Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

This tale is co-authored by Alassiel and we both wish to acknowledge the high honor of being allowed to partake of the pleasure of entering into the world of Tolkien Elves to bring forth this story. We give all credit to JRR Tolkien and promise to treat his Elves with all the respect due them and keep with the high standards as provided by LaCE.

In the vast gleaming hall sat the majestic Vala presence, arrayed in a hröa draped in shimmering shade-shifting blues, dark hair spilling unbound, face stern, sapphire-blue eyes alight with subdued flame; beautiful beyond the fairest of Elf-kind. Silently he awaited the arrival of the supplicant.

Soft as wind caressing leaves the Elf approached the Vala, dark head held high, gracefully treading the great empty length between door and throne; clad in rustic green and brown, without a single adorning gleam of jewel or precious metal, long hair in a single thick plait, an air of hopeless bravery in his every motion. He halted before the King, waiting a word, unyielding and defiant.

An age seemed to pass without either stirring until with a deep sigh the Vala stood to tower over his petitioner. The tall elf gazed up arrogantly to face his Doom and saw tears glistening unshed in the eyes looking down on him. Undone, Maglor dropped to his knees, head bowed, riven of pride, bereft of all hope of pardon.

The Power resumed his seat, endlessly patient with this broken one before him. At last Maglor raised his tear-streaked face extending empty hands toward Manwë, pleading silently for mercy.

In a voice deep and sorrowful he addressed the Elf, "Last of your house to return from self-imposed Exile, why come you here?"

Maglor shuddered, but gathering courage replied, "Only as a wanderer, long lost in wild lands, for rest and to find peace. Forgiveness I know is not so easily bestowed, yet would I ask it of those I have wronged."

Manwë: Not for any of the Powers to rend from you the hröa you wear. Though you are free to release the now translucent housing from fëa should you wish.

Maglor hopeful: Faded I may be, but to dwell till the end of Arda within the Halls as would be my fate, I fear above all things. Neither do I wish to return to the desolation of the lands of Men. Are these then my only choices?

Manwë: Unwilling you were to release the Jewel, yet release it you did, unwilling you were to seek mercy, yet seek it you have, forgiveness you ask and peace and rest, yet what of those from whom you rent unpityingly that which you seek?

Then in frustration he rose swiftly and turning strode down the long hall, only to hear from behind him the Vala speak.

Manwë: Easiest to lay down hröa and enter the Halls, Kanafinwë; uncertain the hearing and influence of those who would come on your behalf, MaKalaurë.

Manwë: Your arrival is known to many. Among the living and re-housed none have condemned; some few have asked pardon for your deeds. Wish you to hear their words?

Manwë: They await. By neither word nor sight shall your presence be known to them, yet hear and see them you shall.

Unannounced the first Elf entered, silver hair constrained by a fanciful copper clasp, dressed in a mid-thigh length tunic of pale blue, barefoot and carrying a slender fishing spear. Though he appeared ill-at-ease in his surroundings he bowed deeply to Manwë and smiled tentatively.

Receiving a slight nod he continued: Among my kin, song and singing are high praised. On a time the Lord Macalaurë trod the shore near my home, and resting within my hearing put fingers to harp-strings, awakening within me longing to also bring forth such beauty.

Drawn I was into his presence, but not a word could I utter for the loveliness of his music. Seeing me enrapt at his feet, he inquired as to my wish to learn the harp. "And wilt thou add thy voice to mine harping?" he inquired. Nodding eagerly, I suggested a favorite song, of the passage of cloud shadows upon the ever-changing Sea. With harp and voice we wove then a net fair and lovely for the capture of our gifts.

A harp he brought to me, as he knew my wish to stay by the waters, and taught me the language of his music. Many times he came hence, bearing once another harp, the making of his own hands, saying my skill now deserved a better.

For long a time I did see him but rarely and, though tales spread of unrest and bitter words spoken, he seemed unchanged until the terror of the Dark came, and following swift on its winds, the time of blood on the waters.

Holding up his spear he continued: From fishing I came in haste toward the terrible sounds at the Harbors. Madness filled the air like smoke, choking reason, smothering the senses; through this cloud of unreason a tall, dark Elf strode toward me, clad in gleaming metal, an unbelievably long, silvery knife in one hand that dripped red liquid from its length.

Frozen, I awaited this strange being until he stood before me, proud and fell, glittering blade cleaving the air as it arced to meet me. With a mighty wrenching twist he turned the death blow from me, crying out my name. Staggering he drove the point of his over-long knife into the wooden deck, leaning upon it and sobbing. Overcoming my fear I went to him.

It was Macalaurë; splattered with the blood of my kin, eyes wild with anguish. Grabbing the pointed end of my spear he placed it against his own breast, asking for release from his madness.

Perhaps the other thought I threatened him, perhaps the lust of blood too powerful, but ere my fëa fled to the Halls I saw my harp-master send my slayer before of me. He held me till sight and breath failed.

The Teler-elf paused: For my part I hold Macalaurë released from guilt and would welcome him to share home and hearth with me if he so wills or others deny him.

Manwë: Generous heart you have, Sea-child, your tale a measure in full for the weighing of deeds fair and foul.

The next to enter was one clad in muted grey, silver and charcoal; tunic, leggings, boots, hair and eyes blending together like soft shadows.

Manwë: Oath-bound, kinslayer thrice-times, Doom-spoken; this one you would bespeak kindly?

Sindarin-elf: Six there were sent, charged to entreat the Lord Maedhros to call to heel his errant brothers and to release the Lady Luthien, were she held captive; five seasoned warriors, the sixth, my brother, warrior-trained, but yet untried. A roving orc band nearly three times our strength we slew, but the victory dear bought. Two brave warriors slain, the novice pierced by a cruelly barbed orc arrow, and though removed and carefully tended, he did not heal.

Upon reaching Himring, the hold of Maedhros, with message delivered and our duty done, we sought a healer. Poison from the arrow now burned fiercely in him; known cures useless.

Then came a very tall Noldo dressed in fine raiment and much bejeweled and we bethought it strange that such a noble one would enter the healing house. Called he then for harp, cool water, drawing herbs and poultices, and opening afresh the wound, cleansed and covered it lightly. Taking harp in hand a song of healing he began. On through the night by gentling hand and harp and song he wove a fair dream about him.

Yet it was for naught, as ever stronger burned the poison in the young one, his mind seeming bent to the will of the Dark Power in the North. Deeply troubled was the lord, now shed of his finery and jewels which lay heaped and forgotten at the bedside. My part to cool the greatly heated flesh of my brother as all the while a song of mighty power and shielding the noble one wrapped about us three.

Uncounted time passed with little rest and less food, the battle relentless between the Dark and the Light, poison grasping and song warding, as one against the other they strove. Then fell a sudden silence.

Slumped across the legs of my brother the lord lay unmoving, spent and wearied beyond measure. Ai! In vain! Grief-laden I barely felt the touch of his hand and looked up into the face of my brother, weaken, pale, fever-ravaged, but healed! Two others came to tend the lord, half-carrying him from the room, calling him Macalaurë, Maglor in our tongue. Swiftly then my brother regained health, the lord seeing to him twice more ere we departed.

The elf hung his head and in a bare whisper said: Nay, Lord, the end is not glad.

Manwë said not a word and at last the elf raised a stricken face to the Vala. In a voice of intense sorrow he reluctantly continued: The next time I saw Lord Maglor was in the halls of Menegroth. No longer was he the gentle healer, but now become an Oath-bound kinslayer with the light of his Doom in his fire-bright eyes. Sword a blazing trail of death, he turned and cut me down without remorse or pity. So my end I met on the edge of his blade.

Maglor fell heavily to his knees, head bowed, readying for the accusation and anger from the re-housed elf as all that was due him.

Sindarin-elf quietly: Yet that was no more the true Lord Maglor than my brother was when tormented by orc poison. Unbearable must be the pain for a healer to take life. Long ages has he endured loss, despair and sundering. Friend, I would name him if it please him.

Maglor lifted wonder-filled eyes to meet those of the King, but no words passed between them.

Several more elves shared their tales of compassion, kindness, sacrifice, friendship and healing.

A Noldor-elf in elegant attire then came and after greeting the Lord of the West began his tale.

Noldor-elf: My coming is on behalf of one who cannot bring his tale to you, for he has long gone beyond the confines of Arda.

Noldor-elf: Our patrol was many days yet from Himring, when we came upon the small band of Men, among them women and children. Far they had strayed from their kin, now lost in the wilds in mid-winter, supplies of food dwindled to naught enough to keep strength and health in already weakened bodies. Fear was on them at our appearing, and though of warding us off there was but small hope, the men stood firm.

Lord Maglor spoke, but they knew not our tongue. Waybread he then offered which was gladly taken, our company following his lead. Several days some of our patrol hunted, gleaning also such as was to be found of nut, root and plant. Others aided the building of rough shelters and the preserving of the provender, spare clothing and all bedding given to the ragged group.

The leader, a Man stern and proud, tall, lean with dark-eyed bearded face, still distrusted us, ever keeping keen gaze upon our deeds. Males only he allowed near to us, wary lest a child or female be drawn to our strangeness. Though grateful for our aid, at our leaving he seemed pleased.

Our lord sent further provisions and, unbeknownst to them, a patrol for their protection and, with the coming of Spring, riders to seek their kinsmen. Deserting the encampment, behind they left a circle of smooth stones; within it a bowl of polished wood containing a single, rough-worked gem, glinting colors within the clear orb; a generous thanks-gifting. Not again did we cross paths, nor hear of them further.

Maglor smiled slightly, for the first time thinking back to the chance encounter.

Maglor: Not a word did we speak, nor trust did he learn, begrudged was the aid, yet for his people he cared deeply.

Glancing up he looked into the troubled face of the Vala, eyes distant and grave.

Manwë gave no heed to the request, then spoke as to himself: I would have it not, though at the behest of others it shall be granted.

Maglor faced the great doors, waiting for this unwelcome Elf to enter. To his surprise the doors remained fast shut and turning toward the throne his gaze was caught and held by a dark grey mist at the foot of the dais that coalesced into a vaguely elven form, speaking words unclear and in a voice awkward with lack of use. Pausing, the shade began again.

Shade: When mine fëa and hröa dwelling in utmost discord all but yielded to unbinding, gentle hands, quiet voice, restful harping, reshaped my thoughts, gave worth to the abhorrent one I had become.

Liquid clean, pure and cool in single droplets the first kindness to throat parched and swollen near shut, soft honeyed-fruits and grains to remember swallowing, tender meat to strengthen, warmth from living flesh shared dispelling agonies of coldness long endured. His the tears and laughter calling to one who had neither, and had forgotten their gentle pleasures; his the arms holding close the battered, frail thing rescued from endless torment and shame, till peace in dreams of Light restored senses deadened by long disuse.

First he was to wrap clumsy fingers about quill and sword-hilt, urging practice, watching health and fire for life flare forth from smoldering ashes. His portion to bear coldness, railings, black-minded rages, scorn, mocking words from the one he so tended and loved. Never though did heart turn nor was pain returned in answer to grief given.

Maglor stunned, anguished reached for the shade, impacting a shielding between them and staggering back.

The voice of his brother unheard, the shade continued: May it be one at the least of us be spared the Doom. Ever he was harping-healer first, warrior only at need.

Maglor wept bitterly, turning from Manwë in his own dire agony, thereby unaware of the echoing sorrow revealed on the face of the King.

Slender arms gathered the grieving Elf, sheltering him against the storm of longing. His tears fell heedless as he repeatedly cried out the names of his elder brother. Softly She-who-shares-sorrows sang, her tears bejeweling his dark head, stroking his back and hair; casting an unspoken, beseeching plea to her fellow Vala.

Rising from this throne he went to them, placing one great hand upon Maglor's shoulder.

Manwë sadly: Scorched he was with the possessing of the Jewel. Still bound to the 'having'; re-housed he would but seek to reclaim that costly treasure, mayhap from the stewardship of The Mariner, deemed foe and thief would he not loose it from his keeping. Alone of your brethren, at the last you cast it from you, freed yet tormented by the loss. Would you see Maitimo burnt still in fire-hot desire unassawaged?

Maglor raised his tear-streaked face to meet an answering regret in the deep-blue eyes of Manwë.

Maglor: Nay, Lord Manwë. Dear my brother is to me and I would not have him suffer…yet unending parting, grievous.

At last Maglor relaxed fully in the enfolding arms, head leaned against soft shoulder as a child might, comforted and safe. The song continued, tender and consoling, drawing his wounded heart to rest for a time.

Waking as from an elven dream he gazed into a feminine face, luminescent, pale and fair, smiling tentatively down at him.

Nienna softly: Yes, child. Mourning of fëa calls to me and yours troubled beyond ken of most to long endure.

Maglor bowed low and offered his hand for her rising, which she gladly accepted.

Nienna: Fair harper-singer, your music amid peaceful Lórien in my heart lingers still. Glad would be the land for your return.

Turning she glided from the room. The Vala and the Elf stood together motionless for some time.

Hooded and cloaked the figure approached the Vala, who had resumed his seat. Bowing deeply the petitioner waited patiently.

In a voice of honeyed silk the hidden one began: Beyond all hope, hope is yet renewed in my heart. Word of the admission of the last of the sons of Fëanor unto these shores has been told me. I come to plead forgiveness on his behalf.

There was a longish pause, then: From his youth he was ever the dreamer, harp and voice his art, tender of heart, fierce in defense of those he loved. Oft time was he peace-bringer betwixt his younger brothers and their cousins.

With pale, trembling hands the hood was drawn back to reveal a fair female face and a tumble of hair, a shimmering red fall to spread over the emerald green of her cloak.

Nerdanel softly: Even his begetting a moment of gentle beauty, easy he grew within my body, his bringing forth a release rather than travail.

Lonely has been my life since the sundering from husband and sons, first of my doing, then more grievous, their betrayal of all our peoples, Noldor and Teleri alike.

Her voice went suddenly ragged: Fëanor, my beloved, my dearest childhood friend, companion in adventure and craft, journeyed afar to return no more, six of seven sons Doomed and bound in the Halls; for this, the surviving son, I beg you give pardon and permit his return.

Falling to her knees before Manwë, hands extended in supplication, she bowed her head and wept. Raising her forlorn countenance to the King, all pride swept aside she begged wordlessly that her last living son be spared.

Descending the steps Manwë grasped her trembling hands and raised her to her feet. Bending down he placed a tender kiss on her brow, then with infinite sadness wiped away her tears.

Manwë: Your loss is grief to all. Doom nonetheless presides, but may yet be set aside for this son who comes asking forgiveness.

Nerdanel departed without another spoken word, the grief eloquent in her tensed body.

The doors opened again, this time admitting two Elves, the first a dark-haired Elf clad in elegantly flowing robes of rich crimson, lavishly embroidered with shining gold thread, who came forward to face the mighty Vala; his companion, plainly clad in silver-grey cloak, a pace or two behind him. Stopping at the foot of the dais he inclined his head, then in a deep melodious voice spoke without hesitation.

Elf: Maglor, son of Fëanor, son of Finwë, has come at last from his long Exile?

Elrond: Lord Manwë, for my part, I claim Maglor the adar of my youth. Of his deeds both fair and foul much acknowledged among the Eldar, I am aware, but gentleness alone we received at his hands, my brother, Elros and I. Helpless children, witness to merciless kin-slaying, hostage-captives ensnared in the unyielding web of the Oath-forsworn sons of Fëanor. Calming the hands and voice and harp-songs wooing us back from the edge of grief-fading; Maglor our protector, friend, teacher, peace in the midst of war, to him we clung and love he returned.

Were we blood-kin his fostering would not have differed; of healing, harp, sword, bow, lore, dancing, hunting, strategy, to each of us those which suited best each temperament.

Though underlying all his thought was a relentless brooding of Oath-seared fëa hungering ever for the Silmarili, driving both brothers near mad. Fierce desire overpowering him would he flee our presence till abated he would return, spent and defeated, that he not misuse his adopted sons, whose mother deprived them of possession of the lone rescued Jewel of Light.

Compassion his great gift, to blend with healing hands and song, encircling love warding away all minded to harm young lives innocent of betrayal or fell deed as by healer-song and healer-touch the terror of the Rape of Sirion he muted to little more than a sorrowful dream.

Of his utter love he restored the sons of his heart to the keeping of the remnant of their people, all strangers now, and we grieved the loss of our gentle adar. From him I learned the role of father to child, peace-maker, open-hearted benevolence; so I come now to offer love anew in thankfulness for love given in ages long past. Would he chose to dwell under the banner of the House of Elrond, his welcome is assured.

With a deep reverent bow he stepped back to allow his companion to approach. Manwë inclined his head in assent to the unspoken question of this last petitioner.

Kindly the voice, yet steely with regret he recounted the hopeless quest he undertook in behalf of all Beleriand and beyond; to beseech aid from the Valar in defeating the Dark Enemy. Westward searching, he long was sundered from wife and sons; at last despairing, homeward turning to be met by a dazzlingly radiant light borne by white bird, his wife in form of fair sea-bird adorned with the Silmaril.

Eyes kindled in concern the Elf cast back his cloak to reveal upon his breast the Living Light of the Silmaril.

Maglor gasped in shock, eyes blazing with answering fire of their own, standing tall, intensely alert, poised to spring; Manwë and Eärendil unmoving awaiting his choice.

Eternal minutes washed over the frozen tableau, while Maglor fought the raging lust awakened by the Oath. Taut with unrelieved tension, breathing hard in suppressed longing, he battled the unfulfilled Oath, weaponless, unshielded…alone, his ruin nigh at hand. Nearly yielding, he struggled to clasp his right hand across his eyes, shuttering them from the pure Light so cruelly impaling his heart and fëa; his left hand he flung before him to ward the blow that never came.

To the amazement of all present an answering gleam shone from the marred palm of Maglor, who was now revealed as a shadowy figure to Elrond and Eärendil. The rigid strain melted from his body as he slumped to the ground, not in defeat, but surrender; the Oath renounced, his freedom unconditionally declared.

Manwë spoke softly: A place is prepared for you in the gardens of Lórien to await our decision. Namárië, Returned One.

[Maglor] Makalaure - Of uncertain meaning. Usually interpreted (and said to have been a 'prophetic' mother-name) as 'forging gold'. If so, probably a poetic reference to his skill in harping, the sound of which was 'golden' (laure was a word for golden light or colour, never used for the metal). HoME Vol.12 pgs. 352, 353.

He had forgotten how quiet it was here, a silence made more still by the soft lapping of wavelets on the shore of the lake. The only other sounds were the occasional song of a bird and the whisper of a breeze through the branches of the silver willows. He sat on the grass, staring at but not really seeing a clump of daisies in the sunlight at the edge of the water. His body showed wariness in the tense shoulders, the sudden quick glances around him, but he did not move from his place for several hours, not until the shadows of the trees behind him alerted him that evening was coming.

He had been told that a pavilion would be prepared for his use further along the shore, but he was not yet ready for even that simple shelter. The desire to let go of his semblance was strong, but he had agreed not to do so for a period of time. When he had come into this place, he had been met by Heri Estë herself, who had looked at him with such a tender smile that he had nearly fled in shame. Seeing his distress, she had said: I can not hold you to a hróa, Heru Makalaurë, but I would ask you to maintain one for a few days, at least until you are more at ease here. No one will compel you to do anything; this is not a prison but a place of healing. Will you remain?

With that, she had left him. For a few minutes, he had stood irresolute. Then, slowly, he had gone forward into the green and silver shadows of the trees, following the grassy paths which led him at last to the edge of the lake.

Though he had seen no one with physical sight, as a Faded, he could sense other fëar with him in the grove—flashes of brightness caught out of the corner of an eye, brushes of thought touching his mind, but no one tried to speak to him. All of those he sensed were Maiar; he felt no other Faded, but then the state of fading was not one to be healed; it was simply a stage of life for his longeval people. All were welcome here, and he knew that even the Valar themselves came for refreshment. Yet it was for healing and renewing that he had come, and so, as dusk deepened and the first stars awoke above him, he rose and walked along the shore until he saw, a little way back among the trees, the soft glow of lamplight from an open door. Turning aside, he came to the pavilion, a shelter of gray silk, Estë's color, the cloth spread over a light framework of wood, with rolled-up sides which could be lower to keep out rain. Inside, it was lit by a small lamp, set on a low table. There was also food there—fruit and bread and a flask of the pale yellow wine he favored. On one side was a low bed, spread with a coverlet of the same color as the pavilion. The floor was the grass of Lorien. He was about to take some fruit, when he saw his harp, in its case of soft leather beside the bed. Food forgotten, he picked up the instrument and went out to sit under the sky.

