Clear Pebbles of the Rain by StarSpray

Three

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.