Not Going Without You by StarSpray

What if we just fall?
I'm not going without you
You're not going alone
I fell so far 'til I found you
But you know what you know when you know
So I'm not going without you
You're not going alone
'Cause you know when you know

It’s a trust fall, baby
It’s a trust fall, baby

- “TRUSTFALL” by P!nk

- - 

TA 2953

As Daeron scrambled up a steep and rocky hillside, dislodging rocks as he went both by accident and on purpose, he found himself thinking of Eglador long ago, and the grassy banks beside the Esgalduin where Mablung had despaired of him ever being able to properly defend himself. Daeron, being young and foolish, had only laughed. He’d never traveled from Thingol’s court alone, and if he was hopeless with a sword he was a fair shot with a bow (if not rushed), and fairly quick with a knife. And of course there was always the power of his voice. 

“Again, loremaster!” Mablung’s voice echoed in the back of his mind as the orcs at his heels screeched and shouted at one another and at him. “I’ll not be the one to explain to Thingol why is favorite singer got his head lopped off by an orc on the way to the Falas.” 

The Falas was long gone now, as were both Mablung and Thingol. Daeron had lost his knife when the orcs had first set upon him, and he had managed somehow to wander close enough to the borders of Mordor that trying to sing a landslide down on his pursuers would only give him a brief respite—it might bury the orcs chasing him, but it would only attract the attention of worse things. He slipped on a loose stone and slid down several feet before catching himself. The orcs all cackled and jeered. Daeron gritted his teeth and hauled himself up. If he could just get over this hill, maybe he could—

He reached the top and found the hill was more of a ridge, with a nearly sheer drop on the other side, but too late for him to catch himself. Daeron couldn’t bite back a shout as he tumbled over, scrambling to catch a rock, a root, anything, but only succeeding in ripping his fingernails. He landed on several ledges as he went down, hard enough each time to drive all the air from his lungs, so when he landed at the bottom he couldn’t breathe, let alone move. 

And there were more orcs. They swarmed around him, binding his wrists and his ankles and dragging him away toward another ridge that loomed up, dark in the growing twilight. There were no stars, for heavy clouds covered the sky, and all was shade and shadow. Daeron twisted and kicked, or tried to, but the ropes had been tied too tight, and every inhale hurt—a sharp pain that was not just from having the breath knocked from him. He’d hurt at least one rib, and if the orcs had their way he would suffer far worse before the sun rose again. 

Stupid, he thought as he managed to trip one of the orcs and received a blow to the face for it. It had been stupid to stray this close to the Ephel Dúath. He’d been making for Ithilien but had turned north too soon. He had not thought that Sauron, so newly returned to his stronghold in Mordor, would have had this many orcs patrolling the southern borders. Another stupid mistake—he should have known better. 

Well, at least Mablung would soon be able to say I told you so. 

The orcs dragged him into a cave under the new ridge, and as the darkness closed around them Daeron felt panic rising, clawing its way up his throat. He tried to take a deep enough breath to shout, or to sing, to do anything—but a dirty rag was stuffed into his mouth before he could so much as whimper. When he tried to spit it out the orc just pushed it in deeper until he choked on it. He could not tell how far into the cave they took him. Someone lit a torch, and then another. Daeron flinched way when one was held up close to his face; it smelled of pitch and half-rotted wood. The orcs chuckled and taunted him in their own ugly tongue. He did not really want to know what they said—it was bad enough to understand their delight in finding an elf alone and defenseless. If he was lucky, they would kill him here rather than taking him north to Minas Morgul—or worse, to Barad-dûr. 

They stripped him of his cloak, and they had already gotten their hands on his pack, and he saw one pawing through it to look for food and valuables, whatever the orcs might consider valuable. Another had his knife; he recognized the ivory handle. He’d received it in Khand after his singing had impressed a warlord; that same lord had given him a gold and garnet necklace, which was now torn from his neck hard enough to break the skin. The orcs argued over it and his other things, and then argued over something else—what to do with him, presumably. Daeron lay and tried to breathe through his nose, ignoring the aches and bruises in his body and trying to think. If he could but loosen the ropes, he might have a chance to flee. It was chilled in the cave, and he shivered as he tried to carefully shift around, seeking a sharp bit of rock or a forgotten blade that might cut the ropes on his wrists. He had no luck before he was snatched up again and thrown into the middle of the cave floor. He struck his head hard enough that stars burst before his eyes, and he felt blood soaking into his hair. 

One of the larger orcs pulled the gag out of his mouth. “What’s a pretty elf like you wanderin’ about here by himself then, eh?” he asked, nudging Daeron’s chest with an iron-shod foot, just hard enough to warn of hurts to come. “Spyin’, maybe?”

They’d never accept a denial, so Daeron made none. He kept silent and tried to swallow down the panic, only to double over on himself, retching, when that same foot slammed into his stomach. 

“Thought elves were supposed to sing pretty as birds,” someone taunted. “Sing us a pretty song, elf!”

“Maybe he’s carryin’ messages,” someone else said. “From those blue robes in the east. There’s more of ‘em in the west, they say.”

“Well, he won’t be carrying them any farther,” said a deep and rumbling voice. “Who cares what he’s here for? Make him sing boys, nice and loud, afore we take him up to the Morgul Vale.” 

The panic was replaced by blind terror at the thought of going there, but Daeron had no chance to even gasp before a whip cracked and a line of fire tore down his chest and across his arm. He choked, and cried out when the next blow fell—and the next, and the next. There had to be more than one, for they seemed to overlap. Every time he screamed the orcs laughed. 

They soon tired of the whips, and brought out the knives instead, sawing at his hair and carving into his flesh, in between beatings and ugly taunts. It seemed like some kind of terrible contest to see who could make him scream loudest, or make him beg the most. And he did beg—there was no room in that cave for pride, and he begged and pleaded for them to stop, for even a moment’s reprieve. 

He got it eventually, when they grew bored with him, and tossed him into a corner. He curled in on himself as best he could, unable to stop himself weeping. He burned and ached, and blood dripped down his face, into his eyes and over his lips. His hands felt numb from the tight bindings. Daeron closed his eyes and tried not to listen to the voices around him. The air was thick with the smell of blood, and he couldn’t get the taste of it out of his mouth. 

The orcs came back to him a few more times over the course of the night or the next day, tormenting him with their fists and feet or else with tales of what would happen to him when they reached the Morgul Vale. Time held no meaning out of reach of the sun or stars, and he drifted in and out of consciousness—never true sleep. They doused the torches after a time, plunging the cave into utter darkness, which made everything worse. He was dizzy, and in the dark he could barely tell which way was up. The orcs were not bothered by the dark, and their jeering and fighting and discordant singing sounded louder and uglier when he could not see them. 