Withdrawing the harp and tuning key from the case, he set about adjusting the strings into the Stars mode. It had been a long time since he had used it, so that it took him some minutes to order the harmonies. Finally, however, he began to play. At first, his music reflected his agitation, with abrupt changes of tempo and rhythm, but slowly, very slowly, the peace of the night entered into him and his fingers moved more deliberately on the strings. From deep within him came the echo of ancient melodies, songs of childhood and boyhood. He hummed softly, not yet willing to sing, but willing to allow the music to take him where it would.

Isil rose above the trees, and he greeted him with a cool run of notes, like the light made audible. The lake in front of him was now mirror-still, reflecting the sky and surrounding woods, and at last, eyes lifted to the clarity above, Makalaurë sang. Just as his harping had been a bit ragged at first, so his song did not flow smoothly at first, for grief welled up within him—grief for all the years alone, but as midnight came and went, and Isil rode in the southern sky, his song steadied and grew strong. Thus he spent the remainder of the night, alternately singing and playing. At dawn, he ceased, replaced the harp and key in its case and went into the pavilion. He drank a glass of the cool wine, ate bread and fruit, quenched the lamp and lay down to take the first real rest in many years.

At mid-morning, he rose, undressed and went down to the lake to bathe. The water was cool and clean, the shallows floored with smooth sand. He had no soap root, but somehow, he did not think he needed such things here. He lifted his feet and swam, feeling the buoyancy, almost like the weightlessness of disembodiment. That thought nearly caused him to dissolve, but, remembering his promise, he held on to his hróa and swam along the shore of the lake. It was an almost forgotten pleasure to feel the rippling of muscles and the rhythm of breathing, let alone the coolness and clearness of water. He circled the lake, waded ashore and went back to the pavilion. Without surprise, he saw that fresh clothing had been laid out for him, and a porridge of grains set on the table. Before he sat to it, he went to the door and bowed his thanks.

To call this place a garden was a misnomer. It was an open forest, trees widely spaced so that sunlight dappled the soft grass. It was surrounded by a high green hedge with no barring gate. Everywhere there were places for repose—grassy banks, seats of wood or stone set at a height which invited reclining, deep beds of moss for dreaming. Besides the lake, with its central island where the Lady would rest by day, there were small gently flowing streams and fountains which rippled instead of spouting. All was peace and quietness, of sound and sense. Colors were soft greens, pale golds, earth browns, nothing to excite or incite.

After several hours, he came back to the pavilion, one of many he had seen on his walk, sat down before it in the afternoon light and played and sang that which his fëa had heard.

Maglor: At times. I was alone when my fëa finished its work, and I did not really understand what had occurred. Oh, I knew what fading was, but not how it was.

Estë: Yes, I know. Makalaurë, if you are in need of anything, know that I am open to you.

Maglor: Again I thank you. I feel—at a loss. I have had to rely on myself for so long that—forgive me—but I do not truly know how to ask.

The Valië flowed to her feet, touched him lightly on the shoulder, and glided away.

He spent the second night much as he had the first, except that there were long pauses of silence between his songs in which he simply looked up into the dark blue of the sky. Finally, he lay down and entered The Path of Dreams. He did not weave deliberately, but let his mind wander where it would. Suddenly, there was fire and the screams of dying kinsmen. With a cry, he sat up, thinking he was attacked, but there was nothing and no one near him. He bowed his head to his knees. It had been like this since he cast away the accursed stone. Every time he lowered his defenses, the memories would come. He heard a soft rustle behind him, and a deep calm voice spoke.

Irmo: You have the right of it, and when more than your mind knows this, you will be healed. Will you allow me to ease you somewhat?

Irmo: Fair enough. I will not compel you, but know that I too am open to you, and since Olorë Mallë is my province, I may be able to show you safer paths, but only if you allow it.

Maglor turned toward the Vala, but he had gone. With a sigh, he lay down again, then turned onto his side, curling into a protective position. He did not weep, but lay, tensed and still, for some time. Finally, very slowly, he relaxed and rested.

The second day was much like the first, except that he caught glimpses of the lord and lady, not following him, but met seemingly by chance at turnings in the paths or beside the lake. At dusk, they both came to him, and after greeting him courteously, simply sat with him.

So he played; at first, it was clashing dissonances and conflicting melodies, like a whisper of the Marring. Neither Vala commented, but glanced at him compassionately. Gradually, he forgot their presence, so unobtrusive was it, and his melodies moved from battle to lament, from sorrow to resignation, and finally, as on the first night, to a tentative peace.

When he ceased, both Valar smiled. Then, Estë said: May I see your hand, Eruhina?

Maglor did not answer for some time, then, slowly, he held out his hand to her. She did not touch it, but simply looked. Finally, she said: You have decided to keep the scar?

Estë: (calmly) Nothing is forgotten, Makalaurë, for how then can we learn, but that is not the question.

Maglor: I slew my own people, a thing unnatural to us. I became a part of the Marring! This can not be redressed.

Estë: Not by you, Makalaurë, but to say that it can not be set at rest adds to the darkness.

Maglor: And it is that darkness we invoked, Lady, my father and my brothers and me.

Irmo: So you did, but within Eá you can not fulfill the oath. Do you not understand this?

Irmo: We hope you will rest with us a while and let us do for you what we can. Sérë, Makalaurë.

They were gone, and Maglor put his face in his hands. He did not weep, but sat motionless for some time. At last, he dropped his hands and looked up at the quiet sky and gently swaying trees. A cool breeze, scented with leaves and grass and water, touched his hot face. After a while, he lay down where he was.

A rumble of thunder woke him from the first sleep he had allowed in years. The sky was dark, the air heavy with moisture. Lightning flickered to the east, and he briefly wondered if this was an attack, but there was no sense of impending evil. He rose and went into the pavilion, lowered the curtains and lay down on the bed. Thunder crashed overhead and large drops of rain began tapping on the light covering, soon increasing to a downpour. Wind stirred the curtains, bringing the smell of wet grass, and he lay quiet, watching the flickering lightning through their almost transparent fabric. Finally, he allowed himself to sleep again.

When he awoke, it was still raining, but softly. A thrush sang his morning song just outside. Maglor lay on his back a while, then, with a deep sigh, almost a groan, he got up, opened the door curtain and looked out on a softly sparkling world. Each leaf and blade of grass shone with gentle light, almost, he thought, with a wrench of the heart, like the mingled light of the Trees. He stepped out onto the wet grass and looked up. The sky was still clouded, but the clouds were high and white, and already breaking toward the east. He went back into the pavilion, and as he had done previously, took off his clothes and came out to walk to the shore. The water felt almost warm in the cool air, and he swam slowly, stopping to float on his back and look up at the brightening sky and greening trees. Anar broke through the clouds and each thing he looked at shone with reflected glory.

When he returned to the shelter, he saw, without embarrassment, those who attended him. Like a nér and a nís they were, the one dark-haired and the other golden. They wore the Lady's colors, silver-gray and flowing. When they saw him, they both smiled and bowed: Greetings, Heru Makalaurë, said the woman.

The other Maia said: You are most welcome. We wished to know you better and to enquire if there is anything you need.

They smiled again and left. Inside, he found clothes and food. In truth, he needed neither, but he understood that they were to help him remain housed. So he dressed and ate, then unbound his hair and let it flow free.

Maglor's walk that day took him to the other side of the enclosure, where there was a stand of mellyrn. The trees were in their full spring splendor, golden blossoms scenting the air with their fresh sweet perfume. Beneath them the grass was soft, and starred with white clover. He sat under the trees, listening to the gentle bubbling of one of the forest streams and the songs of robins and finches. Opening the harp case, he removed the instrument and key, adjusted the strings for Sun mode, and played. The melody was not exactly lighthearted, but lighter in mood than those of the previous days. He looked up into the branches as he played, watching the fluttering blossoms against the clear sky.

At first, even Maglor's keen ears did not hear the crying clearly, it was so soft. When they did, he stilled the strings to listen. The sound went on, a low half-whispered moan. He set the harp on the grass and stood up slowly, turning his head and eyes, but holding the rest of his body still, ready for flight or defense.

Several hundred yards away, just at the edge of the grove, stood one of the pavilions, its back to him. The sound seemed to be coming from inside. He went forward cautiously, years of exile making him suspicious. He approached the shelter and stopped. The low plaintive sound continued, and he heard the whispered: Nana! Nana!

Instantly, Maglor rounded the pavilion and went in through the open door. On a pallet like the one he used, a child of no more than ten Sun-years lay, his face turned toward the light, crumpled in misery. Maglor was filled with indignation that this small one should be left alone. He knelt by the bed. The boy ceased crying, though he sniffed loudly.

With a soft rustle of clothing, Heri Estë entered, walked around the pallet and knelt on Veryandil's other side. The child started to turn toward her, but she said: Do not move, sweeting. I am here to aid you. Your mother knows where you are and will come soon.

She reached forward and gently laid her palm against the child's left shoulder. He winced and would have pulled away, but she said: No, little one. Be still for but a moment while I see what damage you have done to yourself.

Slowly, softly, she drew her hand down the child's back. The boy clenched his teeth, clearly determined not to cry out. After a moment, the Valië said: There are no broken bones, but the shoulder will have to be put back. I will send you to sleep, for otherwise, it would be very painful.

With that, she reached up to lay her hand against Veryandil's forehead. The boy sighed, his dark gray eyes closed fully, and he slept.

Estë: Yes, I can, but so can you. You have dealt with such injuries on the battlefield, have you not?

Maglor felt a rush of emotion—fear, anger, compassion and finally, resignation. He got up and went to kneel beside the lady. Estë gave him a glance, filled with calm encouragement. Then she said: I will be here if there is difficulty.

Maglor laid his hands on the shoulder, felt the bulge where the joint was dislocated, then, swiftly but carefully realigned it and pushed it home. He turned to the lady and said: The arm will need to be bound to his side, lest he re-injure it before it heals.

The Valië rose and went out, and Maglor remained kneeling beside the sleeping child, his thoughts as agitated as an unquiet sea. He had done nothing extraordinary, nothing he had not done many times before, as Estë had pointed out, but working thus brought the memories nearer the surface and out of the realm of dreams.

Estë returned with pliant withes of willow and strong cloth. She looked at him, noting his state and said: I had hoped helping Veryandil would ease you somewhat, my friend.

She sighed. Maglor answered, very low: Did you go to the war with the others, my lady?

Estë: I did, though my power to soothe was sorely tried in such turmoil. Rest was very far from the hróar and fëar of the combatants, Makalaurë. I could do no more than dim the heat of such flames, not extinguish them. Come, let us finish our task. Do you wish me to make the sling?

Maglor looked into the deep kind eyes and shook his head. He picked up the withes and cloth, wrapping the slender bands of wood with swift fingers. Then, very carefully, he lifted the child's arm and bound it with many soft folds to prevent it from jostling and pulling at the healing joint. When he had finished, Estë laid her hands upon the shoulder and sang, a low murmur of sound that nonetheless filled the small space with softly sparkling power. Maglor felt its effect keenly, and understood that it was his almost-disembodied state which made him aware of her working. When she ceased, Estë bent and kissed Veryandil's dark hair, rose, and with a gentle smile, invited Maglor to follow her out of the pavilion. He also rose and went with her.

Estë: He will sleep for the rest of the day, Heru Makalaurë. Thank you for your help.

Maglor nodded but found no words to say. He went back to where his harp was and sat down beside it. After a little, he picked it up, and returned to sit a few feet from the rear of the pavilion. The song he played and sang was neither of war nor of grief. It was a lullaby, a song of gentle dreaming and quiet waking, woven with all the skill he could find. The child's mother came, and walking beside Heri Estë, entered the pavilion. Moments later, Estë came out. She looked down at the minstrel, who, with closed eyes and flowing fingers, continued his own healing working. The Valië's eyes shone with gladness, and she sent a silent thought of blessing to the singing Elda. He looked up and met her gaze, singing on, and she saw the tears on his face, though his voice was steady and quiet. She bent her head to him in respect, and went away.

Linwë stood at the edge of the field of waist-high wheat. He knew that his son was in there, hidden among the bright stalks, but the only motion was the slight rippling of a summer breeze across them. He opened his sáma and reached out with his senses, but the child was evidently fast closed, hiding in thought as well as body. Linwë sighed, then smiled a little sadly. He hated to spoil the boy's play, but this was no place for him to be, as Veryandil well knew.

Linwë called aloud: Come out now. I do not think the Lady would appreciate your trampling her grain. There are better hiding places.

At the far side of the field, he saw a movement, then the dark head of his son appeared just above the wheat. A moment later, the child was racing toward him through the grain like an erratic arrow. Linwë braced himself as Veryandil ran out of the field, arms flung wide, then, ducking low, slammed into him twining himself around his father's legs. Linwë obligingly let himself fall backward onto the grass at the field's edge, with the boy on top of him, yelling in triumph.

Linwë: You do indeed hína. Now, if you will please get off my stomach, we need to talk. Veryandil, stop—now!

Giggling, the boy rolled off his father, and Linwë sat up, looking at his child gravely: Listen, small whirlwind. There is an entire forest to hide in. The Lady's grain is not to be treated lightly. Do you understand?

Veryandil dropped his eyes briefly, then looked up at his father, laughing: All right, atto, but I did not damage it.

Linwë: You did not, yonya, but only the Lady and her servants are to touch the coimas grain. So, remember that.

Linwë: You know that we can, beloved. Your nana is studying with Heru Irmo at this very moment.

Veryandil: I know, but she is his servant; she has the gift of Sight; but could I talk to them?

Linwë: Shall we go and explore the woods? Who knows, we might even meet the Lord of Forests.

Veryandil sprang up and ran, keeping well away from the edge of the wheat-field. His father followed two steps behind, baying like one of Oromë's hounds, to the delight of his son.

In the quiet after loving, Linwë took his wife's hand: Melda, how did you fare today?

Oloriel turned her head and kissed him: Well—it went well. I learned how to guide someone out of nightmare. Do you know, love, that evil dreams can sometimes serve good purposes?

Oloriel: They can bring what needs healing to our attention. Heru Irmo told me this is especially true among the Atani. I wonder what their dreams are like? Can they weave them intentionally as we do.

Linwë: I do not know, never having met one of the Secondborn, but I have heard that they can not. Do you think you will be one of Heri Estë's healers for the re-housed?

Linwë laughed: You know, if ever we need a source of power, I think Veryandil would serve the purpose quite well. I almost needed an afternoon rest!

Linwë: It is a joy to me. Besides, your gift needed training. You were tormented by your seeings. Listen. Thunder. Perhaps I can convince our son to stay inside tomorrow, though I doubt it.

Oloriel: It still delights me that he chose your father-name at the Essecilmë.

Linwë and Oloriel lay and watched through their open window as the storm approached. The deep eaves of the guesthouse prevented rain from blowing in, but permitted its freshness to flow into the room. At the height of the thunder, they heard a tentative knock. Oloriel smiled at her husband, rose and went to the door. She opened it and gathered her son to her. He was not frightened; he simply wished to share the storm with his parents. When she had settled the child beside his father, she lay down by them on the wide bed. After a while, Veryandil said: They are dancing; or maybe it is catch-me.

The thunder rolled away westward, while the rain fell steadily. Father, mother and child drifted into dreams.

When a soft dawn came, the family rose, bathed, dressed and breakfasted with the others in the house. Most of these were students like Oloriel, but some were simply traveling through the region or seeking a time of rest. Afterward, Oloriel donned a light cloak, kissed her husband and son and went out into the gentle rain.

Veryandil: Atto, can we go to the Gardens today. I want to see where nana studies.

Linwë: We will, yonya, but remember, they are a place of rest, not of play, so you must not run and shout there.

Veryandil gave his father an impatient look and said: I know. I will not. What shall we do now?

Linwë: Now, while it still rains, we will write together. I must finish the new verses for Erulaitalë, and you must finish the tale you are crafting, for I want to read it.

Linwë: You can, yonya, but fixing it in Tengwar will allow others to enjoy it when you are not with them.

For a while, father and son worked together. The only sounds were the scratching of pens on parchment, the tapping of rain and the song of a blackbird. The light in the room brightened as the clouds thinned, and at last, the full light of Anar poured through the window. Linwë laid down his pen and smiled at Veryandil: So, hína?

It was nearly mid-morning before Veryandil came to him. His eyes had the slightly unfocused look of abstracted thought, and Linwë marveled that his son could flow so easily from playful to studious. It was a characteristic he admired, for he knew that he himself was often too serious. He liked his boy's enthusiasm, but it did tax him at times. Now, the child came to him and leaned against his knees like an affectionate hound: Atto, it is not yet complete. Will you read my tale later?

The guesthouse sat at a crossing of two of the paths which served as roads in this part of Aman. People walked more often here than rode, for the grassy plains were rich with wildflowers, and closer to the Gardens, there were groves of trees through which ran clear streams.

Veryandil skipped ahead of his father, darting here and there as things caught his attention, whether a red squirrel or the bright flicker of a butterfly.

He sang a cheerful nonsensical song, which made Linwë smile, for the child seemed to be trying to invent a new form of noun declension for the sheer joy of it. They had just come within sight of the Gardens, when Veryandil shouted: Atto! Look! A talan tree!

Veryandil: I do not know, but it looks as if you could build a lodge there. Can I climb it, atto?

Veryandil ran off the path to the left, His father following, into a stand of young beech trees. In a clearing at the center was one which was more mature, its first branches only a little way above Linwë's head. He walked around it carefully, looking for boughs which might be too slender to bear his son's weight, as well as to be sure that he could climb the tree himself at need. Satisfied, he said: Do not go to the top, Veryandil, for I do not think the crown of the tree can support you, but try for that fork in the trunk up there. It is a good place to look out over the land. Take off your shoes so that you can touch the wood with both hands and feet.

When the boy had removed his shoes, Linwë bent down, and Veryandil sprang lightly upon his back and onto the lowest branch. He balanced easily, and reaching up began to climb. When he came to the place where the trunk divided, he stood up, holding with one hand and called down to his father: I am a hawk, atto! I have reached my eyrie!

Veryandil complied, and looking out over the tops of the trees and over the green hedge which surrounded the Gardens, he said: I think there are malinornë trees, for I see their yellow blossoms. There are winding green paths and I see a lake. Atto, there is a fire! Not fire, for there is no smoke, but something very bright is moving near the lake. Oh, it is Heru Irmo or Heri Estë, but do they not wear bodies when with us? Maybe he or she does not know we are here.

In his excitement, the boy had risen to his feet again and was holding on with his left hand only, gesturing with the right. Before Linwë could answer,

Veryandil's right foot slipped on part of the branch which was still wet with rainwater. He tried to catch his balance, nearly succeeded, fell, twisting, and caught the branch on which he had been sitting. White-hot pain tore through his left shoulder, and he screamed. He was able to grip the branch with his right hand also, but all he could do was to hold on; he could not move to climb down.

Linwë leaped, caught the branch above his head, and was soon on the one directly below his son. He spoke in a calm voice, which belied his fear: Let go, yonya. I will catch you.

For a moment, the child did not move, whimpering, but then, he dropped into his father's arms. Linwë held his son to him, turned carefully so that the boy's back was against the bole of the tree, and said softly: Now wrap your legs around my waist, for I will need my hands free. Good. Now we will go down.

Veryandil's breaths came in gasps, and tears of pain began pouring down his cheeks. He clutched his father's neck with his uninjured arm, but the other hung at an unnatural angle. Linwë murmured softly to him as he descended, moving slowly but steadily from branch to branch. When they came to the lowest bough, he said: I must jump here, yonya.

Veryandil cried out as they landed softly on the grass at the tree's foot. Linwë bent and laid him down, though the child was reluctant to let go at first. He knelt beside his son and gently ran his hands over his left shoulder and arm. It took no healer's skill to see that the shoulder was out of joint. Linwë kissed his son's forehead: Help is nearby, melda. We will go to the Gardens.

Oloriel was in a discussion with her teacher concerning the difference between directed and non-directed visions, when she felt as if someone drove a knife into her left shoulder. With a cry, she clapped her right hand over the joint. This was not her pain—she knew that much, but who, then, was experiencing it? Heru Irmo, who had been sitting beside her on the grass, rose and bent over her, ready to aid her if needed. Oloriel did as she had been taught—allowing the pain to flow through her, but without claiming it as hers. The next moment, looking up at her teacher, she said between clenched teeth: My son, lord. He has been injured.

The Vala reached down and gently drew Oloriel's hand from her shoulder, helping her to stand. In a quiet voice he said: My spouse is sending to me now. Her ladies met Linwë bearing your son into the gardens. They have taken him to one of the pavilions of rest, where my spouse will tend to him. Here is Linwë.

