whom he’d had fish out of rivers at that age, come to think of it—though neither incident had been the result of childhood carelessness, and had been much more frightening for everyone. Their world had been a crueler, more dangerous place than this valley.

“I think that I can lift the curse that stole your voice,” Elrond said, his quiet voice startling Maglor out of his thoughts. “I think it should be done outside, in the bright sunshine.” He looked at Maglor, face a mask of calm but with worry behind his eyes. “It does not have to be today. Some might say the best time would be Midsummer’s Day, the longest of the year, but that is several weeks away and I think any sunny afternoon would do, out among the flowers and the trees—as unlike the place where you were hurt as possible.”

To have his voice back—to be able to speak—he could scarcely imagine it, after so long. The last words he had spoken had been broken and pathetic pleas to the servants of the Necromancer when they came with their needles and threads, after he had failed to sing down the foundations of Dol Guldur. He didn’t even know if his tongue could form words anymore. He yearned for his voice but he also feared getting it back. What then? He would still be a broken thing, a musician without his music. A singer with no songs. What would he say when the first request for a song came?

“Maglor?” Elrond laid a hand on his arm. “Do you want this?”

He nodded, though in that moment he wasn’t sure. Silence was perhaps safer. He could withdraw, exist at the edges of life in this valley, rarely noticed but not quite unwelcome. Would that be so terrible? No one would ask him for songs that he did not have. But he could not express any of that to Elrond even if he wanted to. He knew that he should want his voice back, and that all Elrond wanted was to help him.

“Would you like me to try now? It is a good day for it,” Elrond said. But then someone came calling for Elrond for some dispute elsewhere in the valley, and Maglor shook his head. Elrond frowned, but when Maglor shook his head again he relented. “Tomorrow, perhaps,” he said, and after squeezing Maglor’s hand he went to see what the trouble was, and Maglor escaped back to his room.

For a minute he leaned back against the door, staring at the harp that sat by the window, still untouched. He yearned to play, his fingers ached for it, but he couldn ’t bring himself to do it. Fear curled around him like icy chains. If he could not hear Music how could he possibly play it himself? Instead he went to the bookshelf, running his fingers over the book spines until he found one of songs once sung in Valinor. When he opened to a random page he was greeted by Elrond’s writing, neat lines of it, firm and flowing, lovely to look at. When he looked past the writing to the words themselves, he found them unfamiliar. If it was a song from Valinor it was not one he knew—and it was so unfamiliar that he was almost certain that he had never known it. Something like panic threatened to choke him as he made his way to the window seat. What if he had known it, and his forgetting was more complete than he had thought?

But no. He turned back a page to find the name of it and a note concerning its history and author. It had come to Middle-earth with the Armies of the West during the War of Wrath. Findis had written it, and Finarfin had shared it. Maglor touched their names lightly on the page, his aunt and his uncle, arguably the wisest of their generation, and certainly the most fortunate. Then he read the song, and found it to be a lament for Finwë, but not one that was to be sung at gatherings, or before any but the most intimate of audiences. It was a lament written by a grieving daughter for her father. Line after line spoke of him not as a king or a leader but as a doting father and grandfather, who smelled of sawdust and cherry blossoms. Maglor could not imagine how Finarfin had been able even to speak the words for Elrond to record.

Maglor had never been able to write such a song, not for Finwë, or for any of his fallen kin—his father, his cousins, his uncle and his brothers. They had died one by one, and he had tried to compose something, anything , but the words had never come. He’d poured his grief into other songs about other things, finding refuge in metaphor and in symbol, in the rain and in the waves and in the flames, but it hadn’t helped in the end. Not really.

He let the book fall shut, leaning back and gazing out of the window at the river. At times it felt like all his life had been spent in mourning, and yet the grief still felt sharp and new. His grandfather’s was the worst in many ways—he had led their people to Valinor to escape exactly the horror that had killed him in the end. And when that end had come he had stood alone.

Maglor took a breath and picked up the book again, this time turning to the beginning. He wondered a little that such a private song would be written down at all. The first page of the book answered the question: this was not a book that Elrond had just pulled from a shelf in his library. He had copied out the songs for Maglor, some that Maglor knew and others that he did not, that Elrond had learned from the Noldor and the Vanyar during and just after the War of Wrath.

There is one written by your aunt Findis that Finarfin shared with me, particularly. He did not say so but I think he hoped it would make its way to you.

He paged through the rest of the book, lingering on the songs that he knew, glad that he had not forgotten everything . None were songs that he had written. Perhaps those were in another volume somewhere on his shelf; he did not care to go look. In the end he returned the song for Finwë, looking at the musical notations beside the words, but they held little meaning for him. They should not have. They were in a mode that he had made—he remembered the making of it, the satisfaction in perfecting it. He’d shown it to his father first, because it was a sort of alphabet, and though Fëanor had not made a great study of music, he had always loved new language. But its meanings were lost to him now, just like the look of delighted pride on his father’s face was shrouded in the smoke and darkness that came after.

Night came, and Maglor could not sleep. Elves were outside singing in the gardens, but that was not what kept him awake. Since coming to Rivendell the ghosts in his mind had quieted, had disappeared, but now when he glanced into the dark corners of his room he glimpsed them, the faces of his brothers, there and gone again. When he rolled over and pressed his face into the pillow, closing his eyes, he just saw them more clearly.

Finally, before dawn, he gave up and rolled out of bed, slipping into yesterday’s clothes and then out of the window. He dropped lightly to the ground and looked up. The moon had set, and clouds had moved in, partly covering the stars. He started to walk without any clear idea of where he wanted to go. The path led him away from the house and the gardens, up the valley until the darkness of the woods closed around him. The air was thick with the scent of the pine that grew thickly there, branches reaching out to tangle together and cover the sky.

The ghosts came out of the shadows again. Maglor stopped and let them pace around him. It occurred to him that his fears of being turned away from Mandos would apply to them, too, and he had the thought that they were not ghosts out of his own mind at all, that they were in truth the Houseless spirits of his brothers, following him still after all this time.

He dismissed that thought as soon as it came. Galadriel would not have allowed such things into her realm, nor Elrond into his. More likely he had gone at least a little mad in the dungeons of Dol Guldur, when the nightmarish faces of his brothers, smoke-wreathed and blood-spattered, had been his only companions. He watched them now pass him by beneath the trees, Ambarussa always together, and Curufin with his lips curled in the sneer that had been ever present in his last days. Celegorm with his teeth bared in a snarl. Caranthir quiet and withdrawn, as he had been ever since the Dagor Bragollach when Thargelion had burned. He and Maglor had mourned together for their lost lands, he for his mountain keep and Maglor for the wide plains.