After some awful stretch of time, one of the bigger orcs came to seize Daeron by the hair, dragging him out of the cave. The rough stones scraped over his arms, already raw and bloody, making him choke on a scream. It was not enough to make him faint despite his desperate wish for unconsciousness. The orcs talked to one another in their own tongue; he heard the words Morgul and Gorgoroth, and couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped.

It was night outside the cave, but it seemed bright as daylight, for the stars were out. The orcs grumbled, but Daeron half-sobbed in relief at the sight of them, though his vision was blurry and they seemed to bleed into each other, the constellations shifting strangely. His head throbbed with the effort it took to even try to focus his eyes. And when the orcs cut the ropes binding his ankles, he only managed to stand for a few seconds before his knees buckled. They jeered at him and kicked him where he lay on the stones before one of the biggest ones picked him up and threw him over a shoulder. He became aware again of his broken or cracked ribs that stabbed pain into his chest with every step the orc took. His eyes blurred further with tears as his hair fell down around his face, blocking the sight of the sky and everything else but for the dark stones of the ground. 

The orcs moved swiftly and quietly, the only sound the steady tramp of their feet through the night. They slowed as dawn drew nearer—and it was then that one of them suddenly fell, startling the others into a chorus of alarms. Daeron found himself tossed to the ground as swords and bows were drawn. His hair fell across his face and he couldn’t shake it free to see what was going on, but he could hear the fighting, the shrieks that echoed off the barren hills around them, and the clash of metal, the sound of a blade slicing through flesh, and the awful gurgling of the dying orcs. He heard another voice, elven-fair and somehow familiar, but he couldn’t think past the agony of his wounds. Someone tripped over him and he received a vicious kick for it, and felt the bones in his leg splinter. 

Then, suddenly, silence descended. Daeron let his head loll on the ground; he had hair in his mouth but not even enough strength to spit it out. There was some quiet rustling, and the sound of a blade sliding home into its scabbard, barely to be heard over the pounding of his heart in his ears, and then someone was kneeling over him. He flinched back, but the hand that swept his hair from his face was gentle. When he forced his eyes open, the face above him wavered, blurry as the stars behind it, and he did not know if the light in their eyes as a trick of the starlight or—

“Hold still.” There was the flash of a knife, and the bonds on Daeron’s wrists fell away. He cried out when his rescuer moved him, hands quick but thorough as his various hurts were discovered. There were murmured apologies, and why did he know that voice? There was melody in it. Something that brought to mind, even through the haze of pain and his aching head, the memory of sunlight upon clear waters, of honey and moonlight. 

“Who—” he tried to ask, but his rescuer just hushed him, and held something to his lips so he could drink a little water. 

“We cannot linger here. I will splint your leg and then I must carry you. It will hurt.”

The splinting was quick, and whoever Daeron’s rescuer was, he was more gentle than the orcs had been when he lifted Daeron in his arms. He had been right, though—it did hurt, for he moved quickly, though with far more care than the orcs. After a little while the pain at last grew too much, and Daeron knew no more. 

When he woke again in the gloaming he was dressed in clothes slightly too big for him, and wrapped in blankets not his own. Everything still hurt, but he was able to push himself up to sit against a boulder, though it took effort. Overhead the stars were fading into the coming dawn, but clouds were gathering. Daeron leaned back against the stone, catching his breath a moment before looking around at the small and hastily-made campsite. There was a pack just out of his reach, leaning against another sturdier case whose shape he couldn’t quite make out. 

Suddenly he heard the tramp of heavy feet somewhere far too close, and then a shape dropped down in front of him, and a hand pressed against his mouth. “Keep still,” breathed that familiar voice, and Daeron found himself staring into silver Tree-lit eyes, half-curtained by strands of dark hair fallen out of his braids, face close enough to kiss. Daeron’s breath hitched, and Maglor hissed, “Shh!” They both held very still, hidden in between the boulders and some scraggly brush, until the orcs passed by, hurrying on their way to find shelter from the coming day. 

After silence fell over them again, Daeron jerked his head away from Maglor’s hand. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, though the force of the question was lost in the hoarse wreck that was his voice. 

Maglor raised his eyebrows. “Would you rather I had not been here?” he asked. Daeron bit his tongue to keep from answering, for there was no good answer—and now he was indebted, more than indebted, to a kinslayer, and the worst of the lot. “I was equally surprised to find it was you that I had rescued, if that makes you feel any better.”

“It does not,” Daeron said through gritted teeth. His entire body felt like one enormous bruise, and his head was throbbing again. “But you did not answer the question.”

Maglor shrugged. “I had no particular purpose except perhaps to harry the Enemy a little. There are more orcs in these hills than I had expected.” 

Daeron did not like the echo of his own thoughts in Maglor. He said nothing; he felt dizzy again, and cold and afraid—though now that Maglor was there he could not very well admit to the latter. He leaned back against the stone as Maglor disappeared, presumably to ensure there were no other enemies nearby. Daeron had closed his eyes by the time Maglor returned. “We are safe for now,” Maglor said, a hand ghosting over the top of Daeron’s head. “But we must move ere nightfall.”

“I don’t think I can walk,” Daeron whispered. 

“You can if I help you. It will be slow, but even a little distance is better than none. We are not so far from the borders of Ithilien, and I think the orcs will not be so bold as to follow us there. Not yet, anyway.” 

Daeron opened his eyes to watch Maglor crouch beside his pack and dig through it. He produced rations of dried fruit and some kind of way bread, and a water skin. They shared the small breakfast, and Daeron resented that he felt better for it, especially after Maglor insisted that he drink all of the water. “There’s no need to ration it; there is a stream nearby that the orcs have not yet fouled.” To prove it, he disappeared with the empty skin and returned just a few minutes later with it filled. “Rest a little more. We will go when the sun is high.” Daeron had no other choice, so he leaned back again and closed his eyes. He slept, but uneasily, and his dreams were filled with darkness and hard stones and blood, though they mixed the orcs’ cave with Menegroth, fountains running red and tapestries splattered with it. Not memories, for he had not been there when either the dwarves or Maglor and his brothers had come, but the dreams were vivid enough that they felt like memories, and he woke with the taste of metal in his mouth and his whole body throbbing with pain. 

The morning’s clouds had drifted away, and the sun was high and bright. Maglor gave him more water, and peered into his face. Daeron turned away, unable to look at him. “Daeron?” Maglor said. “Can you stand? Here, I will help you.” Daeron gritted his teeth and struggled to his feet, one arm slung over Maglor’s shoulder. The bones in his leg had been set while he had slept the first time, and a better splint applied. He could feel stitches too, in the deepest of his wounds—and there were many. Maglor had been thorough in his care, and Daeron felt sick with it. 