Turning, Oloriel saw her husband hurrying through the trees. His face was ashen, and though he did not appear to be weeping, his expression was anguished. She started to go to him, then looked at her teacher. Irmo nodded. She did not run, though she was tempted. When she reached Linwë, she grasped his hands: What happened?

Linwë's usual composure was broken, and when he spoke, his voice was almost inaudible: He found a perfect climbing tree—a beech—just outside the hedge. I saw nothing amiss. He climbed to a fork in the trunk and looked out over the land. Somehow, he slipped and fell, catching a branch with his left hand and twisting and badly dislocating the shoulder. I climbed up to him and helped him to come down. I carried him to the entrance of the Gardens. Some of the Lady's people found us there and guided us to a—a shelter. They told me where you were and—oh.

Irmo: Calmly, my friend. Go to your child, Oloriel. If you follow this path, you will see a copse of malinornë trees on your right. The pavilion is set at its edge. Linwë, please remain.

Linwë started to protest, then subsided. Oloriel squeezed his hands, released them, and walked quickly away.

Irmo smiled and said: Your son needs your calm, Linwë, not your agitation. Come and sit with me a while and be easy. Veryandil sleeps and is even now being tended.

Reluctantly, Linwë sat down, for he longed to be with his child. Irmo's deep eyes twinkled with humor: Remember, friend Linwë, that there are two of you to parent the boy. Though you are not a weaver of olosi, your bond with your son will allow you to send him fair dreams while his sáma is open in rest. Shall I show you how?

Linwë did not answer, but looked away, out over the lake by which they sat. Finally, in a low voice: I should not have let him climb. He has but ten springs, Lord. I must have overlooked something.

Irmo: Perhaps, but this young one is an eaglet, as his mother has told me. I do not think you were remiss in your care. So, shall I help you to send him a fair dream?

Irmo: You are a poet, as your name suggests, and a servant of the High King. I have been told that Veryandil is also a lover of words. Make for him, then, a song of words and send it to him. I will lend you strength.

Linwë nodded, unsmiling but willing. He leaned his back against the silver willow beside him, closed his eyes, and called words and images to him. The frightened face of his son came clearly before him, and he shuddered. Irmo said, with just a hint of sternness: This will not do, Linwë, for you will send him darkness. Waken a joyful memory.

Linwë nodded again, without opening his eyes, and thought of Veryandil's delight at the thunderstorm. Suddenly, the image of a young eagle riding fearlessly upon turbulent winds welled up within him and he spoke:

Linwë had spoken in measured tones, pausing between each stanza to fix the images clearly in his mind. As he ended, Heru Irmo reached down and laid his hands lightly upon Linwë's head: Take a breath. As you release it, imagine the things of which you have spoken flowing to your son. See him at peace.

Linwë did as asked, and he felt a whisper of supporting power. The Vala withdrew his hands and said softly: It was received. Now, go yourself, my friend.

Linwë opened his eyes, and saw, to his surprise, that evening had come. He looked up at Heru Irmo, who was smiling. Getting to his feet, he bowed deeply: Thank you, Lord.

For a moment, Linwë stood still. Then he began to walk. At first, his innate sense of decorum held him to a moderate pace, but he was so eager to reach his family that at last, he broke into a run, though making little sound even then. He found the stand of trees, and at its edge stood a shelter of gray silk. As he approached, he heard from behind it the soft sound of a harp. It was being played as if for lulling, and he thought that this must be one of Heri Estë's healers. He entered the pavilion. Oloriel sat on the grassy floor beside a low bed on which Veryandil lay asleep. She looked at him gravely, and Linwë felt sorrow and remorse again. Then she smiled and patted the grass beside her. Wordlessly, he sat down, and, leaning toward him and taking his right hand, she sent through their bond: One of the lady's people went to the tree, melda. There was nothing wrong there. Even the most sure-footed of us may stumble if distracted. He is well, as you see, and I think he was dreaming pleasantly a while ago, for he smiled.

Oloriel: The lady says he will wake by morning. She and a healer have dealt with the shoulder and it will mend, though he will have to remain here for some days.

Oloriel: It—it is. I have not spoken with him yet, but I saw him when I was brought here. There is something—odd about him. I do not know what it is. He does not seem altogether present.

Oloriel: I do not think so, husband. The customary light is not around him—at least…

Oloriel shook her head, her expression one of bafflement: I would like to speak to him in the morning, if he is still here. He has been playing steadily since I came, and singing from time to time. He has a wondrous voice. There, hear him?

Through the muffling fabric of the walls, they heard a rich deep voice singing softly. After a moment, Linwë sent: He uses an ancient mode. One of the lore-masters demonstrated it to me once. I think it is called Light of the Stars.

Oloriel lay down on the grass beside Veryandil's bed and drew Linwë down to her. He laid his head on her shoulder, and together they listened to the softly flowing melody. Suddenly, Linwë said aloud in astonishment: Not Light of the Stars, but I Aldu, the Two Trees!

Linwë smiled ruefully, but there was no change in their child's even breathing. After a moment, he sent: That is among the oldest modes of music, melda. This one, whoever he is, must be a scholar. I too would like to speak with him—but not at present.

Essecilmë—name-choosing. See Laws and Customs Among the Eldar in _Morgoth's Ring_.

Erulaitalë—praise to Eru. I'm speculating that the Numenoreans adopted this festival from the Eldar. See A Description of the Island of Numenor in _Unfinished

Maglor spent much of that night close by the pavilion, but had gone briefly in the early morning to his abode, returning his harp to its protective covering, before retracing his steps to recline against an obligingly situated tree nearby.

‘Nana’ the softly whimpering child called out in his pain and confusion, rousing Maglor to watchful attention.

Maglor tensed, awaiting the voices of one or both parents or attending healer coming to sooth the hurting child. When no one responded, Maglor moved swiftly into the healing pavilion and without thought first laid his marred hand on the child’s shoulder, easing the pain and encouraging healing. Testing the draught on the low stand by smell and taste, he verified it to be an herb blend used to relieve pain. Though mixed with generous amounts of honey and fruit syrup, the bitterness was still strong enough to cause the boy to protest as Maglor lifted him carefully allowing him to reluctantly swallow the medicine. When the young boy quieted, he cradled him, careful not to cause pain, and began singing one of the comfort-songs from his childhood. Holding this little one, stroking the silky, dark head brought back with a surge of remembrance a time ages past now…

‘Nana’ wailed the distressed child while his twin brother held him. Grief-stricken sobs from the quiet one tore at his heart. Maglor could bear their pain no longer. Taking each child by one hand he led them from the center of the encampment to the somewhat more secluded area of his own tent. Ushering them inside, he sank to the ground, cuddling a child in each arm, whispering words of affection onto the dark heads resting against his chest, singing their grief away for a time.

At last they fell into exhausted sleep. Maglor laid them side-by-side on his bedding, lying down next to them, one arm draped protectively about their small bodies…

In instinctive imitation of his memories, he gently repositioned the now sleeping child, protectively curling about Veryandil. With a small moan of discontent, the child began to fretfully grasp for some familiarly comforting object. Seeking fingers shortly found and clutched fiercely a handful of the abundant length of Maglor’s unbound, raven-black hair, burrowing into it ever more securely until at last, appeased, he drifted into deeper sleep…

…Elrond slept peacefully cradled about Elros, Maglor’s tall form creating a reassuring barrier to lean into, his arm resting lightly across them. Rousing from dark dreams, Maglor attempted to rise, but found he was held firmly in place by small hands thoroughly entangled in his hair. He now regretted, for an instant, unbinding his warrior braids, but then childhood memories flooded back of the blissfully soothing feeling associated with his father’s strong arms holding him lovingly and his own small hands enmeshed in his father’s dark hair. Settling back he waited patiently for the twins to awaken…

Thus Linwë found his son and the healer upon entering the pavilion. Briefly a flash of fatherly resentment surfaced in his mind; after all, Veryandil was the child entrusted to the care of himself and Oloriel, and his heart cried out painfully that his son could find comfort in the care of another. Striding briskly to the bed he began to carefully untangle his son’s fingers from the hair of this stranger. Arising with swift ease and fully aware of the displeasure of the child’s father, Maglor bowed his head to Linwë, and without a spoken word, departed swiftly. Linwë stood in the doorway, puzzled by the odd behavior of the healer.

Oloriel returned shortly from her time of studying to find her husband cross-legged by their son’s bed, deep in thought.

Oloriel: Estë assured us Veryandil would be well cared for, else we would not have left him earlier.

Linwë: This healer did not merely sit with our child, but seemed as a father in his attention.

Linwë: As I have done many times with Veryandil, he was curved around him, an arm over him and…

Linwë finally managed to say: …the unbound hair of the healer was in Veryandil’s grasp.

Linwë rose quickly to come to his son’s side and gently took his hand crooning soothingly.

Linwë: The song was not mine, Veryandil, but that of the healer that cared for you.

Oloriel joined them, her hand resting lightly upon Linwë’s as he fought to cover his distress with caring words.

Linwë holding back tears: If you wish it, my son. Rest now and I will seek him for you.

Before sliding into sleep once more Veryandil reached out his hand in appeal. Linwë shook a braid over his shoulder and onto the waiting palm. Gripping it tightly, Veryandil sighed contentedly and slept.

Linwë and Oloriel sat under the clear night sky discussing the stranger who had tended their son.

Linwë insisted stubbornly: It is not the place of a stranger to care for him in such a manner.

Oloriel said hesitantly: Though she said, as well, that our son may be the means to begin the healing of the healer.

Oloriel: She would say no more, but assured me that Veryandil could well be the key to the healer’s release.

Linwë stood and walked quickly back into the pavilion, tense with denial. Oloriel followed him a moment later to find him gazing at Veryandil’s sleeping form. She leaned against her husband, but he did not yield to her unspoken plea to wrap an arm about her in comfort.

Linwë kept silent vigil over his sleeping child, troubled not only by his perceived neglect of Veryandil’s welfare, but also by the unwelcome intrusion of the ‘healer’, while Oloriel rested on the low bed next to their son, drifting on the Paths of Dreams.

A feather-soft touch on his shoulder startled him, and rising swiftly he spun to face the visitor only to come face-to-face with the Lady Estë.

Linwë abashed bowed his head and without raising his eyes to her, bade her welcome.

Estë: Others there are who share your grief, in portion, although not only of myself do I speak; some wounds are not of the hröa.

Estë sighed and continued: You and your lady have not yet seen a great year and your son is but a young child. When twelve great years you have seen, think you will love your son less?

Linwë responded strongly: He will always have my love, Lady. How can you think else?

Estë: The healer is ancient even in the reckoning of the Eldar, yet he is loved as truly as your love for Veryandil.

Linwë nodded knowingly and gently lifted his son carrying him to the privacy corner of the tent.

Oloriel had already departed when a healer came with an herb tea to ease pain. Linwë watched attentively as the damaged shoulder of his son was examined and was surprised at the pronouncement.

Healer: His recovery is astounding. Have you or your consort an unusually strong healing gift?

Healer: Veryandil, I shall unbind your shoulder, but be careful not to try to move your arm until I tell you.

Veryandil nodded, but added aloud: Will you please sing the song of gold and silver light again?

Tears welled in Veryandil’s eyes at the harsh tone of his beloved father. Seeing the hurt, Linwë came to him, stroking his soft dark hair and murmuring his love.

Slowly the healer probed the shoulder, manipulated and rotating it to test range of motion, and lowering the arm to rest on the child’s chest, drew back.

Healer musing aloud: The speed of healing would seem forced, but for the smooth knitting of torn muscles and lack of weakening of the surrounding areas which would be expected to accelerate the mending.

She studied the silent parent, then addressed the child: Tell me of the singer-healer, Veryandil.

Linwë turned away and strode outside, nearly colliding with an unusually tall elf about to enter.

Silence was his only response and glancing up he gazed directly into the face of the very cause of his distress.

Maglor eyed him warily, dangerously alert, his hand moved unconsciously to the sword hilt at his hip. He faltered upon finding only empty air where his weapon should have rested. Stepping back a couple of paces he continued to observe his opponent carefully.

Maglor thought scornfully: A mere child! And no warrior either lest he be more than he seems.

Then with a sighing breath he remembered a time long past when it was he rising to the defense of two dark-haired boys, prepared to forfeit his life for theirs should it be required of him…

…Returning from preparing food for the sleeping twins, he was startled to find an elf crouched close beside them. Most of the warriors kept a safe distance between themselves and the young ones, as they well understood the reason for the flaring tempers of the two remaining Sons of Fëanor, and had no wish to be cut down by a flashing elvish blade for their supposed interference. Dark red, the hair of the interloper and as Maedhros reached a hand out toward the unwary twins, with a silent snarl of rage Maglor grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked his brother backward, crushing him to his chest, his dagger already pressed firmly against Maedhros’ unprotected throat. Maedhros stilled as Maglor hissed menacingly in his ear: Harm them not or, by the Oath, your life is forfeit!

Though his brother had meant only kindness, this time, he would not forget the wrath poured out upon them for the deed of their mother, Elwing. Nearly had Maedhros vengefully slain them in recompense for the loss of their own twin brothers, Amras and Amrod; fuel added to the fire of his rage over the theft of Jewel…

The tension melted from Maglor’s fighting stance and bowing slightly, he turned to leave.

Linwë watched the internal struggle and now regretted his own anger. This one not only kept the song his son desired to hear, he belatedly realized, but must also be responsible for his extraordinary healing. Love for his hurting child overcame his resentment in that instant.

Maglor froze, then whirled about, certain his identity had been revealed, awaiting the moment when revulsion and disgust replaced the hopeful look on the young face before him, but Linwë simply stood with hands outstretched in sincere apology.

Maglor went to the boy’s side, looking first into his eyes, then placing a large hand on the shoulder, performing the same testing procedure, and for the first time his grim expression lightened, though it could hardly be called a smile.

Maglor nodded in agreement, then sank gracefully onto the floor at the child’s side, taking the good hand and began to sing quietly. Though reluctant, Linwë left with the healer, leaving Maglor alone with Veryandil.

Veryandil: Will you choose a new one. I chose mine at the Essecilmë. It honors my father, as it was the one he gave to me.

Veryandil: Your song of the light is beautiful, Nyello. Would you sing it again?

Maglor: Aye, though first you need to eat and exercise your body to aid the healing.

Later that day after the pain draught had worn off Veryandil continued interrogating his new friend, Nyello.

Veryandil curiously: Do you live here or study like my mother? She is a healer in dreams, but I do not know what that means.

Veryandil pensively: When I will not answer Atto he says I am hiding my thoughts because they do not please me.

Maglor: Your Atto is wise in seeing into the heart. Then to deflect the flow of questioning asked: You would wish to hear a tale of another small child who was ever curious of all around him?

Maglor recounted some of the adventures (and misadventures) of a pair of boys, twins in birth, but not in nature, to his rapt audience of one. When he saw the twitch of discomfort and deemed it time to proceed with the healing, he poured a small measure of the pain-blocking herbs and told Veryandil to lay back and rest. Placing his hand on the injured shoulder, Maglor began to sing the Song of Light. Veryandil looked up under sleepy lids.

Veryandil opened his lips to speak again only to find a long finger resting lightly on them in a gesture of silence. Closing his eyes in acceptance of the decree, he drifted into sleep, to a song of long ago when light of gold and silver bathed their land in indescribable beauty.

Veryandil awoke to the soft voices of his parents outside the pavilion. He found the pain nearly gone and climbed carefully out of the low bed, padding quietly to the opening. Linwë turned, noting the barely heard footfalls and stretched out his arms to enfold his young son.

Veryandil excitedly in a rush of words: He permitted me to name him, he does not live anywhere, he has twin sons who are not really his, and he sang the Song again.

Veryandil struggling to explain: Not with words, Nana, but… with his voice and… sometimes his hands would stop moving … and his face did not smile… and his eyes looked… somewhere else.

Oloriel moved to sit close to her husband and child and together they began to sing a children’s song to the glory of Varda, Star-Kindler, much as their kind had done in ages past at the Lake of the First Awakening, a song of joy and wonder and love for the Light.

Maglor sitting alone under the trees, long fingers resting lightly on harp strings, watched the three with intense longing on his fair face, and tenderly followed the simple tune. Rising long after the family had gone inside to rest, he returned to his lakeside dwelling.

Veryandil impatiently awaited the arrival of Nyello, and his look of utter disappointment when the ‘other’ healer entered was obvious to all. Though he was told he would be able to use his arm carefully this day, his joy was dimmed that his friend was not the one to tell him the good news. He thanked her politely, then asked hopefully: Will Nyello come today?

Veryandil in realization: He said he has lots of names but they are worn-out. He said I may call him, Nyello. Then with no small amount of pride: He let me choose his name, like Atto chose mine; though he is much older than even Atto, I think.

It was too much for the ‘older’ elves to refrain from merry laughter at this wise-spoken child. Veryandil joined them for the natural fun of the moment.

Leaping up he danced lightly to his father and with innocent eyes asked: Atto, may I visit Nyello today?

Veryandil turning to his mother: Nana, would you ask the Lady or the Lord where he is? I want him to see how he has healed me.

Turning suddenly he pulled out his small pack from the chest and emptied the contents onto the bed. Rummaging through the assortment, he at last came across the object of his search, his most treasured possession, concealed in a small cloth bag tied shut with a silver cord. Loosing the cord he removed the star-stone from its protective nest; clear as glass, but at its heart a tiny spark resembling the gleam of one of the radiant lights in the night sky.

Oloriel and Linwë smiled and nodded, glad for the generous spirit that was the child given to their keeping.

Oloriel: Perhaps you and your father wish to visit the lake today. I shall ask Lord Irmo to help us find your friend.

Maglor noted the presence of father and son though they were far down the shore. The simple pleasure of watching them together forced tears from his grey eyes, and a single wrenching sob that seemed to flood his very fëa with unspeakable pain.

They had noticed the pavilion, but came no closer out of respect for the privacy of the occupant. Silken robe swirling about his bare ankles he approached to pair. Linwë halted, uncertain of their reception, but Veryandil with enthusiastic surety of their welcome ran to greet his friend.

Veryandil: Nyello! We have found you all by ourselves! Look I am healed! Thank you!

Maglor glanced toward Linwë: The uncomplicated love of a child heals many wounds. The comforts of my house I extend to you and Veryandil.

Linwë startled by his words but recovering quickly: We would be honored to join you, lord.

As they walked the short distance to Maglor’s pavilion, Linwë noticed how Nyello’s eyes followed the bright path woven by his son with pure enchantment.

Linwë unable to refrain from asking the question: Nyello, the first night you played for my son…

He broke off as Maglor halted, then continued in spite of his reticence:…the… was that…Two Trees?

Linwë: Once before I heard it played and thought it most lovely. You played with a more flawless perfection than the other; it was as though a Power guided your fingers.

Linwë: Would you teach me, Nyello, or barring that make known to me your teacher?

Linwe’s puzzled look did not elicit any further information, so they proceeded unspeaking to their goal.

Veryandil could scarcely endure the polite conversation and refreshment, though the fruits and breads and mild wine were delicious.

The stern look from father to son stilled the ardent child who hung his head in shame.

Linwë formally: Nyello, my son, Veryandil, would speak with you on a matter of importance.

Veryandil with the formal ritual words of gifting: From my hands to yours. From my heart to yours. Of friendship and trust. Receive now this gifting.

Maglor stood, tall and majestic, then sank to his knees before the child that they might be closer in height for the exchange.

Maglor in a voice rough with emotion: From your hands to mine. From your heart to mine. Of friendship and trust. I accept this gifting.

With that he held his cupped hands below Veryandil’s. Veryandil carefully separated his, allowing the stone to drop through the gap onto the waiting palms of his friend. With small trembling hands he closed Maglor’s completely around the symbol of their new covenant. Feeling a warm drop of liquid on their joined hands he looked up shyly into the fair face above him and saw to his astonishment, Maglor’s tear-filled eyes watching him. Veryandil reached far up to stroke the dark head, tugging on a strand of the silky midnight hair to bring his face closer. As had his father done to him times without counting, he stretched up onto his toes and tenderly kissed the crown of Maglor’s head.

Heedless now of his pride Maglor wept softly. He heard them depart, but was unable to respond.

The silent tears had turned to wracking sobs that tore at him. Sometime in the night he fell into a deep dreamless sleep and did not wake with the rising of Anar. Cool, clear morning alive with birdsong and whisper of breeze through leafy boughs passed without his knowing.