Maedhros remained in the corner of his vision; Maglor did not turn to look at him. He walked on up the path until he came to a place where the pine trees opened up a little, and an enormous old oak tree stood, last year’s leaves a bronze carpet over its roots, and the new year’s growth thick overhead. Maglor climbed it and found a place high in its branches where he could sit comfortably and watch the sky brighten slowly with the morning. The clouds had thickened, so it was a pale dawn, promising rain later. Maglor let his head drop back against the trunk as the birds all around him woke up to sing their morning songs. The valley was soon full of their voices. Maglor remained in the tree, sitting very still. Birds fluttered about, perching and flying. Squirrels came, chasing each other up and down the branches. None paid him any mind. The air was warm, and the shadows were brightening. Maglor could at last close his eyes in peace.

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Voices roused Maglor from his dozing. He heard Estel’s voice, and Elrohir’s, coming up the path through the pines, and kept still, only turning his head to peer down through the leaves. It was only the two of them, ambling up the path, Estel meandering more than Elrohir. “…wondering why he didn’t say anything when he pulled me out of the river yesterday,” Estel was saying.

“You really do need to stop jumping off the bridge. One of these days the current will be too strong for you.”

“I didn’t jump! The water’s too cold for swimming. And I would’ve been fine even if Maglor wasn’t there, because there’s that place where it gets wider and slows down and it’s easy to reach the bank. But you haven’t answered my question.”

“The answer is that he can’t speak,” Elrohir said. “A curse of some kind was laid on him in Dol Guldur.”

“Oh.” There was a pause; Estel picked up a stick and swung it, making small swishing noises through the air. His face was thoughtful beneath his mess of dark curls. “Can Ada lift it?”

“Yes.” Elrohir’s voice was quite firm, and Maglor envied him his certainty.

“Is he dangerous? Or I suppose will he be, when he can speak and sing again?”

Elrohir laughed. “Nearly everyone in Rivendell is dangerous , Estel, except for you.”

“You know what I mean!”

“I do know.” Elrohir grew serious again. “He poses no threat to this valley, or else Elladan and I would not have brought him here, or Adar allow him to enter. You know the old tales, so you know also that he was driven by his Oath, which is no more.”

Driven by the Oath and laid under the Doom, Maglor thought, turning his gaze back to the sky, grey through the leaves. A squirrel darted through the boughs over his head.

Elrohir was still speaking. “But I think he will not take up any weapons again. Nor should he have to. He spent many lives of Men in lonely Exile, and many years a captive of the Enemy—no one deserves that, whatever he has done. And when he can speak again,” he added, a tone of playful sternness entering his voice, “you must not pester him for songs or tales. Maglor has enough to worry about without young boys clamoring at him for a performance.”

“I don’t pester people,” Estel muttered indignantly. Elrohir mussed his hair, and he ducked away. “Race you to the falls!” He took off running up the path, past the oak tree where Maglor still sat, unseen and unnoticed. Elrohir laughed and chased after him after waiting a moment to give him a bit of a start. Once their voices faded away, Maglor slipped down the tree and back down the path, taking a branch of it that wound away around the house rather than going straight back to it. The pines gave way to birches with their pale bark, and maples, and more oaks, though none so old and broad as the one he’d spent half the night in.

Maglor paid little attention to where he went. He just wanted to be moving . He ’d spent so long staying still, forced into it by captivity and then by his own weakness. The valley did not feel as constraining as L órien had, at least. There were no walls hemming him in, except the mountains, and Elrond’s power was more subtle than Galadriel’s. It was still there , of course. Maglor knew that Elrond would know if he tried to leave the valley, or if something happened to him, and that was a comfort of a sort, though it also meant that someone might come looking for him at any time. Eleryn had spoken of those who had followed Maglor’s brothers and then Celebrimbor, who had settled at last in Imladris. He’d not met any yet. Perhaps they, like Estel, had been asked to leave him alone. He found himself pathetically grateful that they were keeping away, whatever the reason.

When he heard voices ahead of him on the path, talking merrily, Maglor slipped off of it into the trees. There was little undergrowth and he was able to move quickly and silently. Occasionally he came upon a blackberry bramble, putting out flowers now, or a honeysuckle thicket heavy with sweetness. When the rain came he did not immediately turn back to the house. He found and open space in the trees and tilted his head up to feel the cool fresh drops on his face. The rain soaked into his hair and his clothes and he soon felt the chill of it. As he passed back beneath the trees he ran his fingers through his hair, grimacing all over again at how short it was. It had not been this short since he’d been a child—but no, that wasn’t quite right: he’d had to cut it short once before after an incident with some kind of glue Curufin had been experimenting with. Maglor could not remember now how it had spilled or how it had gotten all over him, but they’d laughed about it afterward, after he had finished being furious. He had been rather vain of his hair in those days. Curufin had made him a set of beautiful combs afterward, of ivory and gold, as an apology. He’d left them behind in Tirion, for there had been little call for such ornaments in Formenos—and less on the road east.

But that had been different from having to cut away a mass of hair hopelessly matted and tangled, clumped with old dried blood and dirt and probably other things too.

He lowered his hands and sighed, suddenly exhausted and cold and yearning for his bed. He had gotten turned around in the woods, but that did not overly concern him. He must come to a path eventually, and the path would lead him back to the house.

So it proved, and he came back to his own window without meeting anyone. He hoisted himself up through it, and then slipped and fell to the floor with a thump when an amused voice said, “I did put doors into the house for a reason, you know.” It was Elrond, of course. “The last time I caught someone sneaking back in through a window was when the twins were still young enough to steal wine out of the cellars to drink in the woods. I had not expected to again until Estel was old enough to do the same.”

As Maglor picked himself up, Elrond crossed the room, catching his arms and lifting him the rest of the way. “I did not mean to frighten you yesterday,” he said more quietly. When Maglor began to shake his head he said, “No, Maglor—if you are not ready, it can wait.” He caught Maglor’s face in one hand, and looked into his eyes. “And on top of it all, you are suffering still under the effects of the Black Breath. Are you often cold, and cannot get warm?” Startled, Maglor nodded. “Then you should change out of these wet clothes. I will fetch athelas. It helps.” He offered a smile, and departed.

Maglor had not heard of the Black Breath before, but it seemed a fitting name for whatever it was the Enemy did to his prisoners. He peeled off his wet clothes, draping them over a chest, and changed into soft robes that felt more like wrapping a blanket around himself. He curled up in one of the large, deep chairs near the hearth where a small fire was already crackling, and rubbed a hand over his face before leaning back and closing his eyes. The fire’s warmth was welcome, but the chill that was not from the rain remained. He shivered, folding his arms over himself, feeling the scars on them through the fabric of his robe. His hair was still damp, and he could feel strands of it sticking to his forehead and temples.

