Clear Pebbles of the Rain by StarSpray

---

Sixteen

---

Elros’ letter was much longer than the one Elrond had sent to Maglor in Lórien (which he had kept, folded up carefully and now tucked into a drawer of the writing desk he had not otherwise used). Maglor had very carefully peeled up the beeswax seal, unable to bear the thought of ruining that thumbprint, and set it on the desk before unfolding the letter, written on several torn pieces of parchment that had a slightly rumpled look to them. The ink was purplish and faded in places, but the handwriting was as familiar as Elrond’s—messier and more scrawling, for Elros had always complained that his thoughts moved faster than his hand when he wrote. Maglor wondered what he had done as king, and spared a moment of amused pity for his poor scribes, who must have struggled mightily to keep up with his dictation.

 

Maglor, I hope this letter finds you well. Indeed, I hope it finds you at all! If you are reading this, then Elrond has finally found you, and I hope that he has scolded you as thoroughly as I have instructed him to!

We have missed you, you know. Desperately. Elrond will have said so, but he will try to downplay it. He will say that he is fine when he isn ’t, as he always does.

I have left him, Maglor. By the time you read this I will be gone, away to the Land of Gift that the Valar have given us, the Edain, for our own, and perhaps I will also be dead, passed beyond Mandos, out of reach of all save Il úvatar. I do not regret my choice, and I cannot wait to reach the island and to build towers and cities and till the land and plant trees and flowers, to hang up my weapons on the walls as decorations rather than needing to keep them close (Elrond has insisted that I take all of the heirlooms of our houses, keeping for himself only a box of seashells and a few other things that mean nothing to anyone except us). But it means that I must leave my brother, the dearest one to me in the entire world.

Oh, I am not leaving him entirely alone. He will be with Gil-galad, and there are others, friends and kin, surrounding him. In time he will find someone to marry, or so I hope. But I fear he will still be lonely. We are known to all as the Sons of E ärendil and Elwing, scions of Lúthien and Beren—the children of legends, and already legends ourselves. More people call me Tar-Minyatar now than they do Elros. There is no one left here who knew us when we were young, except for Círdan and Gil-galad, but they were on Balar when we were in Sirion, and they never really knew us when we were small and scared; they did not protect us from the dangers that lurked in Beleriand, or teach us our letters, or teach us music.

I am running out of ink and parchment scraps (no one is making more yet—there are other more important things to do first). Anyway, here is what I really want to say to you, though it does not feel like enough when I cannot say it aloud and in person: I love you, and I have forgiven you everything, as has Elrond. Elrond has no lack of kin or of friends, but when I am gone he will be sorely lacking in family. Do you understand what I mean? Please do not leave him again when he has found you. You are not our father but you did raise us, you loved us, and that means something, even after everything else that happened before or since.

I hope you are well. I hope that this letter does someday find you, though I cannot. —Elros

 

Maglor set the letter down carefully, neatening the small stack as best he could, though the edges of it were uneven and torn, and it felt dangerously brittle under his fingers. His throat felt tight and his eyes felt hot. “Oh, Elros,” he whispered, dropping his face into his hands. When Elrond had spoken of forgiveness, Maglor had imagined it to be the result of many long centuries of consideration, a slow and deliberate resolution. That had, perhaps, been a bit ridiculous. Galadriel had already told him that both Elrond and Elros had looked for him, and of course it must have been for reasons other than—he did not know what. Pushing him into the sea, or shouting at him, or something. Probably Elros would have done both of those things, anyway, but he would have pulled Maglor out of the surf afterward and laughed at him, and forced him to sit by a cheerful fire while listening to all Elros’ tales of the things he and Elrond had done and all of the plans they were making for the future. Elros had loved deeply and forgiven with reckless abandon, and of course Elrond would have too, even if he was not so reckless now.

He wished, oh how he wished, that they’d found him. That he had not wandered so far so quickly. That he could have said a proper farewell to Elros before he left Middle-earth forever.

There were many things that he wished had happened differently. It was no use wishing, but he did anyway. Elros would not have wanted him to weep for him, not when he had chosen his end and gone to it in peace after a life well lived—but he did that anyway too, pushing the letter away lest his tears fall onto it and smear the already-fading ink.

Once his eyes were dry again, Maglor gathered up the letter and put it into the little drawer, along with the thumbprint seal. As he shut the drawer the cat jumped up onto the desk, butting her head into his cheek, demanding affection. He obliged, gathering her up and pressing his face into her silky fur, stroking his hand down her back, scratching behind her ears. She purred, rumbling in his arms, and he almost laughed. “Imperious little thing,” he said. “Do you have a name, I wonder?” She did not answer, of course, and instead climbed up to lay over his shoulders when he rose from the desk. He splashed water from the basin on his face, careful to avoid splashing the cat, and then drank some, his thoughts turning back to Elros’ letter.

Elros would have been very pleased to know that Elrond had indeed found someone to marry, and that he had children of his own. Wonderful, beautiful, brave, and kindhearted children. But he would have been horrified and so deeply grieved to know what had become of that island kingdom he had founded. His letter had spoken so brightly of it, of a future without war, without fear. And in the end…

Maglor shook his head. Elros had been long dead by the time the shadows started to grow there, his spirit long gone from the Circles of the World, beyond all grief and care.