But then the tormenting dreams engulfed him; bright red blood on pure white stone, flames reaching far into a darken sky, betrayals, deaths too numerous to count, and bitterest of all the fair elven faces unbelieving that Elf could slay Elf; never staying the grim hands that dealt harshest with those who surrendered not the Jewel of Light taken from the Iron Crown of the Morgoth. Silently he wailed in the darkness, helpless to free himself from the chains that bound him to his past deeds; so cruelly trapped in despair he did not even sense the presence of the child.

Veryandil crept close, aghast at the struggle evident by the clenched fists, agonized expression on face, taut muscles, and worst of all the whimpering moans from one he deemed infinity strong and powerful and wise. Just then the tightly closed fists opened and he noticed a strange marking on the left palm. It being the closest to him he reached a tentative finger.

The feather-light touch breached the barriers of Maglor’s nightmares and he surged instantly into readiness in battle stance. Eyes wide with lingering terror he groped fruitlessly for his sword, attention arrested by a furtive movement near the tent flap. His hand snatched for the dagger no longer at his waist, then the smaller throwing blade at boot top though he was barefoot, and then froze in mid-breath.

Trying to escape away from the unbridled rage was a young child. His fevered brain supplied the name, Veryandil, and he dropped defeated to the ground, head bowed, unmoving.

Veryandil crawled to his side, and taking one powerful hand in both of his, he stroked the back of it. A fingertip met the rough surface on the palm and Veryandil turned it up to examine it closer. Maglor started to yank his hand away, but by sheer will forced himself to remain calm and allow the exploration. Tensed as for unendurable pain, he was surprised by the gentle movements of tiny finger tracing the edges and then pressing lightly into the marring itself.

Veryandil sympathetically: Atto punished me once. It was hard to know I had hurt my Atto.

Veryandil: He told me I must part with a thing dear to me that I might learn the cost of disobeying. Atto says to do wrong always takes the best things from us.

Veryandil: You must be sad, Nyello, that your Atto is gone away and you cannot even visit him.

Veryandil biting his lip in concentration then brightening: Maybe my Atto will love you as a son of his heart, even though not of blood. Like your sons!

Maglor turned away for the pain this simple thought caused. Six brothers dead, five at the hands of their fellow elves, one… into a fiery chasm rather than release that Jewel of our father’s crafting; gone to the Halls of Mandos for stars know how long. This child cannot understand the Doom that would become his lot were he in fact ‘my brother’. Not wishing to continue the path of conversation he asked: How came you here?

Veryandil: The healer showed me the way, and also how to return. The little stones are the guides!

Veryandil formally: Nyello, my errand is to present these words to you. Atto and Nana ask your presence at a family feasting this day to give praise for my healing; then added hopefully: Would you bring your harp and play with the singing?

Maglor smiled at the eager face: Your House honors me; I shall attend and my harp shall accompany me.

Veryandil almost leaped for joy, but managed to maintain his formal manners long enough to thank Nyello.

Veryandil dashed out the doorway the short distance to the lake and quickly disrobing plunged into the deep blue waters, coming up spluttering and shaking hair from his face. Maglor proceeded at a more casual pace having left his garments in the pavilion and, diving neatly into the water, with strong strokes followed the shore toward the bathing cove. Veryandil trailed behind, but Maglor with hearing attuned to the splashing and laughter behind him paused, then ducked under the surface and swimming underwater came up beneath the child. Erupting from the water he grabbed Veryandil who squealed with delight, setting him to stand on his shoulders. The water being only chest deep to the tall elf, he now stood and encouraged Veryandil to dive off into the deeper water. Gaining balance instinctively, Veryandil dove inexpertly off his impromptu ‘rock’, tumbling rather than diving.

Maglor retrieved a spluttering and frowning Veryandil. Then with a few well chosen suggestions, told Veryandil to try once more. This time the results were far more satisfactory to both, and with a couple of more attempts both swimmers grinned.

They continued on to the cove where Maglor unbound his hair; Veryandil imitating his friend. The shallow bowls of lightly scented cleansing liquids for hair and body were placed in easy access to the bathers. Ducking under the small, gently spilling waterfall they rinsed themselves, then Maglor laid his head back letting his long, night-dark hair float out around him to free it from excess tangles. Veryandil swam into the midst of the jet-black strands, pretending to be caught in a net. Maglor dragged his wriggling ‘catch’ close and shook him free, dumping him unceremoniously back into the water. Veryandil surfaced back in the ‘net’, to once again be ‘thrown back’. The third time Maglor suspended him upside-down by his feet and with a show of measuring his ‘fish’ proceeded to the bank, exclaiming aloud: This one would make a nice meal.

Maglor: Ai, Veryandil, you are indeed not a fish, though I netted you three times. Thinking of a tasty fish made me hunger for the feasting that awaits us. Let us find our clothing and you shall lead me there.

Fresh garments were laid out on their return; for Veryandil tunic and trousers of leaf green; for Maglor tunic and leggings of misty grey. In unspoken accord, neither put on the soft soled shoes, preferring the feel of the ground underfoot.

Circuitous was their trail, leading past a deep spring-fed pool where they paused to admire the colorful fish swimming lazily through the underwater plants; up a gentle slope awash with flowers of blue, yellow and pale pink; climbing onto a broad low tree-branch to spy the passage of a deer. After it disappeared into the woods, Maglor leapt lightly from the branch plucking Veryandil from his perch.

Veryandil often ran ahead with leaping strides, stopping abruptly to investigate some object that caught his attention.

Veryandil rounded on his friend with sudden inspiration: You could be a mighty stag and I Herú Oromë in pursuit.

Veryandil: Once I saw a dance-tale of Herú Oromë, the great hunter, and the proud stag he captured.

Veryandil missing the tone: Herú Oromë chased the stag until it surrendered to him!

Whirling gracefully Maglor dipped his head and shook it in imitation of a stag. Veryandil called to his ‘hounds’ as the ‘stag’ sped effortless over the ground, Veryandil in instant pursuit.

The stag would halt motionless until the hunter drew near, then bound off into the open woods or across a clearing. Each time the hunter closed in, the stag fled before him, bringing the small hunter unbeknownst ever nearer the area of the healing pavilions.

Panting heavily the stag froze with head down as the hunter cautiously approached his now winded prey. Drawing his bow he let fly an arrow. True and swift it flew and buried deep just behind the sweat-streaked red shoulder. One last jerky leap and the great stag crumpled heavily to the ground. The hunter cried out to his hounds to stay from the fallen game.

Running forward, Veryandil threw himself onto Maglor in sheer exuberance only to pull back in confusion.

Maglor moved not a muscle. Veryandil in concern stroked the dark head of his friend and called softly: Nyello.

Maglor: If life is taken it must be remembered that to each living thing the life is most precious.

Maglor rising with fluid grace offered a hand to Veryandil raising him gently to his feet. Picking up the wrapped harp from where he had placed it prior to his ‘capture’, he asked Veryandil to lead the way. Quickly a guide-stone was found by the little hunter and they emerged shortly into the wide grassy glade where rested the healing pavilions.

Veryandil raced ahead to alert his parents of their arrival, Maglor following at a more dignified pace.

The presence of others than Veryandil’s parents discomfited Maglor and he hesitated some distance from the gathering of elves. Memories of dark deeds surfaced suddenly; with quickened breath and racing pulse he reached again for his sword hilt, and experienced a moment of panic at finding himself unarmed.

Veryandil ran to his friend, his stride faltering as he saw the look of apprehension on Nyello’s face.

Then assuming he had erred in his reception, he drew himself up tall and bowed before formally welcoming him to the feast. Maglor focused on the small child wearing the serious adult expression and bowed his acceptance. Maglor accompanied Veryandil to the group of elves, though now heartily regretting his agreeing to this ordeal. The obvious unease of the tall elf approaching was sensed by all present and with polite words most wandered off coming back singly or by twos after his tension lessened.

Plain though delicious the food, but warm and merry the company and gradually Maglor relaxed enough to enjoy the uncomplicated festivities. When one of the elves brought forth a flute and began to play, Veryandil edged close to Maglor and asked if he, too, would play. Warmed by the love of the boy, Maglor smiled at Veryandil. When the flautist ended his tune, Veryandil with great pride announced that his friend, Nyello, would gift them with harp and song.

Maglor met and held each pair of eyes in turn before turning his attention to the tuning of the harp. Soft voices stilled as he began to play. Tiny runs of notes his elegant fingers coaxed from the strings, altered as he again held each individual gaze for an instant; then with incredible skill he wove the varied pieces into a theme, joined by his utterly magnificent voice. How long the song lasted none could tell, but each elf felt the focus of the song was his own, and the songs of the others blended with their own to complete the joyful union of harp and voice.

As the music ended, no one moved nor even drew deep breath; the awesome art of this unknown harper-singer staggering them with its wonder. Veryandil went forward with eyes wide in admiration and sat before Maglor. When Maglor smiled, he asked boldly: Nyello, will you teach me to play and sing like you?

Maglor made room for the child between him and the harp and with a gesture invited him to seat himself where he could reach the strings. Without words Maglor demonstrated a simple fingering, then taking the small hands helped Veryandil pluck a few notes. Maglor dropped his hands to the side and allowed the boy to continue unaided. The bright look of delight on Veryandil’s face pleased his watching parents; even more so when Maglor added his fingers to the harp and wove the child’s efforts with his own into a merry tune.

Veryandil stood when they brought their music to a close, and turning wrapped his arms around the neck of the Harper and whispered his thanks into the nearest ear.

After, there were other songs and a couple of frolicking dances of which Veryandil partook with the zeal of the very young. Gradually the guests drifted off for the evening; Maglor delaying until Veryandil’s need for rest was apparent to all. Bidding them farewell, he melted into the tree line, but then paused and placing his harp aside sank gracefully to the ground at the foot of an obliging tree. At peace and untroubled he entered onto the Paths of Dreams.

The silence was rent by a bellow, which rose into a shriek of unmitigated agony. As one, Linwë, Oloriel and Veryandil leaped up and rushed out of the pavilion. The cry came again—hoarse, sharp, filled now with grief: Amrod! Amrod! Am—rod!

Veryandil wailed his own grief, but his small voice was drowned by another cry, almost a roar—of fury. Veryandil, turned into his father's arms, weeping. Linwë lifted him up, murmuring comfort to him, and bore him back into the pavilion.

Oloriel rounded the corner of the shelter. There, on the grass between its back and the grove of Malinornë trees stood Veryandil's friend. Though his eyes were wide open, they were unseeing. He held his right arm out in front of him at chest level, and as she watched, horrified and fascinated, he swept it through the air, uttering a grunt as of great effort. He held his left hand shoulder high, clenched, as if he gripped something over his head. He turned, almost as if dancing, but there was no joy in the flushed face. She stepped back into the shadow of the pavilion, and very softly and calmly she spoke: Wake now. There is nothing to fear.

She reached out to touch his thoughts, and found the way closed as with stone. He turned toward her, eyes still unfocused—or rather, focused on his inner battle, and Oloriel spoke again, still quietly: Wake, my friend. No one menaces you.

For answer, he lunged toward her, right arm extended, and she saw the imagined sword, red and dripping, slicing toward her throat. Despite herself, she ducked under the swinging arm, then stood still, remembering her teacher's warning not to entangle herself in a dark vision. Only if the sufferer allowed it must she enter it; yet so strong was the imagery that Oloriel almost felt the wind of the sword's passage. For the third time, not trying to send to him, Oloriel said: Wake now. You are not in danger.

As if delivering a counterstroke, his arm descended, striking her right ear a glancing blow, and Oloriel sidestepped, her knees almost buckling, feeling the hot gust of emotion against her own closed mind. Then the eyes snapped alert, as if the physical contact had done what ósanwë could not. Oloriel looked into a fierce gaze that held her relentlessly. She did not waver, but simply waited.

Oloriel: No one asks you to submit, my friend. No one can take this burden from you; you must lay it down of your own will.

Maglor: For Eru Ilúvatar we named in witness—my father, my brothers and me; and upon me and all my house the curse of Namo lies.

Oloriel went still, as she understood—the marred hand, the surpassing skill at harp and song. Her face filled with wonder and she said: So, Macalaurë, and will you permit healing—for your sake—and my son's?

Maglor turned as though to leave, and she spoke behind him: Veryandil loves you, and I have seen your love for him as well. Go if you must, Macalaurë, but if you decide to allow me to help you, I will be here.

Maglor did not answer, but stalked away into the trees, his shoulders rigid with tension.

Oloriel returned to the pavilion. She found her husband sitting on Veryandil's bed, the child cradled in his arms. He met her eyes over the boy's dark head, and she sent: When Veryandil rests, beloved, I will tell you.

Veryandil looked up at her, his eyes red-rimmed from crying: Nana, what happened?

Oloriel sat down on the grass and said: Your friend was astray upon the Path of Dreams.

Oloriel: Still. Until he consents to go another way, he will return continually to a dark path; but he woke from his dream, and I was able to offer him healing. As yet, he can not bring himself to take the gift, little one, but I have hope that he will.

Oloriel: He may, yonya, but not tonight. I think he desires to be alone for a time. I have told him to seek me out if he wishes help. Meanwhile, you, my love, must rest.

His parents put Veryandil to bed, sang him their evening song, and waited until he walked a pleasant path of dreaming. Then they went outside. Oloriel leaned against a young malinornë near the entrance of the pavilion, looked up at the stars, and sighed. She sent: I have never seen such grief. He is in torment of fëa.

Linwë drew a sharp breath before answering: A Kinslayer? We have allowed our child to play and be alone with a—Kinslayer?

Linwë: To hear him in the throes of his —malady does not bode well for our child's safety.

Oloriel: Believe me, melda, Veryandil is perhaps the only one who is safe with him. You have seen his actions toward our son. He is as tender with him as are you.

Oloriel, who had noted her beloved's reaction to Maglor, laughed softly, not in mockery, but in gentle teasing: Oh, Linwë, do you really think another could take your place in our son's heart? Not so; he has a generous spirit, as you know. Do not seek to leash it, love.

Linwë started to retort, then, looking into his wife's smiling eyes, he himself smiled a little sheepishly: Still, are you sure this one can be trusted? Such terrible things are said of him.

Oloriel: I know, and many of them may be true, but it is also said that he cherished the sons of Éarendil and that they came to love him. I think we should trust the wisdom of Heri Estë and Heru Irmo. They would not have permitted him to enter here if there was no hope of restoration.

Oloriel: Not directly. Heru Irmo did tell me that there was one here who would find healing difficult, but that it could be accomplished.

It was Linwë's turn to sigh: I see. Well, in my few years of service to the High King, I have found the counsel of his peers to be as reliable as his own; but do you truly think that we should allow Veryandil to seek Macalaurë alone?

Oloriel: I do. He will not respond to anyone else, I fear, especially not to a prickly father.

Linwë laughed softly, leaned forward, and kissed Oloriel on the mouth. She slid her hands behind his head, returning the kiss with delight. After a moment, they drew apart, and then, knowing that their child would be guarded, they went hand and hand into the soft darkness of the trees.

As on the first day of his sojourn Maglor sat by the lake, staring without seeing at the quiet water. He had not rested at all in the night, for he was afraid—afraid that he would not be able to awaken from the fiery dreams which plagued him. Even as he sat, he could hear the sound of battle, faint but oddly distinct—the clash of swords, the cries of combat and of death. He shook his head to clear it, but seemed to see flashes of red flame out of the corners of his eyes. A quiet footfall behind him brought him leaping to his feet. He whirled and sprang forward—and saw the face of Veryandil, pale with fear. Maglor cried out in horror, knelt, and gathered the boy to himself. Instead of attempting to escape, Veryandil wound his arms around his friend's neck and pressed his face against his chest.

Veryandil answered in a muffled voice: You have not, Nyello, but who were you fighting?

He sat back, with the child in his lap and looked into his face. The color was returning, and Veryandil said softly: When I was small, one time I was lost in dreams. It was dark—so dark—and cold. The air had a terrible feeling; I do not know how to say it, Nyello, and I could not find my way out or leave the Path. Then my nana came to me and led me out of the dark to a night of stars. That is how she discovered her gift of Sight. She can help you also, if you will let her. She has told me so.

Veryandil: That is why you need my nana's help. I could not do it alone. What do you dream of when you are lost?

Maglor did not answer, and after a moment, Veryandil said: You do not have to tell me, but I will tell you what I dreamed. As I said, it was dark and cold, like snow. The air had a—a—sour smell like—I do not know what it was like—and there was something in the dark that was--.

Maglor said: It sounds like a memory of the Journey, Veryandil, and of things which menaced the Quendi at that time.

Maglor: I was not, but I have spoken to those who were. Perhaps you had heard a tale which your mind turned into a dream.

Veryandil: Perhaps. I was very little, and I do not remember; but when nana led me out, the sky was filled with stars and—there was a lake; it was not like this one. It was bigger.

The child slid off his friend's lap onto the grass, and leaned against him. Together, they sat in silence. After a time, Veryandil said: Nyello, will you show me more of the harp?

He rose and retrieved his harp from where he had set it at the foot of a tree. Placing it on the grass in front of the boy, he sat down behind him, saying: The strings are made of a special metal and ring like bells when plucked—so.

He plucked a chord, and the sound did indeed ring like a distant bell. It died away after a time, and Maglor continued: Music has colors, Veryandil, some bright, some dark. When you play, you blend them together like the colors of fair clothing—so.

He played a series of lovely, flowing chords, then said: With a harp of this type, however, if you do not silence discordant strings, the colors clash, like ill-matched garments.

He played another series of chords, allowing the strings to ring together. Veryandil giggled and said: They sound like tumbling rocks.

He played the same series of chords, quieting jangling strings with fingers and the palms of his hands. Then he said: Now, play a tune for me, Veryandil.

The boy plucked out the melody of one of his mother's morning songs, trying to silence unwanted discord as his friend had done. Maglor encouraged him, taking his hands and positioning them to achieve what the child wanted. They continued so for some time, Veryandil's delight evident in the quick smiles he turned upon his teacher.

After Veryandil had played the song more or less to the boy's satisfaction, Maglor taught him a few simple chords to accompany it, then said: Sing and play it, meldonya. Do not worry about playing the melody at present.

Maglor: Well done, Veryandil. Now, play it once more, silencing any dissonant strings as you go.

Veryandil did not sing the words this time, merely humming the melody. He had to stop several times, as he found it difficult to reach some of the strings to quiet them. When he finished, he sighed, lifted his hands from the harp, and shook them vigorously.

Maglor laughed, patted the child's right shoulder affectionately, and, standing up, he took the harp and replaced it beneath the tree. Coming back, he sat down by his friend, took his hands and began gently massaging them: The strings are spaced a bit far apart for you, I think.

He started to release Veryandil's hands, but the boy, seeing a flicker of brightness, caught the left one, which was nearest to him and said: Nyello, there is a star in your palm, like the one at the center of my gift to you.

Maglor tried to withdraw his hand, though not roughly, but Veryandil took a firm hold: Nyello, what happened?

After a moment, almost inaudibly, Maglor answered: I tried to touch a star, and it burned me.

Maglor: I can not. It was not a star yet—and it was on the Earth. Please do not press me, Veryandil, for I will not speak of this.

Veryandil gently stroked his friend's hand and said: If you want to talk to my nana, she is in the grove of silver willows where the shore bends to the right. She goes there every day. I must go now, for my atto and I are returning to the guesthouse, since I am well. Heri Estë says I can come to see you, so I will be back tomorrow. Maybe my hands can run again then?

Maglor smiled, a bit wanly, but a smile nonetheless and said: We will let them run.

Veryandil gave Maglor's hand a final caress, rose, and walked away into the trees.

When his friend had gone, Maglor rose and went over to the tree under which he had set his harp. Sitting down, he leaned back against the sturdy trunk, harp in his lap, and began to play. The clear notes spilled from his fingers, bright as sunlit rain. It had been uncounted years since he had played as he had in the last few days, his music untroubled by lamentation. He did not sing, not this time, for the quiet joy which arose in him went beyond mere words. He played until his hands, unused to such prolonged exercise, grew as weary as the child's had; and then, casing the harp, he returned to his pavilion, lay down on his bed, and slept.

In the guesthouse, Veryandil recounted his day to his parents: And then he showed me how to keep the rocks from sliding, the harp strings you know, and then I sang nana's song about Heri Arien, and then I played some more, and then my hands wanted to stop, and, atto, nana, did you know he has a star in his hand?

Veryandil: He does. You can not see it in the sunlight, but we were in the shade of the trees. It is right in the center of his hand, in the—scar.

Veryandil's parents glanced at each other, and Linwë gave a barely perceptible shrug.

Veryandil said: Can we—may we go to see him tomorrow? Heri Estë said I could if it is all right with you.