The door opened again, and Elrond came in; Maglor did not open his eyes, but heard him moving quietly about the room. There was the sound of pouring water, and then the fresh sweet scent of athelas. He inhaled deeply, and felt something in him ease that he hadn’t even known was tense. Then he opened his eyes, finding Elrond seated in the chair next to him, and a bowl of steaming water on the small table between them, with a few dark green leaves floating in it and slowly turning the water green. Elrond held out his hand, and Maglor took it; his grip was firm and warm and steadying.

As Maglor breathed, Elrond spoke, quietly telling of how the Black Breath was a weapon of the Nazgûl, known in Imladris because of the long wars against the Witch-king of Angmar, which culminated in the fall of the splintered kingdoms of Arnor. The Black Breath was despair made manifest; most of its victims were struck down quickly, and caught in a web of dark dreams as they slowly slipped away into death without waking again. Athelas was used, by those who knew its virtues and how to call upon them, to chase it away. Maglor had not been so strongly affected as most Elrond had seen and treated, but he had been a long time an object of their attention.

Sauron had not wanted him dead. Just broken. Maglor closed his eyes and breathed. Sauron was far away, and—well, he had been broken, but perhaps…perhaps not wholly irreparably. Somehow it was easier to believe it in that moment, with the fresh scent of the leaves in the air, mingling with the wood burning on the hearth, and with Elrond there beside him, with his quiet voice and soft assurance and steady, enduring hope.

As Elrond finished talking a little more of athelas and its importance to the Dúnedain, Maglor turned their hands over so Vilya shone in the firelight, and looked up at Elrond. “The tale of the Rings is a long one,” Elrond said, “and full of darkness. Do you truly want to hear it now?” Maglor nodded. It concerned his nephew, and in some small way now it concerned him; he wanted to understand. “Very well. I will try to make it brief—and there is much knowledge that has been lost in any case, after Eregion fell.”

His tale spanned from the founding of Eregion to the end of the Second Age with the War of the Last Alliance, in which Sauron had been defeated—for ever, they had dared to hope, though in vain. Always he managed to return, even after the cataclysm of Númenor, even after his destruction at the hands of Gil-galad and Elendil. Elrond spoke of the Seven and the Nine and what befell them—and had to pause when Maglor shivered anew when he spoke of the Nazgûl, the Ringwraiths. He spoke also, worst of all, of the One, that Sauron had forged himself in the fires of Orodruin in the heart of Mordor.

“They cannot come here,” Elrond told him. “Imladris has been besieged before, even by the Witch-king himself, but he has never crossed the Bruinen to find it.”

Of the great Rings, the Seven and Nine had been either recovered by Sauron or destroyed by dragon fire. The One was lost to the Anduin when Isildur was slain at the Gladden Fields on his return home from war, and it was supposed by some among the Wise that it had been taken by the current even down to the Sea. As for the Three… “They were never touched my Sauron, though it was in part his craft that Celebrimbor used to make them. Were he to take up the One again, they would fall under his sway.” Elrond lifted his hand so that Vilya shone in the light of the fire. Outside, the rain continued on, a steady drum on the roof and on the leaves. “But while it is lost we are free to use them, and we have not been idle. Vilya is here. Nenya, I guess you know.” He looked at Maglor, who nodded. “And Narya, too, has its wielder. But of them we do not speak, not even to each other, and I will say no more after today.” Maglor nodded again. Anyone who knew enough to guess, he thought, already knew the tale in full. Anyone else would perhaps sense the power at work but they would not know what it was.

But the thought that the Ruling Ring was still out there, even if it was at the bottom of the Sea—that frightened Maglor more than anything else. That Sauron might get it back, and if he did… He looked at Elrond, who had risen to toss another log on the fire. Elrond caught and enslaved—turned into something like the Nazgûl but worse. It was a nightmare beyond imagining. As Elrond turned from the fire Maglor rose and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around him, holding him close.

“Maglor?” Elrond sounded surprised, but he did not pull away. Maglor held tighter. They were safe, for now, but the Shadow was growing, even without the One Ring.

“I’ll be all right, Maglor,” Elrond said after a moment, with a small sigh. “Even if the worst happens—there are plans in place. Please don’t worry.”

He would always worry, Maglor thought. He released Elrond, who smiled at him. There were too few left in the world who had known Elrond when he was not the Lord of Imladris, among the wisest of the Wise—when he had been a young child with more courage than sense, let alone wisdom, with scraped up knees and missing teeth and a brother who never left his side. Too few who might realize that though he had survived so much for so long, he was not invulnerable.

Elrond of course could tell the direction of his thoughts, and he reached out again, his grip on Maglor’s hands firm and steady. “I am not unprotected, Maglor. There is no one in this valley incapable of coming to its defense, or mine. And for now, at least, the Shadow is pushed back, and we have some room to breathe before it begins to gather itself again. Evil things do not come into my valley. You do not need to fear—not for me or yourself or anyone else. I know it is easier said than done, so I will remind you as many times as you need me to: this valley is safe.”

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The next day dawned bright and clear, the valley washed clean by the rains. Raindrops and dew clung to the leaves and sparkled in the dawn as Maglor leaned out of his window. The river shone silver that morning, rushing along below him. A nightingale was perched somewhere above him, perhaps on the roof, singing merrily.

After a short time someone came strolling down the path, humming a song that Maglor didn’t know. When they came around a flowering bush he saw that it was the golden-haired figure he’d seen that first morning, the one who had looked at a distance like Glorfindel of Gondolin. Up close, he saw that it was Glorfindel. Maglor stared a moment too long before starting to withdraw, for Glorfindel saw him, and approached the window. “Well met, Maglor,” he said, looking up at him. He positively shone in the sunlight, his golden hair flowing down his back, and clad in green so that he looked indeed like a golden flower. “You are looking much better than when I last saw you.”

Maglor frowned. He was almost certain that the last time he had seen Glorfindel they had both been in Hithlum, before Turgon had slipped away with his people to Gondolin. He was certainly not better than he had been then .

“I mean at Dol Guldur,” Glorfindel said. Maglor flinched back. “You may not remember. I helped Elladan and Elrohir carry you out.”

