Clear Pebbles of the Rain by StarSpray

Four

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.