He looked hopefully at his parents, and Linwë answered: I still have to work on my verses for the festival, little one, but I brought my small writing desk with me, so we shall go to the Gardens with your nana. We shall seek out your friend, but, if he does not wish to play, yonya, you must not trouble him.

In the cool morning, the family set out, Veryandil proudly carrying his father's leather satchel of parchment, pens, and ink and Linwë carrying the wooden lap desk. Oloriel bore a hamper of bread, fruit and cold fowl for their midday meal. Passing through the gap in the hedge which served as the gate of the Gardens, they went to one of the open glades, set up their "camp", and went to seek Maglor. After failing to find him where Veryandil had left him, they followed the guiding stones to the pavilions of rest. As they approached the one in which Maglor had his home, they heard an odd irregular thumping sound from within, punctuated by short sharp cries. Alarmed, Linwë gripped Veryandil's right arm, as the boy started to run forward: Wait, yonya. Let me see what it is.

Oloriel had stopped, and suddenly, her face twisted into an expression of pain. After a moment, she said in a fierce whisper: Both of you, wait here!

Linwë started to speak, but she gave him a quelling look, and he knew she was seeing something inwardly.

Oloriel went forward cautiously and looked into the dimness of the shelter. Maglor lay half on and half off his bed. Once again, his eyes were open, wide open, and his face bore no trace of sanity. The lips were drawn back from his teeth, foam flecked the corners of his mouth, and as she watched, he struck out with first one clenched hand and then the other.

Battle sounds raged about Maglor as he now teetered between the dark visions and reality.

Holy stars of Elbereth! He had returned to Sirion and the dreadful slaughter of that long ago day! His body was exhausted from killing, his mind numbed by unalleviated carnage and added grief at the loss of his own twin brothers, their long hair, red as a summer fox, now sodden with a deeper red, the blood of Elves. Breathing heavily he hewed and slashed indiscriminately.

Having dispatched the elf before him he spun savagely around upon hearing a slight sound behind him. Catching the elf low across the back with an upward-curving backhanded stroke made even more devastating by his momentum, he nearly severed the enemy in two. Thrown sideways, the dead elf released from her arms the body of her small child, likewise dead from the same blow. Rolling onto his back the boy stared up with wide startled eyes into the face of his slayer.

Maglor stared back in horror. Dropping to his knees, the sword clanging to the ground as it fell from nerveless fingers, he crawled to the child, heedless of danger. Clutching the limp form to him he rocked back on his heels, throwing his head back, keening in his agony of guilt.

There Maedhros found Maglor weeping bitterly. At the touch of his brother’s hand Maglor leapt to his feet, snarling his unadulterated fury. Maedhros sprang away from Maglor, his sword drawn, hoping he would not have to slay his own brother as he would a crazed beast.

“Come, Maglor, Elwing is discovered! She has the Jewel!” Maedhros shouted.

Placing the small, still body gently in the arms of his mother, Maglor followed his brother, sword in hand once more.

Remembering that touch had brought him back before, Oloriel knelt on the floor behind him and gently laid a hand on his forehead. Maglor yelled, reached back, and grasped the offending hand by the wrist.

When the hand met his fevered brow it was an enemy at his back and he grabbed the wrist, the physical touch jolting him into partial awareness.

Her mind filled with a sudden blaze of gold and silver light, and Oloriel cried out, not in pain, but in wonder. Mistaking the cry, Linwë and Veryandil rushed to the entrance, and saw Oloriel kneeling on the grass, her right arm held down. Again she cried out, and Veryandil broke from his father's grasp, flung himself onto the grass beside Maglor and shouted: Nyello! Nyello! Do not hurt my nana!

A faint distant cry brought him further to his senses, and as his eyes focused he found a small child before him, eyes wide in terror and confusion. AI! Have I slain his mother? Where is this place? Sirion? There is no escape, no release from the past. Better the Halls and peace of a kind than this endless pain. Death shall not come to this child by my hand.

Maglor sat up abruptly, releasing Oloriel's wrist. He stared, first at Veryandil and then at his mother with a dazed expression, which turned to grief. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. He put his head in his hands and rocked back and forth, as though he was in torment. Finally, he lifted his head. Again, he tried to speak and failed. Veryandil reached out to touch him, but Maglor shrank away. He turned toward Linwë, who had come forward to stand beside Oloriel, his expression a mixture of loathing and compassion. Maglor said thickly: You are right to despise me, Linwë. I will trouble you and your family no more.

Again Veryandil reached toward his friend, whose form suddenly seemed to disperse into a mist which rapidly thinned into nothing. Then many things occurred at once. Veryandil screamed, a long wailing cry. Linwë leaped forward, snatching his son from the grass. Oloriel, who had continued to kneel, head lifted, expression rapt, started, sprang up, and wrapped her arms around her family. From outside there was a clear singing, and Heru Irmo came into the pavilion. He stood beside the three Elves, continuing to sing, and it was as if a clean wind blew through the small space. When the song ended, he said softly: Come out under the trees, my friends, and I will tell you what I can.

Linwë, carrying Veryandil, with Oloriel walking beside him, followed the Vala out, and they entered the grove of malinornë trees. There, Heru Irmo gestured the Elves to sit down, and he himself did so. Irmo said: My spouse is coming with water from her fountain. It will ease you.

The Lady carried three small crystal goblets, which seemed to be full of softly shimmering moonlight. She came first to Veryandil, and held a cup to his lips: It is water only, hína. It will not make you sleep.

When the child had drunk, Estë gave a draught to each of his parents, both of whom looked almost as shocked as the boy. She then sat down beside her spouse.

Irmo said: Your friend, Veryandil, lived in Middle-earth for many years. On endórë the Eldar are more subject to the Marring than they are here. Their bodies are consumed by their spirits, and they become invisible to the sight of bodily eyes. This is called fading. Your friend is in the midst of this process. He can still maintain a form, but he can also let it go. This he has done, and has fled from the Gardens.

Estë answered gently: He does not hurt in his body, child, but his fëa is in pain, not from the fading, but from other causes.

Irmo: We do not believe so, Veryandil, for here in Aman, your people age no more quickly than Arda does.

Veryandil: I want to help Nyello, Heru Irmo. He is so sad. I do not think he wanted to hurt my nana. He was caught in a dark dream.

Irmo smiled at the boy: I think you are right, little one, and I think you may be able to help him.

Linwë asked in an anguished voice: How can a child of ten springs help a—help one like that?

Irmo: By speaking for his friend before the High King. Others have done so, but their tales were of deeds long past. It would be good if his kindnesses to Veryandil were recounted.

Linwë and Oloriel looked at one another, Linwë almost angrily, Oloriel with an expression of recalled wonder. Finally, Linwë said: I would not have my child exposed to danger, Heru Irmo.

Irmo: We do not, but the Gardens are not Mandos, and he is free to leave them as he will. Some of my folk shall seek him, as well as those of my brother, Namo.

Oloriel: I would go as well, Heru Irmo, for I have something to tell the King about this one.

Irmo: As you will, Oloriel. Rest now, all of you, for the remainder of the day, while my folk prepare provisions for your journey.

When Irmo and Estë departed, the three Elves looked at one another. Linwë's face was set in a rather grim expression, as though he held anger at bay. Oloriel looked concerned, but there was a hint of brightness in her eyes, as though a part of her still saw the light. Veryandil's expression was one of misery; there were no tears, but it would not take much to bring them.

Oloriel reached out and put an arm about her son's waist. To her distress, he tensed. She sighed, kissed the top of his head and released him: I think we should eat, yonya.

Linwë muttered something under his breath, and Oloriel looked at him. He met her gaze, but turned away at once, the door of his sáma fast closed. Finally, he said brusquely: Come then.

When they had returned to the glade where they had left the hamper of food, Linwë and Oloriel set out the meal. The two adults ate, but without relish, but after a few halfhearted mouthfuls, Veryandil laid down the piece of bread he was eating and stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched to keep from crying. After a moment, he got up and ran off into the trees. Linwë started to stand, but Oloriel caught his sleeve: Let him go, love. He must grieve. We will know if he needs our help.

Veryandil ran to the pavilion where his friend had stayed. There, he halted before the opened curtains. Nyello was nowhere in sight. Despite the words of the Lord and Lady, he did not understand what had happened to him. How could a person flow away like mist? He went inside and sat on the rumpled bed, then lay down, buried his face in the blankets, and wept. When he was spent, he lay on his back, staring up at the softly shimmering fabric of the ceiling. His nana said that a person's life was the light of the fëa, and that it was the fëa which walked the Path of Dreams in rest. Maybe if he went on the Path, he could find his friend, since Nyello was now like an un-housed one. He entered, and immediately found himself in a forest of towering oaks, elms and beeches. Ahead of him, his coat shining in the green twilight, was the stag he had followed in his game with his friend. With a shout of delight, he raced toward the creature, who stood with his great antlered head raised, eyes flashing with fierce fire. Suddenly, the stag turned and seemed to float away over the ground. Veryandil called: Nyello! Nyello! It is Veryandil!

Veryandil stood still, puzzled and hurt. Why would his friend flee from him? He looked down at the forest floor, hoping to see tracks, but there was nothing but moss and his own light footprints. He leaned against an oak which seemed as solid as any in the outer world and tried to sense his friend, but there was only the faintest taste of his presence on the Paths and no way to follow.

Veryandil left the Path and sat up on the bed. He looked despondently around the pavilion—and saw Nyello's harp in its leather case. For a moment, Veryandil gazed at it. Suddenly, an idea occurred to him, and rising, he went to the harp. Carefully, he undid the thongs which held the case closed and folded back the sides. The instrument was too heavy for him to lift, so he simply sat down by it, and reaching in, he softly plucked out the melody of the song he had played the day before. As he played, he opened the door of his sáma in the way his nana had taught him and reached out to his friend. Except for the quiet song of the Gardens themselves and the deeper songs of the lord and lady, there was nothing—not the slightest flicker of Nyello. He remembered that his friend had left Lórien, but he had not yet learned how to search outside a small area, so he continued to play and sing until he felt his mother's gently inquiring mind-touch, followed by his father's, which was almost unfamiliar in its abruptness. His mother sent: How is it with you, yonya?

Veryandil: I can not find him, nana! He does not even come to the sound of his harp!

In the early morning, servants of Irmo and Estë brought packs containing clothing and a little food. There were guesthouses at regular intervals along the roads, and water was abundant, but this was to be a long journey. For this reason, three horses had consented to accompany and bear them—a brown for Linwë, a gray for Oloriel, and a cream-colored pony for Veryandil. Though he loved horses and would fearlessly approach even the largest, the child showed little interest in his mount, who nuzzled his hair and blew softly into it, trying to cheer him. He patted the pony's neck absently, but gave no other sign of attention.

They left the Gardens at sunrise, riding abreast, with Veryandil in the middle. Oloriel sang in her low clear voice, but neither Linwë nor Veryandil joined her. The sadness of her child and the simmering anger of her husband weighed on her spirit, yet she sang, to lessen the burden and break the leaden silence.

At midday, they stopped to eat, and Veryandil refused food. Oloriel coaxed him to eat, but he shook his head and said, almost petulantly: I am not hungry, nana!

At the sharp tone, Veryandil hung his head, murmuring an apology, and Oloriel gave her spouse a reproachful look, but he turned away, scowling.

At the guesthouse that evening, those who served there brought them to a bedchamber in which was one large bed for the parents and a smaller one for Veryandil. Again, the child refused to eat and went to bed at once. Oloriel looked down at him anxiously. His thoughts were still closed to her, and she saw, to her dismay, that he was actually asleep, something which only occurred with stress or grave wounding. Gently, she tried again to touch his thoughts, but without success. Sadly, she undressed and got into bed beside Linwë, who lay open-eyed but definitely not in dreams. Oloriel reached out to him, and he turned on his side with his back to her. She felt her own anger rise at that, and was about to speak when she noticed that his body was so tense that he trembled slightly. Sighing, she lay quiet for a moment, then turned onto her back, entered the Path of Dreams and went to seek Makalaurë. All night, she caught fleeting glimpses of him, pursued by the Maiar of Irmo, and she was almost as tired at dawn as she had been at nightfall.

Oloriel seated herself beside her husband. He pretended to write, but she could see by the unsmiling face that his thoughts were far from his verses. After a moment, she leaned toward him and gently kissed the tip of his left ear. He jerked his head away and turned toward her with a frown. She was not daunted, but, looking deep into his eyes, she sent: If we are at odds, my love, we can not support our child. He needs us both. Please, Linwë, let go this foolish jealousy.

Linwë sent, almost coldly: How can you take his part, Oloriel? That one has killed our own people. He is not fit company for Veryandil or anyone else!

Oloriel caught her breath, then let it out slowly and continued in ósanwë: He has done dreadful deeds, melda, it is true, but he rues them. He fled rather than hurt his friend—or me.

Oloriel: A little, not much. I can not pass the barrier of unwill to touch his thoughts, but I felt what he felt when he released me.

Oloriel shuddered: Grief beyond anything I have ever known. Grief and self-loathing; but it is not of Makalaurë that I would speak. Our child does not eat, does not rest, and his dreams trouble him. He too will not let me in, Linwë. When I asked him this morning, he simply said that he dreamed of his friend.

Linwë's expression grew troubled: Why will he not let you in? Is that one preventing it?

Oloriel laughed suddenly, reached over and stroked her beloved's hair, sending: "That one" indeed! You will not even give him a name you are so angry. Come, let us go and see if we can sing our son into happier dreaming.

They had not stopped at a guesthouse this night, for it was bright with the full light of Isil. They had set up their simple camp at the edge of a beech copse beside the road and had settled down to rest, or at least to silence. Linwë had attempted to write and Oloriel had sat midway between him and Veryandil, turning her gaze first to one and then the other. Veryandil lay curled on his left side, but the tenseness of his posture was reflected by his half-clenched hands.

Now Linwë and Oloriel came and sat on either side of their son and began to sing softly. The boy did not turn to them, and his eyes remained closed. Oloriel reached out and gently rubbed the child's back, and was shocked at its rigidity. She glanced at Linwë, holding tears back. Linwë continued to sing, but he felt anger rise again, for now the absent Kinslayer was upsetting his wife as well as his child.

Oloriel mastered her emotions and, lying down, gathered Veryandil into her arms. He did not resist, but neither did he respond. Oloriel spoke quietly into the nearest ear: Come back, yonya. Let us help you.

With a shuddering sigh, Veryandil opened his eyes and looked at his mother: I can not find him, nana. He has gone so far away!

Oloriel: Let Irmo's people do the finding, hínya. They know how to track him; we do not.

Oloriel: They will not hurt him, Veryandil. I think they will just keep him safe for a while.

Oloriel: He is not un-housed, but I think they will try to persuade him to come to Valimar, where we are going. Heru Irmo told me before your atto and you and I left Lorien that Manwë wants to hear what you and your friend have to say. It might go some way to healing him. So, love, you must rest and you must eat so that you can do as you have promised.

Veryandil's hand crept out and touched her hair; then he lifted his head and saw his father's tight-lipped face. He said: Atto?

Veryandil: If we find him—or if Heru Irmo's folk do, then I will not be sad. Nana, if I am lost on the Paths of Dreams tonight, will you come and find me?

Veryandil laid his head on her shoulder. Linwë turned his back so that his son could reach his hair, and Veryandil gave a contented sigh and grasped the long dark braid. When they were sure he rested, Oloriel and Linwë began to send.

Oloriel: At first, there was light, beloved, a bloom of gold and silver shining, like Anar and Isil together. And then the light dimmed and drew together, and I saw his left hand, the scarred one. In the center of the palm, just as Veryandil said, was a—point of brightness, not like a star but like a shimmering seed. I do not know what this means; I do not know if it was real or a kind of token. I think the King or his spouse may know. Now, let us rest also.

Near dawn, Oloriel felt a change in her child, a lessening and faltering. She tried to touch his thoughts, and was instantly fully aware. She could not find them; there was nothing. With a cry, she sat up, clutching the boy to her. His body, which should have been warm, was cool. Linwë turned at her distressed cry of: Veryandil! He stared at her with an expression, first of shock and then of rage. He sprang to his feet and shouted: Kinslayer! Would you add another to your tally?

Oloriel too stood up, looking down into her child's pale face. She said: He is not dead, Linwë, but he is very far away. I do not know what this means.

Oloriel: I do not think so. Husband, kindle a fire. We must keep him warm. I do not think we should leave this spot, lest he not be able to find his way back.

When the fire was alight, his parents wrapped Veryandil in their summer mantles, and, lying down, pressed their bodies against his, hoping to give him warmth. Again and again, Oloriel sent to the child, but could find no contact. His eyes were fully closed. They could hear his heartbeat, but it was faint, and he barely breathed.

It was not like the Path of Dreams at all. There, he could see things clearly, though sometimes they changed suddenly, unless he held them still in his thoughts; here, everything was shadow and half-light. It was not dark. It was not cold. He had seen fog once—in the mountains, when he and his parents had gone to visit friends. This was like that—a thick whiteness that covered everything. He could not feel anything either. For a while, it was interesting this foggy place, but slowly, he began to be afraid. The fear was not exactly of being hurt; it was of being—outside. He should be inside—not out here in this fog. He tried to call to his nana and atto, but his voices—both outer and inner—seemed silenced. His fear grew and grew—until he saw part of the fog swirl and brighten, becoming a cascade of soft fire to his left. The fire said in thought: Veryandil, why are you here? Do you wish to come to the Halls?

Veryandil: I do not think so. I was looking for my friend. Do you know where he is?

The fire answered: He is there—in the beech grove. Shall I clear you a path to him?

The fire replied: I am one of Heru Namo's folk. Veryandil, you must not stay without. Your hróa can not bear your fëa's absence for long.

With a tendril of light, the fire opened a way through the fog, and Veryandil saw Nyello sitting on the ground beneath the beeches. With a glad cry, for now at least his mind-voice could speak, Veryandil rushed to his friend; but Nyello sprang up and fled. Veryandil pursued him, shouting: Stop, Nyello! Please stop!

Nyello looked over his shoulder, and stood still. Veryandil ran to him and flung his arms around his waist: I found you! Even before Heru Irmo's people! Come, let us go.

Veryandil: I do not know, Nyello. I went on the Path, and then I was here. I do not like it here. I should be—where I was before.

Veryandil: The fire said you could show me how to get back. Then you can come with us.

Veryandil: Are you afraid, Nyello? It is all right to be afraid. I am sometimes.

Maglor: I—I am, but more than that, I do not think I can be free of the—of what I have done.

His friend did not answer, and even here, where all speaking was ósanwë, one could be silent.

Veryandil: I am afraid now, Nyello; and the fire said I can not stay here long. Please come and help me get inside again.

Then to Veryandil: All right, Veryandil, I will come to where your hróa is, but I do not know if I will come with you and your parents. I have faced the High King once already. I do not wish to do so again.

Maglor: He was not; but I had to hear things said which were hard to hear. Come.

They went to the edge of the trees. A small fire burned in the ring of stones which atto had built for cooking the night before. Beside it, Veryandil saw his parents, and, with an odd twisting feeling, he saw—his hróa, or at least his face, which was all that was visible. The rest of it was cloaked. He stared in rising panic, for he knew that he must go back into it or—elsewhere. He turned to his friend: What do we do, then?

Maglor: I do not know, child. I have never heard of any of our folk parting from their bodies in this way.

Maglor stared at his left hand for several minutes. Finally, he said: To do this, I will have to resume a form. Every time I relinquish one, it grows harder to take one up again. I am no Ainu, child. My fëa can remember what it is like to be housed in a body; that is all. I shall try.

They had moved as near to the fire as they dared. Oloriel held Veryandil on her lap. Linwë sat behind her, sending her as much strength as he could. Occasionally, they exchanged places. All through the day, they continued to hold their son, singing to him—songs of joy and play, songs of peace and quietness, but nothing changed. His breaths came in slow shallow gasps. His heart hardly seemed to beat.

The sunset came, and the clear sky filled with stars and the moon one night past full. Linwë built up the fire. Just before the middle night, it was Oloriel's turn to hold Veryandil. Linwë was sending to her, when his attention was caught by something at the edge of the trees, a shadow among shadows. As he looked, Maglor stepped out into the firelight. Linwë was up and across the distance between them in an instant. He drew back his right arm and struck the other Elf on the side of the face with a fist, and it was as if he had plunged his arm into icy water. A tingling shock flashed up to his shoulder, and he staggered back. Maglor did not retaliate, and his expression was oddly remote. After a moment he said, low and intense: Your son is with me. He thinks I can help him re-enter his hróa. I do not know, but for his sake, I will attempt it. I do not wish his death, Linwë—nor yours.