He did not remember that, but he did remember, vaguely, a sharp brightness, like Arien herself had descended for a moment into the dark under the tower. That must have been Glorfindel, his spirit all the brighter and stronger for having returned to life after Mandos. Mostly all Maglor remembered of his rescue was the fear—that it wasn’t a rescue at all, but some final trick of the Enemy to finally break him entirely. Had it been so, it would have worked. He looked away from Glorfindel, back down at the river.

“Have you visited the workshops, yet?” Glorfindel asked. Maglor shook his head. “Perhaps you should. Were you not a woodworker as well as a musician?” Maglor did not answer, and Glorfindel shrugged. “Think on it, if only to be doing something with your hands.”

He left, and began to sing a merry song as he went on, full of tra la la lally and other silly nonsense. Maglor looked down at his hands, the one part of him that had not been touched in Dol Guldur. The orcs would have broken every bone in them over and over again if they had been allowed to. He’d been threatened with it often. Sauron, though, had wanted him to keep the use of his fingers—and his tongue—for he had not wished Maglor broken to no purpose.

The memory of it brought back the taste of blood in his mouth and the smell of acrid smoke, and the sound of the orcs’ horrible laughter. The sun seemed to darken for several minutes as Maglor tried to make his lungs work again. He opened his mouth to stretch his suddenly-aching jaw, and rubbed at the phantom soreness in his lips; he could feel the scars there, from the needles and the cords, indentations in his skin that should not have been. When he looked back outside the sun was bright again, and all he could smell was the flowers outside of his window.

He went outside—by way of a door this time—and found Elrond sitting with Estel in the gardens. They did not see him, and Maglor was able to watch for a little while as Elrond instructed Estel in something. The snatches that Maglor could hear sounded like herb craft. He would not have expected Estel, who seemed to always want to be moving about and doing something, to take much interest, but he was listening with rapt attention. Maglor left them to it, and wandered through the roses and the lilacs. He found the path that led to the workshops and forges, set a little apart from the house so that the noise and smell didn’t bother anyone. He heard the ringing of hammers on metal, and the scrape of sharp metal over wood, and over it the laughter and chatter of the craftsfolk as they went about their work.

It was surprising to actually feel an itch in his fingers, a desire to take up a piece of wood and make something out of it. He thought of that little bowl he’d made in Lórien. He could still make things—not beautiful, but not ugly either. But he wasn’t sure who he would find there or how to ask for a simple carving knife and a bit of wood to whittle, so he turned away.

His meandering walk took him back to where he’d seen Elrond and Estel, though Elrond was alone then, paging through a book. He looked up and smiled to see Maglor. At his beckoning, Maglor went to sit with him. “Are you feeling better today?” he asked. Maglor didn’t know how to answer. It wasn’t as simple as a yes or a no. In the end he settled on yes, because he did not feel the same chill clinging to him, and at least his dreams had been quiet. He looked up at the sky. The sun was high, and the air was warm, and bees were buzzing lazily around, crawling all over the flowers and then flying off to their hives for honey-making, dropping pollen as they went.

A good day to undo things done in the dark. Maglor looked at Elrond, who caught his eye and saw the direction of his thoughts. “Are you sure?” he asked. Maglor nodded, because if he didn’t do it now he might never get up the courage again. “Very well.” Elrond rose. “Wait here. I want Elladan and Elrohir with us.” Maglor nodded again, content to remain in the sunshine. Elrond strode away, toward the workshops rather than the house.

In his absence a cat wandered out of the bushes, sleek and black with white tips to her ears, and dainty white paws. She peered up at Maglor for a moment, and then decided he would do, and jumped up to but her head into his hand with a demanding purr. Maglor obliged, scratching a little behind her ears, and smiling a little as she rewarded him with more purring. She lay down with her head on his leg as he continued to pet her, stroking down her back and allowing himself to revel in the silky softness of her fur. She remained there with him until Elrond returned with his sons, when she jumped lightly down and disappeared back into the bushes from whence she had come.

Elrond sat beside him again with a reassuring smile, and Elladan and Elrohir sat on the grass at their feet. “Are you ready?” Elrond asked. Maglor nodded. Elladan reached up to take his hand, and Maglor found himself gripping it too tight, but he couldn’t make himself loosen his fingers. His other hand gripped the edge of the bench, which grew slick and damp under the sweat of his palm. He closed his eyes as Elrond placed a hand at his throat, resting it where his neck met his shoulder. His fingers curled around the back of Maglor’s neck, but his thumb remained at the side—there was no encircling, but it still put him in mind of the last hand to wrap around his throat, with its missing finger and only barely made of solid flesh but no less strong for it. He took a deep breath, and felt Elladan squeeze his hand.

Elrond’s song was quiet and steady. Maglor didn’t listen to the words, instead letting the melody of it and the rhythm of his voice fill his hearing, just above the buzzing of the bees and the singing of the birds in a nearby stand of trees. They seemed to harmonize with him, somehow. It was soothing to listen to—until he felt a sudden tightness in his throat, and a searing, burning pain in the back of it and on his chest where he’d been branded with the Eye. He choked, jerking back—he wasn’t in Elrond’s garden anymore but in the dungeons again, and the smell of blood old and new was thick in his nose, and Sauron was there, his eyes like burning coals, his voice like the roar of a furnace and just as hot—

The great singer of the Noldor will sing no more.

Then his head struck something hard, and though it hurt it was a sharper and more present pain, and Maglor gasped for breath. His face was wet and he tasted blood; his tongue hurt. His chest still burned. Someone was saying something to him—several someones, on all sides of him. He pressed his face into someone’s arm, unable to stop himself from shaking. A hand parted the hair on the back of his head, and he felt the sticky wetness of blood there.

“It’s all right,” a voice said in his ear. “It’s all right, Maglor. You are safe.” It sounded like Elros, but that was wrong, Elros was long dead and lost to him, he could not be there—

No, no. Maglor tried to take a breath but he was shaking too badly to fill his lungs properly, and his chest still burned. Not Elros. Elrohir.

Through it all, he realized distantly, as Elladan and Elrond spoke over his head of fetching water and something to press against the cut on his head, which was still bleeding, through it all he had not made a sound. His throat hurt, though—like he had been screaming.

Water was brought, and a damp cloth was pressed to the back of his head. Maglor flinched; it stung, but then the coolness was soothing. His whole head throbbed, but even that eased with a few quiet words from Elrond, who held the cloth in place with one hand and rubbed Maglor’s back with the other. Eventually Maglor was able to sit up, leaning sideways against Elrond instead of laying half in Elrohir’s lap; he had fallen off the bench and sat on the grass, now. “I’m sorry,” Elrond murmured. “I thought there might be resistance, but nothing like that.” Without opening his eyes, Maglor found his hand and squeezed it. “We will try again—but not soon.”