He left his room, needing to be out in the open air, and made his way to a part of the gardens that he had not explored yet. There he found Estel walking among the herbs and murmuring to himself, listing their names in the Common Speech, in Quenya, and in Sindarin, and listing their uses. He had a good memory, Maglor thought, pausing to watch, scratching the cat’s ears as he did. Like Elros. He was certainly one of Elros’ children, a grandchild with too many greats behind it to count. How he had come to dwell here in Imladris with his mother, and to call Elrond adar, Maglor did not know. If it was a tale worth sharing, he would hear it in time.

Before Estel noticed him, Maglor slipped away around a hedge, and there found Elladan and Elrohir lounging on the ground, talking together quietly and in half-sentences and single words, the way that Elrond and Elros always had. “Maglor!” Elladan sat up, and Elrohir laughed. “Adar told us about your admirer. Have you given her a name yet?”

“I did not know if she already had one,” Maglor said, and sat down in the clover with them. The cat jumped down from his shoulders and stalked off, disappearing into some nearby irises.

“She does not,” Elrohir said. “Few of the cats that wander around do—we can only name the ones we recognize, and some of them we never see at all.”

“It is good to hear your voice at last,” Elladan told him.

“It is good to use it,” Maglor replied, and found that it was true. He still dreaded the moment when someone asked him for a song, but it was easy to ignore for the moment, under the bright sun in the garden.

“We’ll be leaving tomorrow,” Elrohir told him, “to go hunting. It will be Estel’s first time outside the bounds of the valley; he’s very excited.”

“He seems very intent upon the herbs in the garden just now,” Maglor said.

“Ada has instructed him to do some foraging too,” Elladan said. “He did the same with us when we were learning, making a game of it.”

“Is there a prize?” Maglor asked.

“For us it was our favorite sweets,” Elladan said, laughing, “but Estel has charmed all of the cooks so thoroughly that they make his favorites all the time anyway, so he gets songs instead. He loves the tales of the Elder Days, and Ada does not perform very often these days, so to hear him sing them is a special treat.”

“He’ll sing them anyway, whether Estel finds anything or not,” Elrohir added. “He always does at Midsummer.”

“Will you sing, Maglor?” Elladan asked. He kept his tone light, but Maglor felt the weight of both their gazes. They knew he had never touched the harp that Arwen and Eleryn had found for him in Lórien.

He listened to the ever-present sound of flowing water, trying to hear the Music in it. The only music that he heard was Estel on the other side of the hedge, humming quietly to himself. “No,” he said quietly. “Not this year.” He wondered for a moment if perhaps Sauron had taken that from him too—but thought that was not true. He’d lost his music long before he had lost his voice, while the ghosts of his brothers had mocked him in the darkness, and the Nazgûl had paced outside of his cell door.

“Can we ask why?” Elrohir asked. “Would it not help you, to make music again?”

It would help, if only he could. Maglor shook his head. “I met Glorfindel the other day,” he said, trying to lighten his own tone. “He suggested that I find something else to do with my hands. Perhaps he was right.”

“The workshops and storerooms are open to anyone at any time, day or night,” said Elladan. “You can take whatever you need, whenever you like. But I hope you will make music again, one day. Your songs have brought joy and comfort to all of us here.”

“That song that you sang—when you found me under the tower,” Maglor said. “It was one of mine.”

“Ada sang it to us nearly every night when we were very small,” said Elrohir.

“I wrote it for him. For him and Elros.” His voice broke on Elros’ name, and he found himself rather suddenly enveloped in twin embraces, both Elladan and Elrohir moving as one to wrap their arms around him. He returned it as best he could, trapped between them as he was. “I haven’t yet thanked you,” he said when he could swallow the tightness in his throat enough to speak again.

“You do not need to,” said Elrohir.

“Thank you, anyway.” For too many things to list, not least their patience.

The cat returned then, and meowed loudly until Elladan moved his arm out of the way so she could climb onto Maglor’s lap. Elrohir laughed. “Are you going to give her a name, then?” Elladan asked.

“Tári, I think,” Maglor said, as he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. She purred her approval, raising her head so he could scratch underneath her chin. “No lesser title would suit her.”

Estel came around the hedge then, and Elladan started to fire questions at him, quick as an archer with arrows. It gave Maglor a chance to further compose himself before Estel came to throw himself onto the grass with them, eager to share the news that he was going hunting with the twins outside of the valley. Maglor was happy to listen—though he was confused at first when Estel spoke of his own father, before he realized that he meant Elrond.

Eventually, Elladan left with Estel to finish preparing for their departure the next morning. “You told me once that Elrond has fostered many of the Dúnedain here,” said Maglor. “Have they all called him father?”

Elrohir shook his head. “Estel came here when he was but two years old,” he said, “and he started calling our father Ada by mimicking us, Elladan and me. No one had the heart to correct him, and—well, Ada is the only father he’s known. His own was killed near the Ettenmoors; we were set upon by far more orcs than we expected, and our company was nearly routed. We lost too many that day.” He sighed, and leaned over to pet Tári. “Poor Gilraen went into shock at the news; it was all we could do to get her here, and then both she and Estel fell ill, for the weather had been terrible on the journey. It was not a bad illness, but Gilraen was slow in recovering.”

“She seems happy now,” Maglor ventured after a moment.

“She is. Time has eased her grief—time and the safety and comfort of Rivendell.”

Maglor heard what he was trying to say, not only about Gilraen. His own griefs he had once also thought dulled by time. They had just been buried, instead, until Sauron had stripped him of everything—of life, of sun, of air, of everything, and that had sharpened everything so that it felt brand new again. He said nothing, and tried to pull his mind out of that darkness and back into the sunlight of Rivendell.

He was there. He was alive. For now, that was enough.