Still better than the orcs, he told himself as they began their slow progress west and north. Better the company of a kinslayer than the Morgul Vale. Even this kinslayer. 

It was slow going; they hid by night from orcs and other fell creatures that crept about the borderlands of Mordor, and by day they made their stumbling way ever westward, one agonizing step at a time. Daeron spoke little, all of his concentration on moving and breathing; Maglor filled the silence, either singing quietly or talking of the places he had been and things he had seen. It was something to focus on outside of his exhaustion and pain, and Daeron hated that he was grateful for it. 

At last they reached Ithilien, and made their way down to the river where the trees grew tall and close together, and thickets offered ample shelter. Maglor had a particular spot that he seemed to be making for, and when they reached it he visibly relaxed, and helped Daeron to sit by the water’s edge. “Wait here,” he said. 

“Instead of what, exactly?” Daeron asked. He could not have gotten up again even if he wanted to. Maglor smiled, and then vanished into the trees. Daeron lay carefully on the mossy bank and let his fingers trail in the cool water, listening to the river’s quiet song as it flowed along, unhurried, southward. The moss was cool and soft, and he let his eyes fall shut. There was birdsong and the smell of growing things all around him, and if he let his mind drift he could almost imagine that he was back beside the Esgalduin. But only almost. There was no sweet-scented niphredil growing beside the Anduin, and the birds were different; even the sun felt different. 

The sound of flames igniting brought him out of his reverie, and Daeron opened his eyes to see Maglor sitting on the moss beside him, humming quietly as he carefully fed bits of tinder to a small but steady flame. Soon he had a proper fire built up, the wood dry enough that there was little smoke. Maglor also kept glancing at him, as though to make sure he hadn’t fallen into the river. Daeron looked away, back at the sun-spangled water, and Maglor did not speak. Once the fire was burning well Maglor disappeared again. He was gone longer that time, and Daeron had to tell himself more than once that he did not need to be worried. 

He sat up eventually, gritting his teeth as he forced stiff muscles into motion, to toss more wood onto the fire. All his cuts and all the whip-wounds burned with each movement. Once up he did not lay back down, and instead, with effort, stripped off Maglor’s too-big shirt so he could catalog at least some of his injuries for himself. He grimaced at the bruises along his ribs, dark purple and turning green at the edges. His many cuts and scrapes were scabbing over, and many of them had been stitched shut—very neatly and precisely, he was pitifully grateful to see. He might even escape with fewer scars than he had feared, though his back was a torn up mess and that would certainly not heal cleanly. At least he could not see it. His ribs hurt, and his leg, but the splint was sturdy and there was nothing else to be done about that. He couldn’t see the rest of his legs, of course, but they must look more or less as the rest of him did. 

Maglor returned at last as Daeron pulled the shirt back over his head. “How awful is my face?” Daeron asked him, since he had no mirror. 

“Bruised,” said Maglor, “but nothing worse. And your hair will be uneven until the parts the orcs cut grow out again—unless you want to cut it all off and start afresh.” 

Daeron held out a matted and filthy strand of it and grimaced. He’d never really thought himself vain, but he did not like the thought of cutting all of his hair off. Somehow it felt like conceding defeat. “How bad is it really?” he asked. 

“We can’t know until it’s washed and combed.” Maglor sat by the fire with a large rabbit in his lap, and set about skinning it and preparing it for cooking. He worked quickly and cleanly, and it was only a matter of a few minutes before he had it spitted and set over the flames. “Would you like me to…?”

Daeron shook his head, recoiling at the thought of Maglor behind him with a comb, somehow a more intimate thing than even stitching his wounds, and pushed his hair back over his shoulder. He looked out over the river, at the flowers blooming on the opposite bank, and the trees growing green and tall and healthy still, in spite of the nearness of the Enemy’s lands. Beside him Maglor hummed quietly. Daeron did not recognize the tune. His voice was both familiar and strange; there was something of the Sea in it now, and Daeron did not know if he thought it an improvement. The Sea had never captured his heart as it had so many others. His love was given to the rivers and streams, the lakes and meres to be found in the forests and on the plains, far away from the coasts. 

They ate in silence once the meat was cooked. Maglor had found some herbs to dress it with and some sort of roots to roast over the coals as well. It was a better meal than Daeron had had since leaving Khand. He fell asleep soon afterward, waking briefly when Maglor covered him with a blanket before drifting away again. His dreams were muddled, of starlight on the Esgalduin that darkened into the torch lit caves of the orcs that were also the halls of Menegroth, and he kept trying to find his way out, only nothing was familiar. 

The soft strains of a harp brought him awake again. It was evening, and the stars were shining. His ribs hurt, and he realized only after he started to sit up that there were tears on his face. Maglor did not stop playing. The fire had burned low, but the coals were still hot. Daeron lay back down and closed his eyes. The song was familiar, and after a moment he realized that was because it was one of his own. He had played it at the Mereth Aderthad. “Do you play my music often?” he asked, and then immediately wished he hadn’t. 

“Yes,” Maglor said quietly. 

It was not the answer he had expected. “Why?”

“It’s beautiful. Why would I not?” 

Daeron stared up at the stars peering through the trees. Everything hurt, and he was so tired, and he did not want to remember the Mereth Aderthad or the music they had played together, he and Maglor son of Fëanor. Those joyful memories were tainted by the lies that lay behind them, and by all the things that had come afterward. The happiness felt now like a thin layer of shining gilt painted over rot. As though he sensed the direction of Daeron’s thoughts, Maglor shifted the song to one Daeron did not recognize at all. It was quiet and had the rhythm of waves washing up over the shores, and in spite of himself, Daeron was lulled by it back into sleep. 

He slept a great deal over the following couple of days. Now that they were not on the move or constantly on edge, expecting to be discovered by orcs or worse things at any moment, his bruises began to and the cuts scabbed over and itched. The bones were slower to knit back together, and the pain was reluctant to fade, but the haze of exhaustion gradually lifted under Maglor’s careful eyes and hands. 

Everything Maglor did was careful, whether he was singing or cooking or even just sitting. Daeron felt his gaze on him all the time even when he was not outright staring. It made him itch, and all too aware of how much he was dependent upon Maglor. All of his possessions were lost—his flute, his knife, his own clothes and blankets and foodstuffs. He had never been to this part of Gondor before, and once he was able to move about on his own he did not even know where to go. He had not felt so helpless since—since he did not know when. Since Lúthien had fled Doriath, perhaps. Since he’d gotten lost trying to go after her and ended up on the opposite side of Neldoreth, stumbling out of the Girdle as though it was casting him out, sending him into exile for his betrayal. 