Linwë was about to answer when Oloriel said: He speaks the truth, beloved. Veryandil stands beside him. Husband, our child must go back into his body now, or Namo's folk will come to guide him to Mandos. Please, let him help our son!

Linwë stared at the impassive face before him, then at the face of his wife, the eyes dry, but the expression like brittle glass. Finally, he nodded once, returned to sit behind Oloriel and said: What do we do?

Maglor: I am bringing Veryandil to his hróa now. I—think that the—light I—bear will make a path which he can follow.

He walked to them, and, standing with his back to the fire, he held his left hand near Veryandil's forehead, but not touching it. For a time, nothing happened. Then, very slowly, like a tiny flame catching in dry wood, light began to blossom in his hand, brightening moment by moment until it was a blaze of gold and silver, shot through with other subtler colors. Both Linwë and Oloriel, who could gaze into the sun without blinking, had to close their eyes against the brightness.

Veryandil saw the path, like a glad stream rushing toward the door of a house. With a laugh of pure joy, he leaped into the singing brightness and let it carry him in.

The light gently died away. A slight shudder flowed through Veryandil's body, and he drew a deep breath, sighed, and lay back against his mother in healing sleep.

Oloriel opened her eyes and smiled into Maglor's face. She reached up and took the hand of her son's healer: Blessings to you, Makalaurë.

For a moment, the other did not move or speak. Finally, he softly closed his hand around Oloriel's and said: It is not my doing, Lady. I do not know how to speak of it.

He looked at Linwë, who was gazing at him with wonder and confusion. Maglor said: I do not know what this means any more than you. Your son begs me to come with you to the King. I do not know if I can, Linwë, but if I can, I will join you in Valimar. In the meantime, I will leave you for now.

Releasing Oloriel's hand, he turned and walked away, and there was something more at ease in his stride than had been present before.

When Maglor had gone, Veryandil's parents laid him on the grass beside the dying fire. He was relaxed and at rest now, and the color, as far as they could tell in the dimness, had returned to his face. As they pillowed his head and touched him gently, he smiled. They went a little way from him, but not out of earshot, and lay down beneath the sky. There was no wind, not even a breeze, and the scent of grass and moist earth was sweet in the warm air.

As Linwë gazed up into the deep blueness, he heard a slight sound beside him, just a catch in Oloriel's breathing. He turned to her at once, and saw a thing he had never seen—tears on her face. A little hesitantly, he reached out and gently cupped her cheek with his hand. For a moment, she did not respond, and then she turned her head and kissed the hand. He drew her into his arms and held her close, and she wept, quietly but deeply. He rubbed her shoulders, keeping silent in thought and voice, but sending her calm. When she was still again, he said low: I am sorry, best beloved. I have held you at arm's length in the past few days. I am sorry.

Oloriel: You have, Linwë, but I know why. You feared him; you could not see why I did not. It angered you.

Oloriel: I know. I claim no secret knowledge, melda but it is part of my gift to see the colors of the fëa.

Linwë laughed softly: I am afraid that explanation goes over the head of this simple scholar.

Oloriel: Each fëa burns like different kinds of wood, so my teacher tells me. Each one emits colors that are different from those of any other, some brighter, some dimmer. I have never seen one who is evil, not here, though, in his teaching dreams, Heru Irmo has shown me memories of those who were, both those of us who were darkened by the Shadow and those among the other Speaking Peoples who were enthralled by it. The colors of those fëar are—like the Unlight it is said Ungoliantë poured forth—not dark; twisted light. The colors I have seen in Makalaurë are not evil. They reflect his pain and his guilt, for he has done terrible things, love; but whenever he is near our son, his fëa's colors shine with such clarity that it uplifts my heart. Tonight, when he allowed the light to flow through him, a little more of the wounding in him was healed.

Oloriel: I do not know; it is like what I have heard of the light of the Trees—of the Silmarili, but I think there is more to it, which I do not understand.

They were silent for some time, simply holding one another in growing content. At last, Oloriel said quietly: When we reach the next guesthouse, I want a bath; and then I want to spend some time with my husband. I miss him.

Oloriel kissed him, gently but thoroughly. They returned to where Veryandil lay peacefully and entered into rest themselves.

Maglor did not go far from the family camp, sitting down against a convenient tree trunk to rest from his strange ordeal and gather his turbulent thoughts. He sensed restful stillness not long after as the three young elves entered the Paths of Dreams, seeking nothing more complicated than a time of peace. But Maglor was far from the untroubled ease he so desperately sought.

Rising, he moved soundlessly through the woods until he found a small clearing with a placid stream, deep and calming, flowing nearby. Lulled by the sound of the water he paused to listen. Starlight sparkled on the surface, holding him spellbound with the simple joy of the quiet moment. A slow smile transformed his face from tormented to enraptured as the water’s song refreshed his battered fëa.

Dropping to the ground at the stream’s edge he trailed the long, slender fingers of his right hand through the coolness, startled when the song altered as his presence disturbed the rhythm. Experimentally he moved his fingers as if caressing harp strings and gradually found he could bring forth an entirely new music. Instinctively his left hand joined the right as when stroking the strings of his harp.

The resultant blaze of light and sound as starlight and water combined with the silvery-gold light caused Maglor to yank both hands from the stream with a cry of misery.

He stood poised on the sea’s edge, his left hand an agony of unbearable fire; no less was the torment of his mind. Grey eyes reflecting the burning brightness he could no longer possess, he drew back his arm and cast the deadly jewel far out and into the dark water, watching until its radiance was swallowed by the depths. Stumbling down to the shoreline he strode waist-deep into the surf and plunged his flame-ravaged hand into the briny water, crying out as the salt purified his wound. Turning he waded back to shore and collapsing to the ground he wept bitter tears of loss and regret.

Drained both by effort to maintain the now faltering form of his hróa and the painful past memories resurfacing, he lay unmoving within reach of the stream. Gradually he became aware of a presence nearby and again the water’s song changed.

Opening his eyes he spied not far upstream a solitary stag, drinking from the clear waters. It watched him warily as it satisfied its thirst, then lifted its proud head, crowned with a magnificent set of antlers, to stare at the quiescent elf.

Maglor began to sing to the stag, his voice nearly inaudible, a song of peaceful glades and tender leaves and grasses, dusky evening and dim dawnlight, and of safe slumber and restful midday. The tranquility of the song lulled the elf onto the Path of Dreams…

Water…this time a clear, sun-sparkling lake. A very young elf splashed unceremoniously and vigorously in the shallows, calling to him by a strange name. Nyello! Nyello! Pausing to ponder the significance, he at last absorbed the new name into his fëa. As he did so an inner trembling began deep within him. Puzzled he awaited the meaning of this odd feeling.

He was at the water’s edge before the full magnitude struck him, nearly bringing him to his knees. Reaching up in wonder he felt his now wet cheeks, tears coming easily and without measure. He dove gracefully into the water, not willing that the child should be disturbed.

Blinking once he remembered the great stag and glanced to the place where he had appeared, but the glade was deserted. Sighing, Maglor stood up, stretched with feline grace, then knelt down on the grassy bank facing the stream. His right hand moved instinctively into the wandering waters, but his left lay clenched on his thigh.

Again he began to ‘play’ the cool liquid flow, this time adding voice to the fragile melody. Slowly his body relaxed, the tightly-fisted left hand resting palm up and fully opened. Moving almost leisurely his left hand entered the water taking up the opposing position as on harp strings. This time, however, the effect was one of heightened beauty of both song and music.

Abruptly he halted and rising he disrobed and entered into the deeper part of the gentle stream allowing the water to rest against him as would a harp, reverberating sensations of such joy he began to weep. Grey eyes closed, long, dark braid trailing downstream behind him, he played a song of healing and unmerited joy, of a newly named self.

The day waned before Maglor emerged from the water, wrapped in a peace he had not known for millennia. Not bothering to dress, he sprawled on the grassy bank and hands behind his head gazed thoughtfully at the scattered clouds overhead.

The subtle song, deep and slow grew about him. Sitting bolt upright he listened intently before springing lightly to his feet and striding purposefully to the nearest of the great beeches. Placing his hands on the grey bark and pressing his ear to the trunk, a delighted smile crossed his face. After more years than he cared to remember, living amid forests deep in silent slumber, he had all but forgotten the voice of trees. As the ancient tree thrummed a welcome, Maglor sank slowly to lean against the massive trunk, lulled onto the Paths once more.

Kanafinwë accompanied his parents in solemn reverie along the broad, smooth path leading toward the Corollairë, on this his first visit to the Trees. They had timed it so that he would experience first the silver light of Telperion as the Hour of Mingled Light was nearly completed, signaling the Hours of Silver Light. Heart beating faster, the young elf was barely able to contain his excitement, his fëa drawn by the beauty before him.

His atto and amil smiled at each other over his head at the joy in their son’s voice, the more so as he took his father’s hand as if to anchor himself from indecorous running in this wondrously, special place.

At a respectful distance the adults halted and Kanafinwë looked up questioningly into the fair face of his tall father to determine the correct show of reverence. Though his favored hour was passed, Fëanaro felt the clear, refreshing Light of the Silver Tree to be closer to the heart of this, his second son. Unshouldering the child-sized harp from his back, he sank gracefully to the ground, his wife and son joining him. Handing the small, though exquisitely crafted harp to his son, he bade him play for the Silver Tree. Eyes alight with a passionate longing, little Kanafinwë allowed his fëa to lead his hróa as he paid honor with voice and instrument to the majestic Tree. Moments later he was rewarded with the sonorous, resonant echoing tones of Telperion.

With shining eyes the elf-child rose and walked slowly to the edge of the overhanging branches. Holding both hands palm up, he stood motionless, waiting for… he knew not what. The nearest branch dipped slightly and from a sparkling silver flower, Telperion exuded a single drop of his light onto the small trembling left palm. Unlike water it ran not to the ground, but seemed to be absorbed instantly through his skin. Gasping in astonishment Kanafinwë remained immobile, staring at his hand and the faint silvery hue at its center which faded so rapidly that he was not sure he had seen it at all.

It was in his fifth yen that he again approached the Trees, this time with puzzlement. His atto had a keen fascination with the radiance at the Time of Mingled Light which Kanafinwë did not understand. For fully three twelve-days he haunted the Corollairë, studying each Hour of Mingled Light and singing to the Two of his wish to know, but he was unprepared when Laurelin thrummed deeply in answer as her light prevailed.

Rising swiftly he advanced to the outermost branches, his song filled with pleased wonder. Extending both arms, palms up to the Tree, he made known his desire to feel that which enthralled his atar so intensely. His eyes rose with yearning to the nearest of the great golden fruits that hung well above his reach. Easily he could have climbed the immense tree, but even the idea was unthinkable.

Closing his eyes he continued his pleading song, prepared to wait however long was required now that he had at last been acknowledged by Laurelin. At the subtle change in her song, he opened his eyes, then blinked in astonishment; a shining golden globe on the downward arched branch now hung within his grasp. Open-mouthed he raised his hands to cup the fruit, his left making contact an instant before his right, nearly stunning him with a powerful jolt. Yanking his hands back he looked at the affected palm and to his utter amazement saw a tiny gleaming imprint. Before it faded from his sight it seemed to blend with a silvery reflection.

Dropping to his knees he was further shaken by the awareness of an overwhelming ecstasy as he heard for the first time the Song of Mingled Light. It was long before he descended from the Corollairë.

The softly luminescent presence of the remembered Light filled the dreaming elf with joy, and his lips curved upward to form a blissful smile. Watching the face of the elf was an attendant from the Gardens, bearing food and drink which he set on the ground within easy reach.

Maglor sensed the other and startled into wakefulness, leapt to his feet as his hand instinctively dropped to his left hip to seize his sword, feinting to the right as if evading a blow. His hand meeting nothing but bare skin caused his eyes to widen in alarm. In a calm voice the Maia spoke to the elf.

Maglor, tensed and fully alert, did not reply, but stood warily. Glancing at the bag and flask, he gestured toward them.

Maglor frowned, then relaxed and sat near the food, but made no move to partake. With a sigh the Maia sat opposite him and extended the bag and flask. After a long appraising look Maglor took the proffered gift, loosing the cord and laying it upon the ground. It contained a thick wafer made of coarse ground grains and nuts mixed with honey and a savory meat, and two perfect creamy yellow plums. Breaking off a piece of the wafer he sampled the flavor and, finding it delicious, he then proceeded to make short work of it. The fruits were juicy and sweet so he rinsed his sticky fingers in the stream before trying the flask. His eyes widened in surprise at the first sip.

Before stoppering the flask, Maglor offered it to the Maia, who declined wordlessly.

Maglor took one more small sip, savoring a fragrant taste absent from his life for ages of Anar, closing his eyes to better appreciate the subtle flavors, and the rejuvenating effects.

Elsewhere the glory of the day was marred by the increased concern of Veryandil for his missing friend.

Oloriel: He said nothing of his return, Veryandil. It may be that he cannot yet seek the healing he needs.

Oloriel glanced beseechingly at her husband who continued to remain aloof from the conversation. Sighing she knelt down in front of their son.

Oloriel: We shall rest here today, but even if your friend does not arrive we must journey on to Valmar and the King. Your message on behalf of Nyello may be important.

Linwë turned and walked away from the camp, Oloriel musing that he chose the opposite direction of that taken by Makalaurë. He obviously wishes for not even so much as a chance encounter, she thought ruefully.

Oloriel: Come Veryandil, help me prepare a fine meal for your atto, so that he may smile again soon.

Veryandil grinned and took her offered hand as they went to select from their provisions just the right foods.

Linwë was up early and had made all ready for travel long before his wife and son arose, his impatience obvious. Setting his son atop the sweet-tempered pony he furrowed his brow at the lingering look Veryandil cast back over his shoulder as they proceeded to the next guesting house. Linwë felt he wished more than ever to spend time alone with his spouse after these last very trying days, and so the pace was not as leisurely as before.

Veryandil lagged behind and had to be reminded that he should not stray too far.

Linwë: He is surely able to follow this well-traveled path and see the hoof-prints of our horses.

Then changing tactics he halted to wait for his son to catch up. Smiling he leaned down and in a low voice invited his son to play.

Linwë: Shall we ride ahead and make certain that the way is clear for our beloved lady? Who knows what may lie around that next curve.

Veryandil’s head came up in challenge and he urged his pony forward and into a smooth lope, with his father close behind. Oloriel watched as her brave ‘escort’ scouted ahead, and continued on at a sedate pace.

By early dusk they had reached their destination, one of the small guesting houses set not far from the gently meandering path. Leaping lightly from his tall horse, Linwë went to assist his wife from her mount. Veryandil slid from his pony to stand beside his parents. The softly glowing light from the windows beckoned to them, so bidding the horses a fair night they walked toward the house.

Another pair of elves deep, in conversation, sat in one of the eating alcoves, bowls of steaming soup and a plate of hearty bread before them. The smell was enticing to the weary travelers, so after greeting the host, who directed them to another alcove, they made their way to the pot on the hearth to dole out portions of the flavorful soup. Linwë and Oloriel noted with pleasure that Veryandil ate eagerly and even requested an additional slice of the bread.

Oloriel kindly: Beloved one, he truly loves Veryandil and would not harm him. That he took up again his hróa for the sake of our son speaks much of his care.

Linwë: But for that… verë avaleryaina (oath bound), our son would not have needed to be rescued.

In a secluded glade, not far from the guesting house where their son played with another child this day, they paused to enjoy the warmth of Anar. Oloriel laughed brightly at the serious gaze of her consort as he watched a gaily colored butterfly flit past. Kissing him softly on the cheek she moved to face him holding both his hands in hers.

Linwë still truly concerned for the safety of his wife and especially their young son, was in no mood to play. Oloriel spun away from him, dancing soundlessly across the grass, loosing her waist-long dark hair to float freely as she gracefully swayed and twirled, creating a cloud of flowing shadow through the glorious sunlit meadow.

Oloriel sweetly: Heart of my heart, you stand as a great tree to my winging bird-flight.

Reaching gentle hands to his face she stroked his cheeks, then kissed each eye closed. He attempted to speak, but she placed a finger across his lips and freed his dark hair from its thick plait, then raised his arms, positioning them as branches of a tree. In his mind she showed him transformed into a mature yet still-young beech and she a lovely bird who wished to nest in his branches.

Stepping back she waited for his acceptance of her invitation. The tiny smile, closed eyes and motionless pose needed no words, spoken or unspoken, and she began her dance of love.

Fluttering about the 'tree' she familiarized herself with this her chosen 'home'. Trailing her fingers lightly down one arm, she noted with delight the slight tremor that ran through his body.

Knowing this to be a place of joinings she proceeded to disrobe her husband with painstakingly slow movements, till he stood before her splendid in his natural covering.

Dancing close around him, with fingertips and lips in brief contact with his bared skin, she explored the contours of his tensed body, each touch fleeting and unexpected, heightening his sensitivity. Tossing her head she let her hair brush across his now trembling flanks, then with fingers a mere hairsbreadth from his body traced delicate patterns along his hips and down his legs, then beginning at an ear tip followed the curve, descending slowly as weaving vine-like circles about him she dropped breathed kisses on his neck, shoulders, back and chest and paused…

Reaching out through their bond she beckoned his fëa to join the ‘play’. Though at first reluctant to release the unease he felt over the intruder in their lives, her gentle urging overcame his concern. Melding her brightly luminous fëa with that of her husband for a brief instant, she drew him to her.

Fëa now poised with anticipation Linwë staunchly maintained his 'tree' form. Brightly bejeweled with colors radiant and glowing, the lovely winged fëa of his wife fluttered about him, a feathery light touch as she swooped close rustling his leaves with her passing breeze. He longed for this rare treasure to alight in his branches that he might enfold her in his growing delight.

Oloriel stilled momentarily to admire the wondrous beauty that was her spouse, her lover.

Reaching up she clasped fingers with his and gently pulled his arms down to encircle her, then kissed him deeply as she pressed herself against him freeing him to respond.

Laying her down on the grass Linwë tenderly returned the explorations and teasings with wholehearted thoroughness of fëa and hróa before leisurely completing with gentle passion the loving coupling, his mind filled with adoration for his delightful life’s-mate, wife and dearest friend.

Veryandil, in the meantime had found his time pleasantly occupied with the company of another young elf, also traveling with his parents. Together they spent a merry day under the fond eyes of their elders, their youthful energies spent in exuberant activity.

During a brief time of rest from their play, they perched on a low branch, and shared the contents of a small bowl supplied by the adults. Nibbling on the fruit-and-nut mixture, the two young ones spoke of their homes and families.

Rusco: My eldest brother works gems near Formenos and my other brother is a skilled hunter and dwells near the woods of Oromë. It is he that we travel to visit. He promised to teach me how to track the great stag!

Veryandil: I do not have brother or sister, but I have a new friend, Nyello, who is a great minstrel and healer. He is to teach me to harp.

Rusco: Does your friend live close by or must you journey to see him? Veryandil was silent for a time before he answered.

Veryandil troubled: He has no home. He wanders alone and is sad. But when he sings and laughs he shines with beauty.

Veryandil thoughtfully: He found me and has stayed near. We are journeying to Valimar to speak with High King Manwë.

Rusco: Your friend is here! Will he play and sing this night? I do so long to dance under the stars…if my parents agree, of course.

Veryandil: He does not go with us, but I hope he will come to speak to the High King.

Veryandil: Nyello has done a wrong thing and must get permission from the High King to live in our lands again.

Veryandil: He has not told me yet, but my atar has spoken names about him that sound very bad.

Rusco: You said ‘again’, Veryandil. Had he been made to live elsewhere? Who made him go? Where did he stay? Why does he want to come back?

Veryandil: I do not know the answer to any of your questions, and he gets angry when I ask him. He has dark dreams that torment him. But we are oath-friends and his heart is kind.

Oloriel: Peace has been restored, little one, in a private manner as expressed by a bonded couple.

Oloriel: The peace is between your atto and me, Veryandil. We have not spoken of your friend, Nyello.

Oloriel: Then we shall hope for his soon arrival. Let us now go to see how we may help with the evening meal.

Veryandil eagerly: The kitchen garden has many strange plants, nana. Will you tell me of them?

Oloriel: Let us explore these new wonders, my son, and perhaps we may include some in the food prepared.

Veryandil skipped ahead in delight, but his parents could not overlook the occasional longing glance cast back along the roadway.

At the midday meal, Veryandil set aside a portion of his light repast and carefully wrapped the juicy plum, a small hand-full of nuts and a thick slice of fragrant bread into a neat cloth package, setting it beside him on the low bench. Linwë sighed, but said nothing.

As the bright afternoon waned, heralding the approaching night, Veryandil’s anxiety grew and he beseeched his father to allow him to wait at the curve in the road. Reluctantly permission was given, with the stern reminder to remain within full view of the guesting-house.