“Will you consult with Gandalf? Or perhaps Saruman?”

“With Gandalf, yes,” Elrond said. “He intends to visit again sometime soon. And if he cannot help, perhaps I will write to Saruman, if one of you will take a letter south for me.”

“Yes, of course,” both twins chorused.

Eventually, Maglor was able to get to his feet, head throbbing, the world spinning around him, and slowly Elrond helped him back to his room, where he was bundled into bed and sung to sleep with simple lullabies that he did not have the strength or the will to battle against. The last thing he recalled before sleep claimed him was clutching at Elrond’s hand, half-dreaming already and fearful that he would drift away and dissolve into mist and sea spray if he had nothing to anchor him to the living and solid world.

His dreams were awful, but they were not of Dol Guldur. Instead he wandered the empty streets of Tirion. It was dark, and there were no stars. He was seeking his parents, his brothers—his cousins, uncles, anyone, but there was no one, and he could not call out to them. It was cold, and sometimes he could hear footsteps down a side street or somewhere behind him, but when he tried to catch a glimpse of whoever it was, he found only emptiness. The dark windows stared at him like black eyes. The Mindon Eldaliéva seemed to pierce the darkened sky like a pale sword. If he could just reach the palace, he thought, he must find his father there, and all would be well, but every time he tried to go that way he ended up somewhere else. Tears of frustration and fear choked him, and he wanted to scream, but when he opened his mouth no sound would come.

Then those dreams dissolved into golden mist, and he found himself in a vivid and cherished memory, sitting on the green grass with Elrond and Elros, teaching them to play the harp. Elros sat on his lap, his small hands guided by Maglor’s larger ones over the strings, as Elrond sat beside them and watched, as Maglor taught them their first proper song, rather than just scales and exercises. Maedhros was nowhere in sight, but he was not far away. Maglor let go of Elros’ hands and let him pluck the strings, slowly and then a little more confidently, until it was the melody of the song that Elrond—the adult, the master healer—had sung in the garden under the sun. In the dream Elrond the child sang the words in his higher, nightingale-sweet voice, and in the dream Maglor joined him, weaving their voices together in a harmony that cast a strange and comforting warmth over him, like a blanket draped over his shoulders by someone who loved him. But then his throat began to feel tight, and a heat was rising from somewhere within him. He wanted to stop but his mouth kept going, louder and louder, as the grassy hillside and Elrond and Elros both faded away and he was sitting in a dark room underground, and Sauron himself loomed up over him, his own mouth open to counter the song, his hand reaching out to wrap around Maglor’s neck, choking him—but still he sang, with a strength that did not feel like his own, and the last note of it rang out like a great bell, and Sauron fell away, and the dark stones, and Maglor was alone in ringing silence. His face felt wet, but not with his own tears. A hand traced over his cheek and he thought that he heard a quiet voice like the whisper of a gentle wave over sand whispering his name

He woke with a start, jerking and almost falling out of bed. Then he panicked at the feeling of something wrapped around him—his arms, his legs, all bound up—but when he finally sat up he saw it was only the blankets, only tangled because he had been tossing and turning. Moonlight shone through the windows, and somewhere out in the garden someone was singing. His throat hurt, and felt swollen. Maglor reached up to touch it and winced, feeling bruises. Then he made himself get up and straighten the blankets before crawling back into bed, though he knew sleep would not return. He lay and stared at the window without really seeing what lay without, until a small dark shape jumped up onto the sill. Maglor sat up in alarm, but then leaned back again with a sigh upon realizing it was only the cat. She paused to lick her paws and groom herself for a moment in the moonlight, and then silently padded across the room to join him on the bed—indeed, she curled up in the curve between his head and shoulder, purring gently when he reached up to pet her. Maglor sighed, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them it was morning; he did not remember falling asleep. The cat was still curled up by him, sleeping soundly. Golden sunshine had replaced the silver moon, and though his throat still hurt, the ache was less. A bird was singing merrily just outside of the window. He took a deep breath, and started to sit up—and startled the cat, who dug her claws into her shoulder briefly before jumping away. Maglor jumped and winced—and then froze, having heard a quiet voice gasping at the sharp prick of pain.

There was no one else in the room. The voice had been his own.

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Maglor sat for some time staring unseeing across the room, wondering if he’d imagined it or if Elrond had truly succeeded in lifting whatever curse had been laid on him. Elrond had not seemed to think so. And Maglor hadn’t made any sound at the time. His throat still hurt—hurt like he had been screaming, like he had been strangled—and he feared to try again. He didn't even know what kind of sound to try to make. 

There was a knock on the door, and Elrond entered bearing a tea tray. The cat, having forgiven Maglor for startling her, jumped back onto the bed. Elrond looked at Maglor and frowned. “I did not expect bruises,” he said as he set the tray down, crossing the room to look at them. His fingers were gentle as he pressed on them. “Does it hurt?” 

Maglor nodded before realizing that he should try to answer more fully—with words. His tongue felt too big in his mouth all of a sudden, clumsy and strange as he tried to form words for the first time in he did not know how long. Elrond had turned away before he managed to even get his mouth open. “Elrond,” he said, voice a hoarse and wrecked shadow of what it had once been, and watched Elrond freeze for a moment before turning, eyes wide with shock. Under other circumstances it might have been comical. Maglor swallowed and tried again. “Elrond.” It was easier the second time. 

“Maglor,” Elrond breathed. “It worked?” He came back to the bed as Maglor moved to sit on the edge of it, and embraced him. Maglor dropped his face into Elrond’s shoulder. “I’ve missed hearing your voice,” Elrond said. Maglor could hear tears in it. Then, ever the healer, he asked again, “Does it hurt?”

“A little.” It could have been worse. It had been worse, once. He felt suddenly exhausted, as though just speaking four words had taken all of the energy he had. 

“Then don’t speak too much,” Elrond said. He drew back again, and bundled Maglor out of bed and into a soft warm robe and then onto the window seat, where the sun had already warmed the pillows. Before Maglor could so much as think of what he wanted to say, a steaming mug of tea was pressed into his hands, sweetened with honey. The heat of it soothed his throat, and he sighed after the first swallow, leaning back against the paneling as Elrond sat down with him. 

“Thank you,” Maglor whispered. Elrond smiled at him. “For—” For too much to put into words, even now that he could use them. He blinked back a sudden stinging behind his eyes, and looked away, out over the flowers. 

They sat for a while in silence, comfortable now that it could be broken by either one of them. The cat jumped back up to curl up on Maglor’s lap, purring when he stroked her silky fur. “You’ve been adopted, I think,” Elrond said. 