He drew his good knee up to his chest and stared at the river, brooding on the differences between the Anduin and the Esgalduin, and trying not to think about how even then he had been tempted to go north, toward Himring, rather than south to the dwarf roads that crossed the Ered Luin. It would have been disastrous, and he’d known it even then. What would he have said, had he met Maglor again then? What explanation could he have given for his departure from Doriath—the truth would have gotten him killed. A lie would have just delayed his death a little longer—and whatever else he was, Daeron was not a liar. 

“We are not so far from Pelargir, you know,” Maglor said, breaking the tense silence that had hovered between them for some days with a suddenness that made Daeron start. “I can make you a crutch or a walking stick, and even keeping away from the Road it is not a difficult walk.” 

“What is in Pelargir?” Daeron asked, looking up from the water. 

“Clothes, supplies, weapons—and inns with proper beds. I have coin, and also an understanding with an innkeeper near the harbor—in return for entertaining her guests in the evenings, she allows me the use of a small room and does not charge for meals.”

Daeron looked at him. “I already owe you a great debt,” he said. “I would rather not make it larger.”

Maglor’s eyebrows rose; he looked offended. “You owe me nothing,” he said. “What would I ask of you, anyway? We are both of us wanderers, with nothing of value to our names but our voices.”

“Why else would you—”

“Do you truly think so little of me, that I would only try to save someone from orcs if I could—?”

“Do you think I have forgotten what you did?” The words came out almost as a snarl, his teeth clenched, head full of Doriath and the Esgalduin running red with the blood of Lúthien’s children, flames licking the tapestries of Melian, burning them away into ash just as the ships of the Swanships had burned at Losgar. “Do you think I could ever forgive you for it?”

“No,” Maglor said, softly but without hesitation. “No, of course not.” His hands did not falter in the smoothing and carving of a tree limb into a staff—into a crutch, Daeron realized, seeing the notches at one end. “None of that had anything to do with you.”

“Doriath was my home.” Never mind that he’d been long gone from it by the time Maglor had come there. “They were my people.” His voice broke, and he had to blink back the tears that suddenly burned in his eyes.

“I know.” Maglor kept his gaze lowered, and perhaps he did not see Daeron wipe his hands over his face. “I meant—I don’t know what I meant. I did not want to—”

“I don’t care what you wanted,” Daeron hissed. “It doesn’t matter what you wanted. You still did it.”

“And now I can see you safe to Pelargir, and once you have clothes and supplies and coin of your own, I will leave you, if that is what you wish.”

“I don’t want your—”

“Consider it restitution, then,” Maglor said, still not looking up. “I cannot undo what I did, but I can help you now.” He paused and seemed about to say more, but did not. They lapsed into silence again, broken only by a cheerful bird somewhere above them, unaware of the simmering resentments roiling far below its song. The fire crackled gently, and the scrape of Maglor’s knife over the wood was rhythmic, his hands steady. Daeron found himself watching them and looked quickly away, back at the river. 

They left that place the next day, heading south and following the river. They avoided roads and well-trod paths, for the Men of Gondor would be wary of two strangers passing through their lands. Maglor spoke little except to warn Daeron of a stray root or a shift in the ground ahead, as Daeron hobbled along slowly with his crutch. They went slowly, but at least the weather held, and the land of Ithilien was fair, filled with fragrant herbs and flowers. Had he been alone and whole, Daeron would have sung as he walked, just for the pleasure of harmonizing with the birds and with the leaves as the breezes passed through them. As it was he had no heart for it—or the breath. 

As night fell, some days after they had begun moving again, Maglor stopped so abruptly that Daeron crashed into him. Maglor caught him before he pitched forward onto his face in the leaves, but hissed, “Shh!” as he did. Daeron froze, half-leaning against Maglor, who had not lowered his hands from Daeron’s shoulders. He was very warm, and Daeron felt his breath in his hair as they stood still, listening.

Daeron heard the tramp of footsteps in the underbrush only a second before a band of orcs crashed through a thicket, blades already drawn. They snarled and jeered when they saw the two of them, and before Daeron even fully realized what was happening Maglor was moving, stepping between Daeron and the orcs, drawing his blade and in the same swift motion taking off the nearest orc’s head. Daeron stumbled and accidentally put weight on his broken leg, which buckled and sent him sprawling into the ferns. He cursed and tried to roll away—but an orc pounced, and he only managed to raise his crutch to block its blow at the last moment. The sword stuck in the sturdy wood, and Daeron yanked it out of the orc’s hands before swinging back to smash the end of the stick into its face. As it staggered back he dropped the crutch and pushed himself up to see Maglor surrounded, but holding his own. More and more orcs poured out of the woods, though—too many for them to fight, even if Daeron had been armed with more than a stick and able to stand. For a second his eyes met Maglor’s, and he saw the knowledge there, too, before Maglor bared his teeth in a snarl and joined his voice to the fight, shouting with the power of the tides in his voice. 

And then rush of freezing air washed through the clearing, carrying a thin wailing voice calling out foul and fell words, and Maglor vanished, tripped or cut down or—Daeron did not know, but he screamed at the sight, with all the power of his voice behind it like a flood of snow melt out of the mountains in spring, setting the trees around them trembling and for a moment drowning out even the voice of the river at his back. He did not know how close they were to the Ephel Dúath or what else might hear him, but in that moment he did not care. The orcs shrieked and quailed and fled, hands over their bleeding ears, disappearing eastward into the trees. 

As silence fell, Daeron sat with his ears ringing and his heart in his throat, panting, throat burning. It was full night now, but the stars were hidden behind thick clouds, and he felt as though he’d gone blind. “Maglor?” he whispered at last, hoarse, tremulous. “Maglor.” 

“Here.” Maglor’s eyes flashed in the gloom, and Daeron blinked, and could see again—pale shapes in the darkness, of the trees and the ferns. The silence was broken, too. He could hear the river again, and the rapid pounding of his own heart. “I’m here,” Maglor repeated, now directly in front of Daeron, reaching for him. Daeron did not pull away, instead reaching back, grasping at Maglor’s arms, his shoulders. Their foreheads pressed together for a moment, and Maglor breathed, “Thank you.” 

“I thought—”

“I’m all right. But we cannot stay here.”

“But are you—?”

“It can wait. Come.” Maglor pulled him up, and threw Daeron’s arm over his shoulders instead of looking for the crutch in the darkness. “This place will be swarming with the Enemy’s creatures before dawn. We must cross the river, but not here.” 