Veryandil carried two small packages now, the second containing a small portion of the tender meat from the evening meal. He sat cross-legged on the gentle slope beside the road and, after first glancing back to ascertain that he could be easily seen by his parents, fixed his patient gaze down the winding road.

Maglor seeing the child, alone and motionless, suffered a brief moment of apprehension causing him to quicken his stride to an easy, ground-covering jog. Close enough now to observe the intent, hopeful face, he slowed slightly, though still moving quickly and soon stood before the elfling. Veryandil rose gracefully and grinned happily at his friend.

Maglor gazed wonderingly at the young child, not considering until that moment how strongly he had craved the open-hearted welcome of one of his own kind. Ruefully he realized that it was perhaps due largely to the child’s innocent lack of knowledge of the history of the Exiled Noldor that he was welcomed so eagerly; that Veryandil’s father mistrusted him was no surprise.

Veryandil: It is not far to the guesting-house, Nyello, where we are staying the night. Will you come?

Maglor: Better it would be to keep distance between your father and me. Unfriend he deems me.

Veryandil proffered the pair of packages to Maglor. Upon viewing the contents, Maglor’s brow furrowed.

Seeing the look of disappointment on the small face, he unwrapped the food and ate it to the last crumb. Veryandil smiled happily, but then a frown settled on his fair features.

Veryandil lowered his eyes, then dropped his head to avoid looking at the tall elf.

Maglor: That is one example. Veryandil frowning: Why would atto be angry with you because of your family?

Veryandil: Does it mean that someone killed your family? But why would atto not be sad for you?

Maglor: Do you remember when you asked my name and I told you I had many, but I did not want to use them anymore?

Maglor: Even when a new name is chosen the old names may still apply. This is such a name.

Veryandil concerned: It does not feel like a real name, Nyello. Atto made it sound very bad.

Veryandil: Maybe when I tell Lord Manwë how you helped me, he will take the bad name away.

Veryandil in frustration: You could not have done something so bad you cannot be forgiven by the Valar. Please tell me why atto called you nossenehtar.

Maglor: You will not wish to be my friend, Veryandil, if I tell you. Are you willing to break our friend-bond to satisfy your curiosity?

Sparkling tears formed in Veryandil’s eyes at the thought of losing this elf he thought of as an older brother and dear friend. Cuddling next to Maglor, Veryandil placed one small hand on the arm of his friend.

Veryandil nodded. Maglor taking a ragged breath: Your atto is correct, I am a kin-slayer.

Maglor swallowed hard, hands clenched into tight fists, face filled with grief and self-loathing.

Maglor bitterly: I, Kanafinwë Makalaurë Maglor Fëanorion, am a nossenehtar; I have killed other elves.

Head bowed in shame, Maglor listened for the inevitable sound of a frightened child running back to his parents. Instead he felt a gentle tug on his tunic sleeve. Almost he shook loose, but the broken-hearted sobbing caused him to open his eyes.

Picking up the weeping child, Maglor cradled him in one strong arm, lightly stroking the dark head. But he had no words of comfort to offer and so stared into the trees as if seeking escape from the pain he both felt and caused with his words.

Veryandil hesitantly: Nyello, were they very bad elves and you had to fight them?

Maglor dejectedly: Many were unarmed and confused by the attacks. Some were friends; some children.

Setting the child to sit across from him Maglor tried to explain, but found no words. It was at this moment that Linwë made known his presence to his son.

Linwë quietly: Veryandil, please go now to your nana. Nyello and I have… must speak together.

Obediently Veryandil stood to leave, but then threw his arms about his atar. When he had quieted, Linwë once again bade him return to the guesting-house. Veryandil reluctantly complied. The two adults watched the child trudge away.

Linwë warily: Certainly my son told you of the purpose of our journey to Valimar.

Linwë: He will not be persuaded to turn aside. For several moments neither elf spoke.

Maglor: Nor can I change the past, Linwë, though from my heart I wish it so. During the lonely ages of my exile none has offered kind words or friendship nor did I think to ever hear my name spoken without scorn.

Linwë: Only vague rumors and dark tales are told now of those times. I would hear from your mouth the truth.

Maglor: Already your distrust is evident. Need I add wood to the blaze? Black my deeds, and all are unforgiven; shame and guilt my constant companions. Yet for love of the child will I lay bare my crimes before you.

Maglor then recited the litany of his transgressions in a voice devoid of emotion.

Maglor: Madness and a dark oath; lies of the Enemy cunningly woven to ensnare even the mightiest elves; insatiable hunger to retake the master work of my atar, Fëanor, and longing to avenge the death of his atar, King Finwë. Oath-sworn, my brothers and I, and a never-ending path of destruction and death followed in our wake. Thrice cursed as nossenehtar and forever banned from the Blessed Realm, we could not avert our doom.

Teleri, Sindar, Noldor, Avari, even the Aftercomers, male, female, child; all who came between the Oath-bound House of Fëanor and the Jewels of Light we slew without mercy. Two only remained and we wrested them from the keeping of the Valar themselves, but found we could no longer possess them. One rests in the heart of Arda; the other in the depths of the Sea, Eärendil bears the third aloft through the Airs above. I am the last of our cursed House and come now to seek pardon. That I have been allowed to present my supplication for mercy is more than I had ever hoped.

Linwë: Would that you had continued your Exile and never troubled this fair land, Kinslayer.

Linwë without pity: Dissuade my son from his quest to the High King, and then go back to the haunts of the forsaken.

Maglor with narrowed eyes studied the other elf long before replying. Steeling himself against the outcome of the offer he thought to make, he considered the finality and hopelessness of the decision he would place in the hands of this embittered father.

Maglor tonelessly: Another option is open to me. To submit to the keeping of Námo, bereft of hróa (here he shuddered visibly) from hence forth. It is that which I dread most.

Linwë stared wide-eyed at the wretched elf in sheer disbelief. Surely he would not allow another to decide his fate, especially one who had no love or compassion for him. Maglor gazed at Linwë with bleak resignation anticipating the inevitable rejection.

Maglor brokenly: For your son…for Veryandil…for love of a father for his son…for wrongs committed and unpardoned…for weariness of life and loneliness…will I enter the Halls of Waiting. Nothing more is my due. Choose, Linwë.

Gaping at the utterly defeated elf, Linwë was stunned into absolute silence. It was not his right to pass sentence, however much he mistrusted and disliked this sinister relic from the distant past. The empty stare, unblinking and tearless, that met Linwë’s shocked eyes lacked even a hint of life or fragment of hope.

An unreasoning fury swept over Linwë at the sight of the defenseless elf. How dare he put such a burden upon another! As sudden as the feeling came, it was quenched by a profound compassion for this once mighty son of House Fëanor, crushed beneath the unyielding weight of self-reproach and the agony of much deserved guilt.

There was no reaction. Had he already abandoned his hróa? Tentatively Linwë reached out to cover one powerful warrior hand with his supple one, only to discover that the other’s skin was grown cool and he was entirely unresponsive.

Linwë urgently in mind to Oloriel: Beloved, bring our son quickly. Nyello is fading.

Linwë: My son, can you reach your friend? He assumed my rejection and I fear he is departing for the Halls.

Veryandil cast himself into the lap of his friend, wrapping slender arms about the older elf.

Veryandil desperately: Nyello, do not leave! My atto bids you stay. Please go with us to Lord Manwë. Nyello!

Veryandil stroked the dark head, then gripped one long plait and tugging hard pulled Maglor‘s face close and whispered in his ear.

Maglor murmured: Release me, child. Veryandil forcefully: Only if the Lord Manwë declares you must leave. We are oath-bound. Nyello, see me!

Maglor raised his arms to enfold the child within an embrace and leaning forward kissed the top of the dark head.

Maglor sighing: Very well, small and persistent one, until Manwë determines my fate. Go now and rest. May Irmo grant you dreams of peace.

Veryandil allowed himself to be led away, but not without many a backward glance.

In Valimar

The summons came at dawn. Linwë knew the messenger, for he had seen her several times while at court, but her usually merry face was somber. Coming up to him as he walked in the garden of the King's guesthouse with his wife, she said quietly: Heru Manwë asks you to attend on him.

Linwë: When, my lady?

She answered gravely: Now.

Linwë bowed; she turned and walked away. Oloriel touched his hand briefly, sending encouragement and love. He returned the touch, both of fëa and hróa and followed the messenger.

*******

As he walked the short distance to the King's Hall, Linwë reflected on his years of service to Manwë. From early childhood, he had been a weaver of words, not only in the usual way of his people, whose greatest skill was with language, but also in the way of the poet who spins the thread of speech into song. It was natural for him to think in poetic terms—in meter and rhyme, in verse and stanza. As some loved to apply color to a blank surface, so he loved to apply words of beauty and symmetry to what he saw around him. Several times, his father, though he did not have the gift of poetry, appreciated such a gift, had urged him to study its forms and uses. Finally, just before he came of age, Linwë apprenticed himself to one of the King's poets. He had loved walking and talking with the minstrels, both of song and of words. He created word-music of his own, and one day, to his astonishment, he was summoned to the King himself. As he stood before him, awed and uncharacteristically shy, Heru Manwë had smiled and said: Tell me of the light on snow.

Linwë felt heat rising in his face, for this was the poem he made for Eruhantalë which had just past—a poem in praise of the brightness of Taniquetil, seen through clouds at dawn. He said: It so delighted me that I must sing its praise in speech.

Manwë: Indeed yes, and so you did. Will you join your voice to those who praise Ilúvatar here?

Linwë: Gladly, sire!

Manwë: Good.

From that day, Linwë had labored with joy in the King's service. Now, however, he was burdened as he went up the broad steps to the entrance of the Hall of Audience. The door-ward, like the messenger, looked at him expressionlessly, saying: He will receive you at once.

Linwë bowed and entered. He walked the length of the hall to the foot of the dais. There he knelt and waited. After a moment, Manwë spoke, his voice grave: Jealousy ill becomes you, Linwë. It seems a perversion of your nature. Stand up, Eruhina.

Linwë rose and looked up into the King's face, which was unusually stern. After a moment, Manwë said quietly: It is hard, perhaps, for you to imagine such a one as Makalaurë, for you dwell here in peace. He is the child of one whose brilliance was overshadowed by his pride, a very great marring of Melkor indeed. Do not let the seeds of that marring infest your heart, my friend.

Astonishment emboldened Linwë and he said: Then you pardon Makalaurë, sire?

Manwë, with a hint of sternness: Peace, Linwë.

Then, more gently, he asked: Has he harmed you, or your son, in any way?

Linwë started to answer hotly, but the King's demeanor stilled him. After a moment he said: He has not, sire.

Manwë: Tell me of his dealings with your house, Linwë.

Linwë: He—he has helped my son, herunya—several times. He has treated me with courtesy, even if cold courtesy. He—did not retaliate when I struck him in anger. Instead, he—aided Veryandil to re-enter his hróa, out of which he had somehow slipped.

Manwë: Then he has not offered you offense—other than that which you perceive in his lineage?

Linwë did not answer at once, as memories of what he had been told of the deeds of Fëanor and his sons rushed through his mind. Finally, he shook his head.

Then he said, his voice filled with pain and bewilderment: Can such a one change his course?

Manwë: So it would seem, my friend. We know well that not all was foretold in the Great Music.

Linwë: I do not understand him, sire. One moment he plays with my son; the next, he fights with Shadow. Such instability—it frightens me, and I would not have my child hurt. And yet—yet, my son lives who might have gone to the Halls of Mandos.

Manwë: Indeed.

Linwë: Can he be healed, herunya?

Manwë: If he chooses to walk that difficult path, meldonya.

After a moment, bowing his head, Linwë said: I see that I have hindered him. I am sorry for it.

Looking up, he saw that Manwë smiled openly: So then, my friend, come to me later this day, you and your lady and your child, and I will hear what they would say.

*******

They were led into an antechamber, a large, but not imposing room, hung with tapestries of blue and white. Though they could not see them, there seemed to be windows high up on the walls which admitted soft light and a cool constant breeze which stirred the hangings gently. Besides the entrance, the chamber had two doors, which looked identical. They were each surmounted by a carving of an eagle with outspread wings and sapphire eyes.

When they had been seated on a settle covered also in blue and white, they were left to themselves. Veryandil moved closer to his parents, his hands restless on his knees. Linwë laid a hand gently over them and said: Do not fear, yonya. Simply speak clearly and honestly. The King is noble in spirit and loves the truth.

Veryandil looked up at his father and smiled a bit tentatively, saying: I will, atto, but what if Nyello does not come?

Linwë: Peace, hinya. He may still do so.

At that moment, one of the doors swung open, and the attendant, smiling, beckoned for Veryandil. The boy rose, then turned and quickly embraced his mother, who laughed softly, straightened his garments and gave him a gentle push toward the door. Veryandil squared his shoulders and walked steadily up to it. The attendant smiled again, stepped aside, and gestured him in.

He had expected a large hall, a throne room, but what he saw was more like his nana's sitting room at home. There was a deep carpet of soft brown wool on the floor. There were chairs set here and there. There were glass panels from floor to ceiling on one side which let in the warmth and light of the late afternoon. Sitting on a settle like the one in the antechamber was a person in a robe of changeful blue with long soft dark hair, a kind calm face and azure eyes. He rose as the child entered, came forward and took his hands. Veryandil saw that he was only a little taller than his father.

Manwë: Welcome, hina.

The Vala's voice sang in Veryandil's ears, even without music, and the child felt joy leap up within him: Are you Heru Manwë? I thought you would be—bigger.

Manwë laughed warmly: Sometimes I am, but not today.

Veryandil nodded, but found no words, for the King's eyes filled him with delight. After a moment, the Vala smiled and said: Your father speaks of you with love, child. He also says that you delight in telling tales. Come, sit with me and tell me of your friend.

They both sat down, Veryandil on the settle and the King in a chair facing the boy. Manwë said: Now, let me hear your tale.

Veryandil drew a breath and said: My na—my mother has the Gift of Sight. It came to her when I was very little, and I remember hearing her crying in the night because the dreams troubled her. My father would comfort her and sing to her, but it did not always help, so she decided to go to Lorien to speak with Heru Irmo. We live near Tirion, my family and me, on the street called Fountain. Have you been there, sire?

Manwë: Not for some time, melda.

Veryandil: It is not really a street, but a square, with trees in it and a large fountain in the center. My friends and I play in it in hot weather. Our house is on the north side of the square. There are flower boxes in the windows.

Manwë: And a fair tree beside the doors to shade them.

Veryandil: It is so! The tree is quite tall and nearly reaches to the windows of the upper floor!

Manwë: Truly. So, your mother decided to seek Heru Irmo's aid.

Veryandil: She did, herunya, and since Lorien is a long way from our home, my father and mother decided that we would all go together. It took us nearly two six-days to come to the guesthouse where we stayed.

For a moment, Veryandil was quiet, as memories of the journey rose in his mind—of the beeches of Oromë, so huge that his parents together could not encircle them with their arms, of lakes which mirrored the sky, of plains of tall grass which stretched to the horizon like a blue-green sea, flecked with a bright foam of wildflowers. Manwë smiled gently, and Veryandil started and said: I am sorry, Herunya. So we came to the guesthouse, and after we had been there for a six-day, I asked my at—my father if we could go to the Gardens, as I wanted to see where my mother studied, for she had been accepted as one of Heru Irmo's istyari.

On the way there, I saw a beech which looked good to climb; I did; and I nearly fell from it. I hurt my shoulder, and my father helped me to come down. He carried me toward the Gardens, and one of Heri Estë's people met us at the entrance and said she would bring me to a healing place. I did not want to go with her. I—shouted—much.

Manwë laughed softly: Did you so, hina?

Veryandil: I did, sire. My father had to speak sharply to me, and when I stopped shouting, he said that he would go to my mother at once. So I went, but my shoulder hurt so that I could not help crying a little. The Maia spoke quietly to me and said that her lady would come quickly. Then she left me in the healing place. I tried not to weep, but I was—afraid, sire.

Manwë: With good reason, Veryandil. Is that when your friend came?

Veryandil: It was, Herunya. I suppose he heard me crying. He came into the place and I asked where I was, as my mind was—confused. He told me, and then the Lady came. She was—she is very beautiful, sire. She touched me, and it hurt because my shoulder was out of joint; then she told me that she would send me to sleep so that she could put it back. And then, I was on the Path of Dreams, but not as I usually am, for I could not change direction or change the dream. At first I seemed to be flying above Arda like—like one of your eagles, sire. Then I saw the Gardens, with their silver willows and the lake and everything. And I was in the lake, floating in it, but the water was light, gold and silver light, and there was singing, and I could not tell if the singing was the light or the light was song.

I awoke later, in pain, and my friend was there. He helped me to drink some medicine and I went to sleep again. Then I thought my father lay down with me and that I held his hair as I sometimes do when I am hurting.

Again, Veryandil paused, remembering. After a moment, the boy went on: Herunya, my friend has been very kind to me. He has healed me several times, He helped me get back inside my hróa when I got outside somehow. he has begun to teach me the harp. He did tell me a little about what he did, about killing some of our people. I do not understand how he could do that, but he is very sad about it. Please, sire—please forgive him. I—I think he would come to you again, but he is afraid. I think he wants to go to his family, but he is afraid. He has been alone for so long!

Veryandil's eyes filled with tears, and he bent his head as he contemplated his friend's sorrow. With a soft rustle of garments, Manwë rose and came to him. Putting a gentle finger beneath the boy's chin, he lifted his head. Veryandil gazed into the deep eyes, and it was as if he looked into a summer sky. He shivered, but not with fear. After a moment, the Vala resumed his chair and spoke quietly: I thank you, Veryandil, for coming to me. I must tell you, hinya, that it is not my part alone to forgive your friend. Those whom he has wronged must offer pardon as well, and he must acknowledge his misdeeds. For this, he must return here.

Veryandil nodded, but dared not speak lest he weep. Finally, almost inaudibly, he said: I know, sire. I have asked him to come. I want him to be happy again. When he smiles, it is like sunlight through clouds. When he plays the harp with joy, it is like—like the stars in his hand.

Manwë: Then we shall hope that he finds the courage, melda. Now, go to your parents and be easy. Ask your mother to come to me.

Veryandil rose and bowed. When he looked up, the King's smile warmed him. As he approached the door, it opened, and he saw his parents' anxious faces. He went to them, and Linwë, rising, said: Are we to wait, yonya?

Veryandil said: Nana is to go in. Oloriel also rose, and went quickly to the open door, where she curtsied and entered.

The door closed softly. The comfortable room was empty, and Oloriel saw that one of its crystal panels was open, revealing a small walled garden. The King sat there on a stone bench. He rose, smiling, and beckoned her to join him. With another curtsy, she went to him. He laid his hands lightly on her shoulders and regarded her kindly: So, herinya, and how do you fare in your studies?

Oloriel: At first, it was difficult, sire, as I could not always tell what was vision and what was visible, but Heru Irmo has helped me to distinguish between them.

The King nodded, and indicated that she should be seated. She did as he asked, and he himself sat beside her. After a moment, he asked: So, meldenya, what did you wish to tell me?

Oloriel was about to reply when there was a flurry of sound from above her. Glancing up, she saw a fair-sized hawk descending swiftly, to light on the King's left shoulder. Manwë reached up and gently stroked its gleaming feathers. He did not speak, but Oloriel felt the passage of thought between master and servant, and the hawk launched itself into the air, climbed upward and was gone. Manwë turned to her again and said: Your son's friend approaches the city. I hope he will take courage and enter. No one will compel him; he must do this thing of himself.

Oloriel sighed: This is so, sire. I have never known one as troubled as Makalaurë—or with so much potential. It fairly shines from him.

Manwë: Will you say more of this?

Oloriel: When he is lost in memory, it is as if Shadow holds him. When he harps or sings or engages in play, light blossoms in his fëa—a light that is not altogether his own. I saw this most clearly when he grasped me while in the throes of one of his dark dreams. At that moment, I seemed to see both battle and shining. I heard the cries of the wounded and the dying, and I saw the light of I Aldu. It is almost as if he has become a living Silmaril, sire.

Manwë: Ah. And what else would you say of him, herinya?

Oloriel: That I hope he will allow healing, both of fëa and Hróa. I think he has been punished long enough—a torment he inflicts upon himself. His deeds were terrible, but not all of them.

Manwë: Truly. I too hope for his renewal, Oloriel. It would go some way toward amending the marring of his house. Is there more that you would say?

Oloriel: There is not, sire. I thank you for hearing me.

Manwë: It is nothing herinya. You and your family are welcome here.