“So it seems.” Maglor found he did not mind. He’d slept better after the cat had come to him than he had in a very long time. 

“There is much we need to speak of,” Elrond went on after a moment. “But not today. It can wait—unless you intend to disappear again.” It was spoken lightly, but Maglor could hear the real concern behind it—almost it sounded like fear.

Elrond rose to take away the empty mugs. Maglor caught his hand and looked up at him, meeting his gaze. “I won’t,” he said. “I won’t disappear, Elrond.” It would have been impossible, with Elladan and Elrohir there to chase after him, even if he did want to leave. But he didn’t. 

Something in Elrond’s face softened, and he leaned down to press a kiss to Maglor’s forehead before turning away, busying himself with the tea set. Maglor sighed and looked back out of the window. The cat on his lap shoved her head into his hand until he started petting her again. He buried his fingers in her silky fur, scratching until her back arched, and she stretched her legs, kneading into his leg before curling up again, tail swishing contentedly. Elrond returned with another cup of tea. 

“This place is beautiful,” Maglor said after a little while.

“It is,” Elrond agreed. 

“How did you find it?”

“We stumbled upon it by chance when fleeing Eregion,” Elrond said. “I led the first armies out of Lindon to try to break the siege, but we were too late. Celeborn led all who could escape out, and we fled north into the mountains, with the Enemy on our heels. There was no path down into this valley then, of course, but we managed somehow with all the wounded, and the children. It was not so pretty that winter, with the fields all churned up mud and lined with tents.

“After aid came from Númenor, Gil-galad decided we needed an outpost near the mountains. There were plenty of volunteers to stay, and I was already in love with this place.” Elrond gazed out of the window at the river. “We started work on the house and the workshops during the siege, but once the war was over we could turn more attention to comfort and beauty instead of just a roof over our heads.”

“I was told that there are many of my brothers’ followers here,” Maglor said. “Or at least, many of those who have survived this long.”

“Yes,” Elrond said. “Between the War of Wrath and the fall of Eregion, there are no more than two dozen all told. Most are from Thargelion or in Himring.”

“I have not seen them.” It was getting easier to speak with every word, the clumsiness leaving Maglor’s tongue, though his voice was a hoarse and scratchy thing, unlovely and weak. But he thought that would change as the soreness faded and he got used to speaking again. He had screamed or sung himself voiceless before, and it had felt like this—though there had been no power involved but his own.

“I have asked them not to impose on you,” Elrond said. “You needed peace and rest, not a parade of visitors. You still need peace and rest.” 

“I am weary,” Maglor admitted. It was more than just the ache in his body and the shock of suddenly being able to speak again. It was the long years of memory and loneliness and grief that hung on his shoulders like an old and tattered cloak. He’d been able to carry the weight of it, once. Once he had not even thought himself lonely. He had been—not happy, but content in his solitary exile, he’d thought. Maybe he’d only been fooling himself, ignoring it the way that he’d been ignoring the ghosts of his brothers that had followed him from Doriath and Sirion and the edge of the broken world. He thought he could sleep for a hundred years and feel no more rested than he did in that moment. He looked back at Elrond and saw the flash of worry in his eyes before it was hidden away behind that mask of calm. “I won’t die of this, Elrond. You needn’t worry.”

“You seem very sure of it,” Elrond said. Maglor shrugged. He knew what it felt like, to start to slip away, to feel the desire to leave one’s body and flee the living world. He’d felt it in Dol Guldur, and he had clung to life because in the clutches of the Necromancer the alternative was so much worse. He did not need to fear that here, but he also remained certain that there would be no call for him from Mandos. Not even the echoes of his lamentations would reach beyond the mountains in the West. Becoming a Houseless spirit caught in the world and unable to leave was not as bad as being caught by Sauron’s fell enchantments, maybe, but it was not much better either. 

It was no strength of will that kept him alive. It was only fear. But he would never say as much to Elrond—or to anyone. That would only worry them further, and he’d caused enough of that without knowing it. 

Elrond leaned forward to look into his face. Maglor met his gaze. It was easier than allowing Galadriel to see into him. Whatever Elrond saw seemed to allay his worries at least a little. “I’ve treated many who were unable to find healing on these shores,” he said. “I feared you would be one of them, but I think you will not need to sail after all.” His smile was a small and complicated thing. There were others who should have been able to stay, Maglor knew—Lady Celebrían not least among them. 

“There is no ship that would bear me anyway,” Maglor said. 

“No. Not yet.”

It wasn’t much longer before Maglor retreated to bed again, needing little coaxing from Elrond. The cat disappeared out of the window, off on whatever business she had in the valley. Maglor pulled the blankets up over his head and closed his eyes. Tired as he was, he did not do more than doze, drifting in and out of strange and disjointed dreams. He did not wake fully again that day or that night, though the dreams grew darker after the sun set. 

In the dark hour just before dawn he woke, and in that fuzzy moment in between waking and sleeping he glimpsed his brother just beyond the foot of the bed. “What do you want?” he whispered. Of course there was no answer, and when he blinked the dream-phantom was gone. He sat up, and found the cat curled up beside him, grumbling at being disturbed. “I beg your pardon, mistress,” he said, just because he could, as he left the bed. He dressed and left the room, slipping quietly through the silent and sleepy house. He made his way to the library, wanting to be distracted from his own thoughts. 

Crystal lamps lit as he entered the room, casting a soft golden glow over the rows of shelves, filled with books and scrolls. There were cozy arrangements of seats and tables scattered throughout the large room—the largest in the house, aside from the banquet hall, and there were wide windows to let in the sunshine during the day. Maglor wandered through the shelves, trailing his fingers over the book spines as he read the titles pressed into them. There were histories and bestiaries, and books of herbs and of gardening and of cooking; there were preserved journals of travelers, and collections of letters, and many collections of songs and poems, from Men and Elves and one small and slim volume of Dwarvish tales. Maglor pulled it from the shelf, but put it back after reading the note in the beginning, which claimed its contents to be tales from Moria as told by Narvi to Celebrimbor. He wanted distraction, not more reminders. 

He settled on a book of tales for children that had come from Arnor before its fall, and curled up in one of the chairs by a window. Outside the sky was starting to grow pale with the coming dawn, and the stars would soon fade. Gil-Estel still shone brightly down onto the valley; Maglor looked at it for a while, wondering what Eärendil thought of all that he could see going on below, and what sort of tales he took back to Valinor at the end of each voyage. He sighed, and turned his attention to the book in his hands. The stories were many and varied; some were familiar, with roots tracing as far back as the tales he and his brothers had been told on silver evenings when they were children. Others were entirely new to him. He found himself smiling a little as he read, the shadows and troubles of his past—both distant and recent—receding as golden sunshine replaced the lamplight, and his mind was filled with images of rabbits and mice doing heroic deeds in their small forest realms, or of children outsmarting wicked sorcerers in the wilds so that they might escape and return home. 