They both stumbled through the grass and the ferns, cursing when roots rose up to trip them or when Daeron lost his balance—more than once—and nearly knocked Maglor over too. Maglor steadied him each time, and the third time Daeron felt blood on his hands in the dark, slick and warm. “Maglor—”

“Later. Here. I think the river is shallow enough.” They slid down a slight embankment. The water was cold and the stones of the bed slid a little under Daeron’s feet, but Maglor remained steady—or steadier than Daeron was, at least; he was limping too. In the distance behind them they heard the sounds of orcs crashing through the wood, and another chill like a sharp wind passed over them. Daeron gasped, and Maglor cursed. “Wraiths,” he muttered. “Come on.” They staggered and stumbled across the river. It was shallow, as Maglor had thought, but made up for it in width. At least the opposite bank was not so steep, and they were able to make it up and away from the water well before their pursuers caught up. “The wraiths will not cross the river after us,” Maglor whispered as they pushed through a thick tangle of honeysuckle. “The orcs might, but they make poor trackers and we may have lost them in the thickets on the other side.”

They still did not stop moving before daybreak. As the pale light grew around them, they found shelter beneath an enormous oak, where the roots had risen out of the ground to make a hollow just big enough for the two of them. Daeron sank to the ground in relief. His broken leg throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and the rest of him hurt too, like the orcs’ mere presence had reawakened all his other hurts. Maglor sat beside him and all but collapsed back against the tree trunk, closing his eyes and breathing hard. Once he caught his own breath, Daeron turned to push aside Maglor’s cloak. “Where is it?” he asked. “Where are you hurt?”

“It’s—ah—there.” Maglor hissed as Daeron discovered the slice in his shirt and the ugly gash beneath. The bleeding had slowed and it was shallow. Between the two of them they got the bandages out and wrapped around it, both of them with shaking hands covered in blood. Daeron looked down at his red-smeared palm afterward, and started when Maglor covered it with his own. “It looks worse than it is,” he said when Daeron looked up. 

“I know.” Daeron drew back, feeling the ridges of scar tissues on Maglor’s palm as his fingers brushed over it, and looked away out of their little hollow, which was hidden by a thick tangle of brambles and honeysuckle. It was quiet; there were no birds singing. He still felt the chill in his blood that was the influence of the wraith, but didn’t realize he was shivering with it until Maglor tugged him back, wrapping his cloak around them both. He was holding one of his legs stiffly, and Daeron reached down to touch his knee, which was swollen, and earned a flinch in response. “Is it…?”

“Twisted—that’s why I fell.”

“What a pair we make,” Daeron murmured, and Maglor laughed. “We can’t go farther today.”

“We need to.”

“This tree will hide us come nightfall.” Daeron laid his hand on the trunk, felt the tree’s willingness. Even a wraith out of Minas Morgul would not pierce the shadows that he could sing up around them, a small imitation of Melian’s girdle to last the night. 

“If you say so,” said Maglor, and let his head fall back against against the tree. Daeron rested against Maglor’s shoulder, and told himself it was only for warmth, because they were both shivering and still wet from the river crossing. Like Maglor’s arm around him, a warm and anchoring weight—and nothing more. 

Daeron slept, and woke to Maglor’s hands on his shoulders. “It’s getting late,” Maglor murmured in his ear, his breath warm on Daeron’s cheek. “If you have songs to sing, you’d better start soon.”

“Mm.” Daeron wanted to close his eyes again and sink back into sleep; he was finally warm and Maglor’s chest was comfortable—and when had he shifted to lie on his chest? He sat up more quickly than he should have and winced as aching bones made themselves known again. He found himself bracketed by Maglor’s knees, and with the blanket draped over both of them. As he rubbed a hand over his face Maglor dug rations out of his pack. They ate in silence, and then Daeron put his hand on one of the thick roots above their heads, casting his thoughts out to the tree, and also back to Eglador long ago, when it had become Doriath, as Melian had put forth her power and sung the Girdle into being. He took a breath and looked over his shoulder. “Lend me your strength?” he asked. Maglor nodded, eyes glinting in the shade, pale as stars under the dark fall of his hair. 

Daeron turned away, settling himself, closing his eyes. Overhead he heard birds calling to one another, cheerful and unconcerned, though the sun was westering and its light was deepening, the shadows shifting and lengthening around them. He began to sing, calling forth the shadows to aid rather than hinder them, to wrap around the tree under which they sheltered, a small maze of confusion and twisting paths that would send any searchers away without them realizing. After a short while Maglor also began to sing, weaving his voice into Daeron’s song in gentle harmony, filling in the gaps between the notes, lending strength steady as the tides and powerful as an undertow. 

It did not take long, as far as such things went. By the time they were done it was evening; the air was purple with twilight and the stars were peering through the branches overhead. An owl called, and was answered by another some distance away. Daeron sank back against Maglor before he could think better of it, and Maglor’s arms came around to fold over his chest, keeping him from sitting up again. Around them the tree-shadows were deeper than elsewhere, and for the first time since he had first stumbled upon the orcs near the Ephel Dúath Daeron felt safe. He could have wept if he were not so spent.

“Very nice,” said Maglor. “But I think you have overextended yourself.”

“I’ll live,” Daeron said without opening his eyes. “As I likely would not if the orcs found us.” Maglor hummed agreement, and Daeron felt the vibrations of it through both their chests. And indeed as darkness fell they heard the orcs tramping through the wood. Daeron felt Maglor tense behind him, his arms tightening. Daeron laid his hands over Maglor’s, who turned one hand to thread their fingers together as the orcs drew nearer. The shadows were too dark now even for their eyes to pierce, and so they could only listen as the noises grew and then faded away. Only when silence descended again upon the wood did Maglor exhale, bending his head to rest it against Daeron’s. Daeron breathed a sigh and relaxed against him; he hadn’t realized just how tense he had become. Exhaustion rose up to claim him again, and as he drifted off to sleep he almost fancied he felt the quick press of lips against his temple, there and gone again in the space of a thought. 

The next thing Daeron knew he was waking from a dark dream that slipped away as he opened his eyes; he started up, but was trapped by Maglor’s arms. Maglor, still asleep, only murmured something into Daeron’s hair and adjusted his grip a little. Daeron swallowed past the inexplicable lump in his throat and stared up through the roots at the tree branches above, and the small bits of starry sky the peeked through the thick canopy. He inhaled deeply, smelling rich earth and leaf mould and living wood, and just the hint of distant rain on the breeze. He exhaled slowly. His leg hurt, his ribs ached, and he could feel a headache building somewhere behind his eyes. He turned his head so he could hear Maglor’s heartbeat beneath his ear, steady as a drumbeat, and closed his eyes again. When next he woke it was with Maglor’s hands on his arms and his soft voice in his ear. “We have to keep moving,” Maglor said apologetically as Daeron struggled to open his eyes. “Pelargir is another day’s walk away—maybe more, since between us we have only two working legs.” He let go as Daeron sat up, rubbing his hands over his face. “I’ll get you to the inn and find you clothes and supplies—and then you’ll be rid of me.”