Others came and went from the library, paying him as little heed as he paid them. He finished the book—it was not terribly long—but did not get up, instead gazing out of the window. The view was of the forests farther up the valley, dark fur against the brighter greens of beech and maple. Beyond them Maglor glimpsed the shimmer of a waterfall, one of many that tumbled down the mountainsides to join together into the river at the bottom. It was to be another bright and sunny day. He could see an apple orchard from this window, as well, all pink and white. He had the sudden desire to go out and walk through it, to smell the apple blossoms and listen to the birds. 

So he did. 

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“You mean it worked after all?” Elladan’s smile was sudden and bright.

“It did,” Elrond said. He hadn’t doubted that his power was enough to undo Sauron’s curse, but he had not counted on it fighting back in the way that it had—and he had not quite finished when Maglor had jerked back from him, so quickly and forcefully that he’d fallen and struck his head hard enough that Elrond had feared a concussion. The bruises that had formed later, Elrond suspected, were a recreation of Sauron’s own hand around Maglor’s throat—but he did not wish to ask Maglor about it. Perhaps one day it would become necessary for Maglor to speak of what had happened in Dol Guldur, but Elrond would not push him, for both of their sakes. He did not think he could bear to hear it; bad enough that he could see the scars and lingering pain.

“Ada, are you well?” Elrohir asked. They were walking through the rose garden, the three of them. Elrohir linked his arm through Elrond’s and leaned on his shoulder.

“Yes.” Elrond summoned a smile for him. “Of course I am.” He had just been unprepared for his own painful past to rear its head with Maglor’s arrival in Rivendell; his head was filled with memories that he usually kept locked away, of those bittersweet years when he and Elros had been raised by Maglor in the wilds, always looking for a place of safety and relative peace, but never finding it for very long. He’d dreamed of Elros the night before, as he had not done for many years. His brother was never far from his thoughts, but it was not often that the old grief sharpened itself as it had lately. The dream had been a pleasant one, though—they had been singing on a sunny hillside with Maglor as children, something they’d done as often as possible, whenever it was safe enough. The grief was in the waking. That was all his own burden to bear; neither Elladan nor Elrohir needed to be troubled by it.

And it was springtime, and Celebrían’s apple orchard was in bloom. That grief was sibling to the other, like but unlike, and newer—still at times as fresh as though she had departed the Havens yesterday. He missed her desperately, always; lately even the smell of the apple blossoms brought tears to his eyes alongside the memory of her bright laughter like silver bells, and the flash of her smile. She would have welcomed Maglor, and perhaps known even better than Elrond how to put him at ease.

Elsewhere in the valley preparations were beginning for Midsummer celebrations. Everyone knew that Gandalf intended to return sometime soon, and there was much talk of his fireworks and hopes that he would bring some in time for the holiday. It would last all the long day and all the short night, with singing and dancing and feasting; the kitchens were already busy. Elrond himself had little to do beyond his usual daily tasks (and even those were half taken over by Erestor, so he could turn his attention to other things), besides tell Estel that yes, this year he would be permitted to go hunting with Elladan and Elrohir.

He did so at lunch, and Estel leaped up from the table with whoop to throw his arms around Elrond’s neck, and then Gilraen’s, and then jump and spin around in excitement while Elladan and Elrohir laughed at him. “Why do you suppose we brought you a new bow and hunting knife, Estel?” Elrohir said, grabbing him as he went by. “You cannot go hunting unarmed!”

“But you must be careful,” Gilraen said; she had agreed to this trip only reluctantly, knowing that Estel would have to venture beyond the valley sooner or later, “and do what you’re told.”

“Yes, I know!” Estel said. “I will, I promise!” His eyes were shining, and he could not seem to stop smiling. “When are we leaving?”

“Tomorrow,” Elladan said. “So you can sit down and finish your lunch, Estel.”

“How can I eat when I’m so excited?” But Estel sat down, and in spite of his excitement he finished his meal and had seconds. Elrond smiled to see it, remembering when Elladan and Elrohir were of a comparable age, always on the edge of another growth spurt and always hungry. He remembered being eleven and always hungry—but those memories were not so kind, and he preferred not think on them. Instead he leaned back in his seat and listened to the teasing and the banter across the table between his sons and Gilraen, and sipped at his wine.

After lunch Elrond walked up to the orchard, and soon was joined by Estel. “Ada, I just remembered,” Estel said, taking Elrond’s hand, “that there were trolls on the road last year.”

“Yes, but they’re no more than statues now,” said Elrond. “Didn’t your friend Mr Baggins tell you about it?”

“Yes, but what if there are more?” Estel asked.

“I don’t think there are. I would have heard of it.” Elrond released Estel’s hand and put his arm around his shoulders instead. “And you will not be going north on your hunting trip, but south.” Elladan and Elrohir would never take Estel anywhere near the Ettenmoors—not until he was more than old enough to defend himself. And even then, Elrond knew he would always worry, and Gilraen would always fear—but he was not worried about this trip; the lands were as safe as they could ever be in these days. “There will be nothing to use your bow on but game. But I do,” he added with a smile, “want you to forage for healing herbs while you are out. Collect as many different kinds as you can, and show them to me when you come back.” There would be times when Estel would have no choice but to rely on what he could find in the wilds, and the sooner he grew accustomed to looking, the better. They had done this many times before within the valley, making a game of it, but it would be a greater challenge outside of it where he did not yet know the lands so well. Estel brightened at the idea, though it did not hold quite the same excitement as a hunt with his brothers. Elrond extracted another promise from him to stay close to Elladan or Elrohir when he was looking for his plants, which Estel gave over his shoulder as he left the orchard, his fear of trolls banished and his excitement returned.

It was only after Estel was out of sight that Maglor appeared, slipping out from behind one of the trees. Elrond had not known he was there, but he wasn’t surprised to see him. The orchard in springtime was a popular place to walk. They fell into step beside one another without speaking, heading deeper into the orchard. There were so many things that Elrond wanted to ask, so many things he had imagined himself asking, or demanding, when he finally saw Maglor again. When he had been younger those imagined conversations had been more like confrontations, when he had been angry, furious at Maglor—for not going with them to Gil-galad, for stealing the Silmarils, for disappearing without a trace. For not being there when Elros had sailed away, or when Elros had died.