Of course. Pelargir…and then parting. “Right,” Daeron said, shivering at the chill that he felt as Maglor drew away. Only because the morning was cold, he told himself, using the roots to haul himself to his own feet. Both of them were limping and sore and stiff as they emerged from the hollow under the tree. “…So close?” Daeron glanced back toward the wood. “The orcs were bold, following us this far.”

“Someone in the Morgul Vale knew they’d had an elf in their grasp,” Maglor said.

“They thought I was you,” said Daeron, realizing—not the orcs themselves, but they must have sent someone ahead with word of his capture. Of course they would believe they had Maglor in their grasp. Maglor had said he’d been harrying the Enemy where he could—and he was a far better known threat than Daeron was, who did not even carry a sword, let alone know how to use it properly. 

Not that it mattered now. They had both revealed themselves—and gotten away. The Enemy, when he learned of it, would be furious. 

“I think any elven wanderer on his borders would be of great interest to the Enemy,” said Maglor. “But one of us would be a prize, wouldn’t we?” His face was very grim as he too looked back toward the east. Then he held out his hand. “Come on. If we’re lucky we’ll come to a road and find a carter to take pity on us.” Daeron accepted his hand without looking at it; there was dried blood smeared across his palm—and on Daeron’s hands, still. But underneath it his palm was warm and his grip was steady, and if he was limping he was not limping as badly as Daeron was. 

They were lucky, and a cheerful old man with a cart laden with full sacks allowed them to climb up into it to go the rest of the way to Pelargir. Daeron fell asleep almost as soon as the cart began moving, in spite of the bumps in the road and the lumpiness of the sacks. It was not a deep sleep, and he was vaguely aware of Maglor singing some merry song about sheep in a field that made the carter chuckle. It was deep enough, though, that he was startled awake when the cart halted and Maglor shook his shoulder gently. “We’re here,” he said, and helped Daeron climb down out of the cart as he thanked the carter, who thanked Maglor in turn for the songs and tales he’d shared, and then the cart trundled on down the street. It was late afternoon, the sun golden in its westering, and the streets were not terribly crowded. 

“Come on,” said Maglor. 

“You promised me a proper bed,” Daeron said, blinking sleep out of his eyes. He had not been this tired in Ithilien, and he did not understand why he could not stay awake now. 

“And you will have it. Just another few minutes.” 

The inn was quiet, and when Maglor called out a greeting a stout, red-cheeked woman with her graying hair in a tangled bun came bustling out of the kitchen. Her smile swiftly changed to a look of alarm, but Daeron was too busy trying to remain standing to pay much attention to her words. He heard something about a bath and something about a bed, and then he was being ushered down a narrow hallway to a small room with a bed large enough for two—but only just. “All right,” Maglor said in his ear. “Now you can go back to sleep.” 

“Somethings…wrong,” Daeron said as he sat on the bed. “I shouldn’t be…so…”

“Nothing is wrong. I told you that you overextended yourself.” A hand smoothed over Daeron’s hair, and then he was being gently pushed down onto the pillows, which were very soft and smelled of something fresh and herbal.

“I wish you would stop,” Daeron heard himself mumble, hardly even aware of the words escaping off his tongue.

“Stop what?” Maglor asked. 

“Making it so hard to hate you.” 

After a pause, Maglor said quietly, “You’re speaking nonsense. Go to sleep, Daeron.” And Daeron slept. 

When he woke he was clean, and dressed in a new and unfamiliar shirt, and someone had combed and braided his hair. The splint on his leg had also been replaced by something lighter and cleaner. Daeron sat up, feeling rested but also still tired—a strange feeling, but one he’d experienced before. Fading sunshine slanted through the small gap in the shutters of the lone window, and he got up to open them, and the window beyond. It opened onto a small kitchen garden, dewy in the twilight and fragrant with herbs: rosemary, thyme, sage. Daeron inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. He ran his fingers down the length of his braid, finding his hair less an uneven mess than he had feared, in spite of the orcs’ best attempts. It was something of a marvel to feel clean again. When he turned back into the room he heard music and boisterous singing coming from the other side of the door. 

A room in exchange for music, Maglor had said. Daeron found more clothes and a pair of sturdy boots by the bed, and dressed before slipping down the hallway toward the common room, though he did not bother with the boots. It was full with what he assumed to be the usual evening crowd in addition to whatever sailors had found their way there from the ships in the harbor, keeping the bartender and the serving folk busy running about with trays and mugs. Beer flowed and laughter flowed with it, along with the music. Maglor sat in a corner near the hearth, his harp on his lap. His hair was loose about his shoulders and he was grinning as his long pale fingers danced over the strings, teasing out the melody of a drinking song that, as Daeron listened to the actual words, turned out to be quite bawdy. The air smelled of woodsmoke and beer and rich food—fish and bread and other things he could not identify. 

He did not go out into it, instead retreating to the little bedroom where it was quiet and the air through the window was fresh and cool. Just a few minutes later there was a knock at the door, and when he opened it one of the serving girls was there with a tray and a smile for him. “Good evening!” she said. “My mistress said you were sorely tired and should not be disturbed, but I saw you up and about and thought you must be hungry even if you aren’t up for company.”

“Thank you,” said Daeron, stepping back to let her come into the room. She set the tray on a table by the window, and lit a few candles that were scattered about the room. 

“If you need anything more, just give us a shout,” she said as she left. 

Daeron sank down onto the bed once he was alone again, and breathed. His leg ached but not badly. The wounds Maglor had stitched shut itched when he moved and the fabric of his clothes rubbed against them. And he found that he was hungry, now that the thick fish stew and fresh crusty bread was in front of him. He ate all of it, and sipped at the beer, which was better than others he had tried but still not enough to make him quite like it.

By the time he finished it had grown quiet out in the common room, and he wondered a little at it. It was not late enough for the folk there to be stumbling home or to their rooms. He went to the door and opened it again, and Maglor’s voice greeted him, quiet but resonant, singing a song Daeron did not know, of a sailor longing for his lady love back on shore. No one was singing along, but Daeron could imagine the quiet spellbound audience. His leg hurt too much to keep standing, and he did not want to go out to join them, so he sank onto the floor, leaning against the door frame and listening. The song gently blended into the next, of a joyful homecoming, and into one of going back out to sea and the thrill of the waves and the tides and the winds. Daeron could almost feel it in his hair, feel the spray on his face and taste the salt in it. 

All of it was threaded through with a longing that made his eyes sting. It was a longing he recognizes, because it lived in his heart too: a longing for home, even when the world lay wide open and unexplored before his feet—a home that could never be returned to, not only because it was no more but because the version of him who had lived there was also gone, changed by the same inexorable forces that ground stones down to stand and shifted the courses of rivers. 

It was still not terribly late by the time Maglor finished, but Daeron could hear his audience shifting about and murmuring, preparing to depart for their beds. He hauled himself off the floor and reached the bed before Maglor came into the room, so at least he wasn’t caught listening at the door like a child up past his bedtime. Maglor smiled when he saw him. “How long did I sleep?” Daeron asked. 

“All last night and all day today,” said Maglor. “I can remove those,” he added, nodding to where Daeron hadn’t realized he was rubbing at one of the stitched-shut wounds. “They’ve served their purpose.”

Daeron wanted to say that he could do it, that he neither needed nor wanted help. Only a few days before he would have. But he was still so tired, and his mind was still full of Maglor’s music, so he just nodded. 

There were fewer stitches than Daeron had thought before, and Maglor removed them all methodically, working steadily but gently. There was no pain, only discomfort and then relief. “There,” said Maglor at last, from behind where the longest line of them had been. Daeron did not like to think about what his back looked like; it felt tender and fragile, and he remembered too well the criss-crossing lines of fiery pain. Belatedly he realized that he was shaking with the memory of it, but Maglor only drew back and handed him his shirt again. Daeron shrugged it on; the sleeves were too long, and he pulled them down over his hands. 

“Thank you,” he said, after the silence between them had stretched taut. 

“You don’t have to.” Maglor moved off of the bed. “I got you new supplies, and extra clothes. They won’t quite fit but I thought too big was better than not big enough.” He spoke lightly and practically. “You should go to sleep again.”

It felt absurd to go back to bed after only a few hours awake, but Daeron wasn’t going to argue. He frowned, though, when Maglor went to lay a blanket on the floor. “What are you doing?”

“Also going to sleep.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Daeron said. “There is room on the bed.” Maglor paused to stare at him, and Daeron stared back. Wordlessly, Maglor picked up his blanket and sat on the bed. Daeron turned away then, laying down facing the window that he had left open. The breeze was cool and smelled of sage. At his back Maglor shifted around a little before going still; they were not touching but Daeron could feel the warmth of him as he drifted into sleep. 

He dreamed of the Mereth Aderthad, of one of its last evenings when he and Maglor had absconded with a bottle of mead made from apple blossom honey, and sat by the shores of Ivrin speckled silver in the moonlight, passing the bottle back and forth as they laughed and sang snatches of doggerel and talked of everything and nothing at all. The mead had coated their tongues with honey sweetness, and made everything loose and easy and warm. Daeron had laid in the fragrant clover and laughed at the stars, and Maglor had rolled over to lay his head on Daeron’s shoulder, their hair tangling together in the flowers. 

Daeron woke before, in the dream-memory, he turned his head to kiss Maglor and taste the honey-sweetness on his lips and swallow the music of his laughter. He stared out of the window at the pale morning light, and realized after a moment that his back was cold. When he rolled over he found the bed empty. 

“I’ll get you to the inn and find you clothes and supplies—and then you’ll be rid of me.”

Sitting up, he found a new satchel by the door, bulging gently with the supplies and clothes that Maglor had promised. His new boots sat beside it; a cloak hung on the hook beside the door. Outside the door he heard the stirrings of the inn, of cooking and baking and tidying; above him he heard the creak of floorboards as other guests roused and prepared for the day. Daeron covered his face and thought of Doriath and of Sirion and of blood in sea foam and burning tapestries, but the pain of that grief had long ago lessened into a dull ache that he could almost forget about for years at a time. Seeing Maglor again had woken it up, but he had mistaken more recent pain for a full reopening of those wounds—had clung to that old bitterness because it was safer than the newer fears. And over the knowledge of the things Maglor had done lay the memory of honey-flavored kisses in the moonlight, and of undeserved rescue and care in the shadows of the Ephel Dúath, and warm hands and arms holding him steady in their flight through Ithilien. Of songs of healing that Daeron had not even realized were being sung as he slept. 

“This is stupid,” Daeron said aloud into the empty room. He pushed the blankets away and stretched out his mostly-healed leg, and sang a song of his own over it, of strength and endurance and impatience. The ache intensified as his body responded to the commands of the music, until all at once it faded away with the last notes. Daeron unwrapped the splint and flexed his leg, his ankle and his knee, and found it a little stiff but not painful. He would likely regret what he was about to do when it hurt later, but that would be a problem for then. 

He dressed quickly but deliberately, and made sure to stop and bow his thanks to the innkeeper and bid her farewell before he left. 

The streets of Pelargir were not quite busy yet, but they would be very soon. He could hear the city stirring; fishermen had already long set out for their catch, and now the harbor was busy with sailors going up and down gangplanks, setting the sails, tying and untying the ropes, preparing to set off with the outgoing tide—for this close to the seashore the Anduin was almost fully a part of the sea already, a tidal river, a strange mingling of fresh and saltwater. 

Daeron had passed by the harbor and almost out of the city before he realized that he did not know where Maglor was going. He might not be headed west. He might be returning east, to continue whatever it was that had taken him to the edges of the Ephel Dúath. He might have gone north, back up the Anduin or up the smaller River Sirith. Or perhaps he had left the coast and cut west through Lebennin, or, or, or… 

The city was too loud, too full. Everyone in it was a song of their own and all the different songs jumbled together made for—not a discordant sound, exactly, not anything that could be heard with only his ears, but it was too much, after he had spent so many years wandering alone or in the company of much smaller groups. Daeron fled the crowds and found the river where it began to widen and spread out, the Mouths of the Anduin reaching like many twisting fingers through marshy grasslands toward the Sea. There were deeper channels in the middle, perhaps made so by the Men of Gondor long ago, for the larger ships to come and go. As he left the city and the ships and the people behind Daeron breathed a little easier, but he still did not know if he was moving in the right direction. 

At last he stopped and closed his eyes. He breathed, and he listened. There beneath him was the slow and steady song of the earth, so slow that even to the Eldar it seemed a single note humming, humming. There were the quick and bright notes of the insects flitting through the grass, and the wispier tunes of the grass itself, and the breezes that passed through. There as the river, the melody of flowing water as familiar a thing to Daeron as his own heartbeat. In the distance, carried on the salt-scented breeze, there was the Sea, loud and rushing and carrying the clearest echo of the Great Music. Daeron breathed in and out and listened, and…there, also on the breeze, a familiar voice—not enough to catch the words or more than a note or two of the song he was singing, but enough to know that he had chosen the right course: west and south, toward the seashore. 