That anger had faded long ago, replaced by grief, and then even that had dulled into a longing that he could set aside and put out of his mind for years at a time, though he had never forgotten it. He had always kept that room ready, just in case.

Now, though—there was too much to know where to start.

Finally, he settled on, “Why did you never come back?”

Maglor looked at him. It was so hard to read his face. “I would not have been welcomed in Lindon,” he said. His voice sounded better already, less hoarse, much closer to what it was in Elrond’s memory.

That was true enough, at least in the beginning. But— “Did you ever—didn’t you ever hear us? Calling to you? Did you never see the signs of us searching for you?”

“No. I didn’t…it never occurred to me that you would look. That anyone would look.”

Somehow that stung. “Of course we looked.”

“Galadriel told me.” Maglor looked away. He rubbed his thumb over the scars on his palm as he walked. “I have no good answers for you, Elrond. I am sorry.” He stopped, and Elrond’s feet carried him another couple of steps before he also stopped, and turned. “I’m sorry for all of it,” Maglor said. His eyes were bright with unshed tears as he met Elrond’s gaze. A glimmer of ancient Treelight remained in them, behind the shadows of guilt and the sorrow and the pain. The bruises on his throat had faded overnight to a sickly yellow.

“You are forgiven,” Elrond said. “I forgave you all of it long ago.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“I don’t care.”

They stared at each other for a few moments more. Maglor was the one to look away, a few strands of hair falling forward over his eyes, though it was not long enough to hide them entirely. “Did Elros?” The question was a whisper, the name hovering between them, quivering like the last lingering note in a song.

Elrond knew the answer, but he knew also it wasn’t his to give. “Come with me,” he said, reaching out to take Maglor’s hand, stopping him from digging his thumbnail into the scars. Maglor followed without protest, back down to the house and up the stairs to Elrond’s private study. It was not a large room; it had been his bedroom back when the house had first been built, when it was still a hodgepodge of rooms and slanting corridors built with only warmth and solid walls and roofs in mind. His bedroom now was the room next door, much more spacious and finely furnished. The furniture in the study was older and simpler, sturdy and plain. He went to a chest tucked between two bookcases, underneath a window that looked out toward the orchard. Maglor lingered by the door, looking around with curiosity and reluctance, as though he wasn’t sure he was really permitted to be there.

There were few things inside the chest. One was a tattered satchel, and another a letter sitting on top of it, written on torn scraps of parchment fished out of the hold of one of Círdan’s ships. It was sealed with a thumbprint pressed into poorly-rendered beeswax, and the ink inside, Elrond remembered had been made of crushed berries. “He asked me to give this to you before he sailed away west,” he said, taking the letter back across the room to Maglor. Maglor took it, holding it as carefully as though it were made of delicate crystal. “I think he expected me to find you much sooner than I did.” And indeed, Elrond hadn’t found him at all. He had stopped looking. Perhaps if he hadn’t stopped…but no. Those kinds of what-ifs were never useful. Still, the thought that he might have prevented Maglor’s capture if he had just tried a little harder for a little longer remained in the back of his mind, like a painful itch he couldn’t scratch.

“Thank you,” Maglor said softly, as he traced the whorls of Elros’ thumbprint in the wax. All that he said was soft and quiet, as though he was afraid to speak any louder for fear of—what? Of being heard? This timid and fragile Maglor was still a stranger to Elrond, and he did not know how to help. Ridding him of Sauron’s final curse had been easier than Elrond had feared; banishing the clinging remnants of the Black Breath was easier still, for it was an ailment Elrond knew well. Most of the scars on his body would fade with time. But not all of his despair could be blamed on the Nazgûl, and for that there was only so much athelas—so much Elrond could do.

“Maglor,” he said, hearing the helplessness in his own voice and wishing he could hide it better. Maglor needed his strength, not his weakness. “Is there something—anything—what can I do?” It was an inane and meaningless question, but he couldn’t form a better one.

Maglor set the letter on the desk as he stepped into the room. This time he folded Elrond into his embrace, rather than the other way around. Elrond had almost forgotten that Maglor was still taller than he was, since Maglor held himself so small these days. It was a strange role reversal, to be the comforted rather than the comforter. Not since Celebrían—

He was clutching at Maglor in a manner not befitting the Master of Imladris, but rather in the same way he had as a child—always then there had been something to fear. He could not remember exactly when Maglor had stopped being one of those things, and started to be the one safe port in the storm of war and darkness that was Beleriand in those days. Maglor with his quiet lullabies and soft reassurances, who insisted upon teaching them penmanship and poetry alongside the dirtiest tricks he knew with a knife. Who had braided their hair and taught them the names of the stars and constellations, and who was always stepping between them and whatever danger they might encounter, whether it was orcs or wild beasts or even just the rain.

In adulthood, that was what Elrond had tried to become, to be a teacher and a healer and a shelter from storms of all kinds. Most days he thought that he had succeeded. But sometimes it felt as though he was still that scared child in the wilds of Beleriand, only without his brother or his guardian to hold on to.

“You have already done so much,” Maglor said. “All I can ask you for now is your patience. My ghosts and my past—they are my own burden to bear.”

“They do not have to be,” Elrond said.

Maglor drew back, a small sad smile crossing his face for a moment. “They are,” he said. “I will keep my shadows to myself. They have no place in this valley.”

“Maglor…”

“I am proud of you, you know,” Maglor said suddenly. He pressed a kiss to Elrond’s forehead. “Of all that you are and all that you’ve done—you and Elros both. I’m sorry that I was not here to say so before.” He took the letter up again and left the study. Elrond caught himself twisting his ring—not Vilya, his wedding ring—around and around his finger, and forced himself to stop. He turned to close the chest, pausing to run his fingers lightly over the worn leather of the satchel inside. It was all that the chest held, aside from a small box of seashells and one or two other oddments that Elrond had managed to keep from his youth. Elros had taken all of the important heirlooms; Elrond had had no use for them. These were just memories, good and bad. He shut the lid and locked it. The past felt too close just then for him to want to linger over the tangible remnants of it.

It used to be that he could seek out Celebrían, wherever she was, when the past grew heavy. She did not carry the weight of those dark years, but she knew how to banish it, with her flowers and her laughter, and the sunlight and starlight on her silver hair, and with softer words and quiet wisdom whispered in the darkest watches of the night. But she was not there, and somehow Elrond could still not remember what he had done before he’d met her.

He went to find Glorfindel and Erestor instead, to be distracted by merriment and the plans for Midsummer.

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