He walked until his leg grew stiff and too sore to move and he had no choice but to stop and rest. His pace was slower than Maglor’s, and it was days before he heard a snatch of song on the wind again, there and gone in a moment. It was full of such mournful longing that it took Daeron’s breath away. But as the wind changed he lifted his own voice in answer. 

It was another handful of days, enough time to reach the shore just beyond the Mouths of the Anduin, that he saw Maglor ahead of him, standing atop a dune with his hair blowing in the breeze, gazing out at the Sea. “Maglor!” he called, and saw him start, hand going to the sword at his side as he turned, though he released it immediately. 

“Daeron?” Maglor slid down the dune, and Daeron met him at the bottom. “I thought I heard—what are you…?”

“At Ivrin,” Daeron said, meeting his gaze, “how much was true?” 

Maglor stared at him uncomprehending. “At…at Ivrin? Everything. All of it. It was only—the only secret was Alqualondë. But I don’t under—” He broke off with a gasp when Daeron took his face in his hands and kissed him. It did not taste like honey but the memory of it was there; it felt a little like coming home. Maglor’s arms came up around Daeron’s back, clutching him tightly as Daeron threaded his fingers through Maglor’s windblown hair. 

When they parted, both of them breathless, foreheads resting together, Maglor whispered hoarsely, “But what about—after—”

“You broke my heart.” 

Maglor’s arms around him tightened. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “Daeron, I’m so sorry. For everything. All of it.”

“I know.” Daeron tangled his fingers in Maglor’s hair, tugging him back into another kiss. “So don’t do it again,” he said against his lips. 

Maglor’s hands came up to tangle in Daeron’s hair in their turn as he deepened the kiss before drawing back. “I won’t,” he said, eyes very bright behind a tangled fall of hair. “I won’t, I—”

“Don’t swear!”

“—I promise.” Maglor kissed his mouth and then his cheeks and his eyelids, peppering kisses all over his face before Daeron’s bad leg finally gave out and they both collapsed into the grass on the side of the sand dune. Daeron buried his face in the crook of Maglor’s neck and just breathed. Beyond the dune the sea washed up and away, a steady rhythm, like breathing, and Maglor was warm and solid all around him. The orcs and their dark caves under the mountains were far away.

“Do you believe in chance?” Daeron asked. 

“No.” Maglor’s fingers slid through Daeron’s hair, combing out a few snarls. His answer was quick and confident. “Not when it matters.” 

They stayed there by the dune, making a fire out of driftwood and bickering about whether Daeron should have pushed himself so hard to catch up when his leg still hurt. Maglor’s side was half-hearted, though, and he kept glancing at Daeron like he could not quite believe that he was really there. Whenever Daeron caught him at it he pulled him in to kiss the uncertainty away. 

As the stars began to come out, and Gil-Estel hovered over the western horizon, Daeron asked quietly, “Isn’t it lonely, wandering the shores like this?”

“Yes,” Maglor said. It was a simple answer, but it carried the weight of centuries. “Have you also not been lonely?”

Daeron opened his mouth to say no, for he had spent much of his wanderings in the east among other people—among the Avari, and the Men of Rhûn and Khand and other realms—but found the word stuck in his throat. He had been alone, though. No one traveled with him between the tribes and the settlements and cities. No one he had met in his long travels had known what it meant when he gave his name, or when he spoke of where he came from. Doriath was only a name in a fireside tale, if even that. None of them would have mourned for long if they heard that he had died in an orc cave on the borders of Mordor. “Yes,” he said, throat tightening. It had just been easier to ignore the feeling when he was surrounded by others—by an audience. Maglor reached out to thread their fingers together. “Where were you going next?”

“Nowhere, really,” said Maglor. “Just following the wind. Where were you going, before the orcs found you?”

“I don’t know. Gondor, maybe. Perhaps the Greenwood beyond. It has been long since I came west of the Sea of Rhûn.” 

“Where do you want to go now?”

Daeron looked at him. His eyes glinted in the twilight, and the firelight cast dancing shadows over his face and his hair. “Wherever the wind leads us,” Daeron said. Maglor’s smile was as lovely as it had been beside Ivrin long ago. “Teach me a song I haven’t heard?”

“I will if you will.” Maglor reached for his harp, smile widening to a proper grin. Daeron leaned back on his elbows in the sand and tilted his head back to gaze at the stars as Maglor began to play. It was a soft and quiet song, and Daeron knew it for one Maglor had written himself even before he began to sing—of long and winding roads and the call of the wind to the traveler. Loneliness and longing and grief wound through the song but were woven with hope and with a fierce kind of joy in the wandering, in the changing of the world as the seasons turned and the stars wheeled overhead. Daeron listened in silence as Maglor sang it through once, and on the second time he joined his voice to it, and together they sang to the stars and to the sands and the sea beyond the dunes. It was not the first time they had sung together, of course, but it was different from that desperate pouring forth of power beneath the tree in Ithilien. 

When the song ended Daeron kept going, shifting to one of his own songs, of wandering through deep forests where the air was green and cool beneath the thick canopy overhead. Maglor adjusted his playing effortlessly, and when that song ended he took up another, and so they went through the night, exchanging songs like they had exchanged kisses through the afternoon, finding that they did not have to relearn how to play and sing together, for it was as easy as it had been long ago by the Pools of Ivrin, when they had been so much younger, before war and grief and treachery had worn them down and stolen the joy from their voices. 

The joy was not quite back—not yet. But there was something, warm and honey-flavored. Daeron watched Maglor’s fingers dance across the harp strings as the night melted away into dawn, and found himself remembering Mablung again, on the day they had departed from the Mereth Aderthad to return to Doriath. “Be careful, Daeron,” he had said gravely—serious enough to use Daeron’s name rather than minstrel or loremaster or a fondly exasperated you idiot—having caught the last glance Daeron had exchanged with Maglor as they prepared to leave. “Guard your heart.”

Daeron had laughed at him of course, unable to believe there could be cause—he’d felt that he knew Maglor as well as he knew himself, even only from such a brief acquaintance. Mablung had, later, been kind enough not to say I told you so, when news of the lies and the Doom came at last to Menegroth. He had also been kind enough to make sure Daeron never had to taste mead again. 

And now Mablung was gone—it had been he, rather than Daeron, caught up in the Doom of the Noldor in the end. Daeron had taken his advice too late, and now—now there was nothing to guard against. Maglor began a song both of them knew, and their voices rose up to the stars, blending in perfect harmony.

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