Oloriel: Sire, if Makalaurë is in need of advocates, I for one will gladly stand for him.

Manwë: I thank you.

The King regarded Oloriel thoughtfully for a moment, then added: Meldenya, I think that you may have more than one teacher among us, for you have a compassionate heart.

Oloriel: I hoped that might be so, sire. I would dearly love to aid those like Heru Makalaurë.

Manwë: Speak to Heri Nienna, then, Oloriel. I am sure she would be glad to help you strengthen this gift.

Oloriel: I will, Heru Manwë.

She rose, curtsied again, and left.

*******

As he approached the gates of the city, moving steadily but warily, Maglor saw someone coming toward him—a familiar figure in a cloak of dark blue. He halted, half-inclined to leave, but the other gave him a grave smile and bowed.

Eonwë: Aiya Makalaurë Fëanorion. Be well come. If you will, there is lodging prepared for you. I believe that friends are there also.

Maglor bowed in his turn and said: I thank you, King's Herald. I will come.

Indicating with a gesture that they should take one of the paths which branched off the main way, the Maia walked beside Maglor. The city walls were soon lost to sight behind a screen of tall trees, and the travelers heard no sound but their own light footfalls and the songs of birds. They ascended a slight rise and dipped down into a valley, at the bottom of which stood a house built of cream-colored stone. As they approached, Maglor heard the sound of a child's laughter; he stood still, both glad and afraid. Eonwë gave him a sympathetic glance and said: It is a fragile thing, friendship, but well worth the having.

Then, his face sobering, he added: The King commands that you stay here until summoned. Will you do this?

Maglor: I will.

Eonwë: Good. A fair evening to you.

With that, he turned and walked away.

*******

When Eonwë was gone, Maglor went slowly forward, across a space of grass and up three broad steps onto a porch. The door of the house was open, and the smell of roasted meat and savory vegetables floated out. After a moment's hesitation, Maglor drew a calming breath and stepped over the threshold. Facing him was another open door, which led into a garden. To his right was a corridor, with doors along both sides.

At the end of the passage was the main room of the dwelling, which evidently served as a dining chamber as well, for there sat Linwë and his family at table. Veryandil's father was facing the corridor, and he laid down a spoon, rose and bowed courteously. His expression was a mixture of warmth and wariness. Veryandil did not see his friend at first, as he was facing his mother, but when his father rose, he looked, leaped up and ran to Maglor. Linwë did nothing to stop him. Maglor knelt down and caught the racing child in his arms.

For a moment, they simply embraced each other, but finally, Veryandil drew back and said: Nyello, we are the only ones here, and the King told me before we left him that no one else will come, so do not be afraid. He also said that someone will go to Lorien for your harp, but one is here for you to use if you wish. There are books too, and the garden is fair. Are you hungry?

Maglor chuckled: Such a spate of words, little one! I am not hungry, but, if you will, I will sit with you and your parents.

Maglor got to his feet, and the child took his left hand firmly and brought him to the table. Oloriel also rose, and taking Maglor's other hand said: We are glad you have come. Sit and be at ease.

When he was seated, Oloriel returned to stand beside her husband who said: We would gladly share our meal with you, Nyello.

Veryandil: My atto has made a lovely stew, and my nana has baked blackberry tarts. Mmmm!

Oloriel started to move, but Linwë shook his head and went into the kitchen. He returned with a bowl of stew, bread still warm from the oven, and a small goblet of the pale golden wine Maglor liked on a tray. He set the food and drink before him, and inclined his head. Maglor returned the gesture, and, looking up, met Linwë's eyes for a moment. With sudden, unmixed gladness, he said: Thank you, Linwë.

When the meal was finished, both Linwë and Oloriel refused to allow Maglor to help clear the table.

Oloriel: Tomorrow you may help, Nyello. Tonight, be our guest. Besides, our son is eager to show you your chamber and the other wonders of this place.

*******

Maglor allowed his young friend to drag him through the corridors of the house by the hand like a puppy on a lead.

His room, and the others in the house, was spacious and airy, with a door which led into the surrounding garden. Besides a comfortable-looking bed, it contained a clothes press in which were several simple tunics and one formal robe, the purpose of which Maglor thought he knew. In a corner, on a table of polished oak, was a harp of much the same construction and size as his own.

Veryandil: Atto asked a friend to loan it to you. He did not tell him your name, only that you are a great minstrel who is here by order of the King.

Across the corridor was a small but well-stocked library of books and scrolls. Standing in the doorway, breathing in the scent of leather and parchment, Maglor suddenly felt a desire to simply sit and read.

Veryandil: Do you wish to see the garden, Nyello?

Maglor: I think I shall stay here for a little, my friend. I have missed this.

The child was about to answer, when they heard Oloriel calling him. Veryandil scampered away, while Maglor entered the room. He moved from rack to shelf, scanning the titles, most of which were unfamiliar to him. At the end of one row of books, he found a slim volume of poetry, bound in simple gray leather. It was called Tuilindor. Drawing it forth, he sat down in one of the room's comfortable chairs and began to read in the soft lamplight.

A time later, feeling as if he had drunk deeply of a clear spring, Maglor glanced up at a soft footstep, to see the poet standing beside him. Maglor looked at him with quiet eyes, and almost diffidently asked: May I set some of these to music, Linwë? They are very fair.

Linwë: I—I would be honored, Nyello. They were a gift to Oloriel.

Maglor: I shall treat them gently—meldonya.

Linwë smiled openly, touched Maglor lightly on the shoulder, and walked out. After reading the poems several times to fix them in memory, Maglor went to his chamber, took up the harp and its key and stepped out into the garden. There he found a bench some way from the house, tuned the instrument and began to compose.

*******

At the end of the six-day, Maglor asked Linwë, Oloriel and Veryandil to join him in the garden. Sitting on the grass at his feet, they awaited the results of his labors. He said: Though I like all of the poems, Linwë, three moved me especially.

He lifted the harp into his lap, and sang. The first was a love song, full of longing, tenderness and fulfillment. Maglor's voice and music perfectly reflected the slightly plaintive first words, the passionate central declaration and the peace at the end. The second song was a lullaby, supported by a gentle rocking melody, which seemed simple at first but soon diverged into a lovely set of variations, both vocal and verbal. Finally, he played his setting for the title poem, a playful circling of words and melody, full of puns on the names of animals and musical gests. This last brought delighted giggles from Veryandil and smiles to his parents' faces.

Maglor sent no images with the music, so that Linwë's words would shine on their own. When the last song ended in a sparkling shower of notes, there was a moment of utter stillness. Then Veryandil sprang up and hurling himself at his friend, hugged his leg and laughed: Nyello! O Nyello!

Linwë also rose, and bowing deeply said: You have set my words free, Nyello. Thank you.

Oloriel simply smiled at Maglor, her eyes bright with tears.

Maglor said nothing, but his smile was unguarded.

*******

Manwë: The time has come. Let all be gathered.

Eonwë: As you command, sire.

*******

Maglor: Do not forget to damp them, child.

Veryandil: Avalanche!

He playfully ran his fingers down the strings of the harp, while Maglor laughed softly. He was about to respond, when they both heard a knock on the outer door of the house, followed by Linwë's steps and the opening of the door. They looked at one another, Veryandil's expression worried, Maglor's attentive. A moment later, Linwë came into the garden, followed by Eonwë. Maglor rose and bowed.

Eonwë: Makalaurë Fëanorion, you and all the people are summoned to appear before the assembled Valar at mid-day.

Veryandil: Nyello!

Maglor: I hear, King's Herald.

____________________

Notes: All Eldarin words are in Quenya.

Eruhantalë—the festival of thanksgiving to Eru.

Eruhina—child of the One, i.e. an Elf or a Man.

Herunya—my lord.

Hróa—body.

Meldonya—my friend, referring to a man.

Yonya—my son.

Atto—papa.

Hinya—my child.

Nana—mama.

Hina—child.

Heru—lord.

Melda—dear.

Istyari—scholars.

Heri—lady.

Herinya—my lady.

Meldenya—my friend, referring to a woman.

Fëa—spirit.

I Aldu--the Two Trees.

Aiya—hail!

Tuilindor—swallows.

Gathered together at the Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom, located outside the gates of Valimar, where were set the thrones of the Valar when they sat at council, was a vast assemblage. Not only the mighty Valar, but numerous Maiar, and a host of Elves of every kindred were present for this unique event; the pronouncing of the doom of an Oath-Cursed Exile from the Elder Days.

Such a thing had never occurred before, since long ago all others had passed into the Halls of Mandos or else had been allowed to return and dwell on the lovely isle, Tol Eressëa. A few, the daughter of King Finarfin among them, took up abode on the extensive land mass especially designed for those elves who loved to wander amidst tree and glade rather than dwell in the more elegantly settled lands of the Noldor.

This particular elf, however, was none other than the last surviving son of the beautiful and gifted Fëanor, unintentional tool of the malevolent Vala, formerly known as Melkor. Once again the ancient tales were retold and the horror of those dreadful events recounted, stirring in hearts long buried memories. The elf in question appeared outwardly calm, though inside he felt a mixture of fiery soul-piercing fear and well-nigh extinguished coals of hope. Surely his fate would be cause enough for turmoil and controversy at the very least, and the pronouncement which was at hand was awaited by all with varying degrees of sentiment ranging from curiosity to hostility. Some were openly aggrieved that Makalaurë had even been permitted to entreat for pardon, so proud and disdainful he seemed to them now.

Murmuring voices echoed the protests; ‘trouble attends those of the Doom’, ‘will next Fëanor himself seek re-admittance?’, ‘too long he has dwelt in the Dark of Arda Marred’; and much more besides. One group, some twenty-odd cloaked and hooded despite the warmth of the day, were positioned directly behind the topic of dispute, and though they gave no sign of their opinion, their tense stances and grim faces were thought to express strong personal grievances against Makalaurë.

Inside the Ring on the elevated dais sat Manwë enthroned, the embodiment of a mighty King, tall and proud, with eyes like the evening sky filled with stars. About him the others, Valar and Maiar, sat still and solemn. The last to arrive caused no small stir among those assembled. With a rumbling like the upwelling of a surging flood, Ulmo strode to take his normally unoccupied seat.

The elf, standing to one side, yet facing the court of the Valar, eyed him with no little trepidation, but refused to indicate his discomfort outwardly. On the opposite side, staring in wonder at the entire array of divine beings, sat a family of elves, a father, a mother and their very young son, about whom there was much speculation. How could this obviously youthful trio have had any meaningful dealings with this ancient Kinslayer?

Manwë raised his hand to signal the start of the proceedings. An immediate hush fell over all present as they waited intently for his pronouncement. The prior lengthy and private deliberations, that had been the focus of the attention of the Powers for many six-days, were about to culminate in the speaking of the ultimate fate of Makalaurë, last son of Oath-mad Fëanor, in the presence of the assembled host.

Through a gap in the throng passed a tall, powerfully built being, causing a ripple of excited questions among the spectators. Many knew of this singular person, but few had dealings with him, his appointed task keeping him from the blessed realm for much of the time and his reluctance to mingle freely adding to his irregular companionship. But all knew of the intercessor of Elves and Men, the one in whose veins ran the combined blood of Maia, Elf and Man; Eärendil, the Bright Star.

Eärendil: At your summoning, I have come, yet unwillingly. Manwë acknowledged his protest with a slight inclination of his head, but did not speak. Eärendil stood to the right of Manwë near to the elven family, Maglor to the left. Eärendil watched Maglor closely, but the elf did not once raise his head or eyes. The low murmur of voices hushed as Manwë rose, resplendent in his robes of deep changeful shades of blue, and a marvelously crafted circlet of silver and sparkling blue gems, the chief among them carved into the likeness of a great eagle, mantled and wary. He was arrayed in the formal attire of judgment and all present knew the gravity of the matter before him.

Would Manwë pardon this Exile to whom return to the Blessed Realm had been long ago denied? Would this Fëanorion be permitted to dwell once again in their midst? In their unease they reminded one another that even the Lord Manwë had once been deceived, and the resulting consequences had been absolutely catastrophic, ultimately changing their lives forever.

Altogether grudgingly Eärendil flung open his cloak. Resting upon his breast there shone the single brilliant Silmaril still housed in the refashioned Nauglamir; an incomparable burning star of golden-silver luminosity set among an array of lesser jewels. For most this was their first close glimpse of the last of the three fabled Jewels. Except for a collective indrawn breath, all fell silent.

Maglor came to instant watchfulness, his eyes reflecting the dazzling brightness. So intent was he on drinking in the sight of the Jewel, that he missed the concerned look on the face of the King. Eärendil, refusing to even acknowledge Maglor, loosed the fabulous necklace and placed it lovingly into a small wooden chest padded with a silky, grey cloth, slowly closing the lid with a soft click.

Manwë: Come, child, there is a deed I would ask thee to perform. Veryandil stood and approached the throne, clearly uncertain, but willing to comply. A low murmur of bewilderment from the onlookers accompanied him.

Manwë: Thou shall receive from the hands of the Light-keeper the small coffer he holds and bear it to the one you claim as Oath-friend.

Veryandil nodded and followed precisely the directions he received. Halting before Maglor he waited for the next instructions. The fiery eyes of Maglor never left the ornate box clasped carefully by two small hands, but he remained motionless.

Veryandil carefully raised the top to expose the profusion of light within. Maglor stood immovable, though he trembled with longing. Unable to bear the painful awareness of the close proximity of the Silmaril, Maglor closed both eyes and clenched his hands into tight fists.

Maglor flinched at the stern voice calling his name, but refused to yield to the unavoidable temptation.

Maglor agonized: It will not suffer my hand. It is hallowed and I am…fouled, unworthy, rejected.

Maglor shuddered violently, but obeyed. His yearning gaze locked on the bright nemesis of his fate. Unnoticed, Veryandil wept for his friend as he watched the legendary elf in the throes of uttermost torment and want.

Shaking as with a terrible weakness of limb, Maglor stretched out his left arm and with a ragged moan closed his hand around the Jewel. The look of astonished joy that wreathed his face in a blissful smile was reflected on the face of the child. Lifting it from the coffer he raised it aloft laughing with the sheer pleasure of holding once more one of the fabled Jewels, remembering with elation the rare times his atto had permitted the handling of the Three.

His delight was short-lived. Turning his full attention to Manwë he sent a questioning look to the Vala. Manwë sat impassively and offered no insight as to the subsequent actions.

Veryandil watched with concern the rapid play of emotions across the visage of his friend; the last of them all was resignation.

Maglor regretfully: Though my hand it will accept, yet the right of possession has passed from me. For Oath-madness, pitiless murders of the innocent and their defenders, willful disobedience, betrayals; all these have ruled me and are ever upon me.

Veryandil obeyed instantly. Maglor cast a puzzled look at Manwë as he had been about to replace the Jewel and its peripheral adornments within the box. Once more no hint or action was forthcoming, so he simply stood and waited.

Maglor scanned the faces of the Valar seated about the Ring and found Yavanna, a wistful expression on her face. Slowly he walked to her, and then falling to his knees, head bowed, he extended the necklace to her.

The Earth-Queen smiled down on the proud elf now humbled at her feet, and reaching out one slender hand she stroked the dark head.

Yavanna: By the will of your mind have the thoughts of your heart turned from dark, but not only in the Blessed Lands shall the Light henceforth dwell. It has passed beyond to a higher purpose.

Looking up Maglor studied her face, but she was unreadable except for her compassionate eyes. Rising to his feet he paused, as yet disinclined to offer it to another.

Opening his hand he fixed his gaze on the flawless living Light, then tearing his eyes free of the Jewel he turned slowly to face Eärendil. Each step seemed a weighty ordeal, not made any easier by the frown of wariness marring the fine features of the strange being he approached. Halting within arms reach of each other, Maglor again hesitated. Without willing it so, his hand closed protectively about the last of the Silmarili, masterwork and best-loved of all the numerous creations of Fëanor.

To return it to the hand of her who had woven the Light and sang into being the Two Trees felt right, but to relinquish it to one not Vala nor Maia nor even true elf checked him. Eärendil gave no sign of friendship or understanding, but Maglor expected none.

Appearing to be under severe duress, Maglor extended his arm forth, but Eärendil made no move to accept the prize. Confused and frustrated by the lack of response, Maglor drew back a pace and coldly eyed him. Glancing over his shoulder he glimpsed the now seated Manwë, dispassionately witnessing the proceedings.

Standing tall and straight Maglor moved closer to Eärendil, searching his face for the solving of this dilemma. Maglor grasped each end of the necklace and gently held it up, wordlessly inviting Eärendil to receive it. He might as well have proffered it to a statue.

Realization came as he thought back to the moment of Eärendil surrendering the Jewel. Carefully he fastened the clasp around the neck of Eärendil, letting his arms fall to his sides at the completion of the transfer. His left hand moved of its own accord to cup the brilliant Light one last time, then released it to rest in the care of another. He faced Manwë hoping that the testing had been completed.

Manwë: Released now from the Oath is Makalaurë, by his own hands and his own free will. All here stand witness to the deed.

Maglor exhaled sharply upon hearing the long sought words. Veryandil nearly danced in place with excitement.

Linwë: Patience, my son. Manwë smiled at the quiet outburst, but shook his head with regret.

Manwë: The Oath and Doom bind him no longer, but the fate of the Exiles is still upon him.

Veryandil desperately: Could you just give him a new name and take the bad ones away?

Manwë: There is always a cost for wrong deeds, even after the forgiving of them.

Veryandil ran to Maglor, who stooped down to catch him in his arms and snuggled the child close in comfort.

Veryandil sobbing: Ai, Nyello. You will go away anyway. Even your new name did not help. Please remember me.

Maglor: Little one, I am allowed to remain housed and to dwell in a land of my people. You have accomplished much good for me with your friendship and loyalty. No longer must I wander lonely shores in solitary grief. You have secured my welcome home.

Veryandil hugged his friend around the neck, then signaling his desire to get down grabbed Maglor by the hand, and led him to stand with Linwë and Oloriel.

The assembled host began to disperse as the judgment had been rendered, to the satisfaction of some and displeasure of others. The cloaked and hooded group remained, their coverings cast back to reveal them clad in the fashion of House Fëanor, a slender figure to their fore.

Manwë beckoned them forward. The foremost elf pushed back her hood to reveal a fall of russet-colored hair. Maglor gasped in astonishment.

Maglor solemnly: This day I am reunited with all that is left of my family. Will you release me for now?

Maglor: Only if you will it so, my young friend. For my part I hold you a true and trusted friend. I wish also to keep the name you gave to me.

Maglor smiled at the little elf, then rose and then went swiftly to the waiting arms of his mother.

Horses had been provided for the company from Tol Eressëa and swift was their passage to the ship awaiting them at the Sea. Maglor brought the restive stallion to an abrupt halt when first the Grey Havens came into view, the others drawing up around him.

It was, he noted, the battle formation designed to protect the leader; an unconscious reminder of events long past. All, including Maglor, glanced sheepishly about at their fellows, the look changing quickly to one of unease. As if in one mind they realized that there were still valid reasons for their semi-isolation from those who dwelt behind the vast mountain ranges.

Not one of the sleek white swan-ships was to bear them to the Isle, but a dark blue vessel, crewed by yet others of his former comrades-in-arms. The sea was calm, but the wind, clearly a parting gift from Manwë, filled the silver-grey sails, sending them briskly toward their goal.

On the quay a large crowd had assembled, greeting the returning company with gladness.

Maglor hung back, uncertain even now of his own welcome or acceptance among those who had also followed Fëanor into doom and death, and suffered as well the lasting banishment from the Blessed Realm for their defiance of the grave warnings of the Valar.

Noting his hesitance, the crowd drifted off in several directions to minimize the impact on the elf who had for millennia wandered alone and friendless. Three elves only remained at the bottom of the ramp extending from ship to shore; a male and two females, one female, with her slender arm and slim hand extended to him. A glint of silver on one finger of that feminine hand caught his keen eye.

Maglor: She was freed by my departing. By my words of anger and madness she was spurned. Never did I think to find her yet unwed.

Maglor: No other would I have taken in her stead. But much of Makalaurë is ruined and shattered, never to be reclaimed. Better she had forgone the endless time hoping for a return of the elf she remembers from before the Curse. No longer does he live.

Even as he spoke so, the female trod lightly up the boarding ramp and came to stop directly in his path. With eyes lowered she spoke to Nerdanel.

Allindë: Welcome, my Lady, will thou come and refresh thyself? After a brief pause she continued.

Turning away from mother and son, she led them from the ship without speaking, to a spacious pavilion, opened on all sides to allow the gentle sea breezes to caress them. She bade them be seated on the simple stools provided and from the nearby table brought two clear goblets filled with a pale gold liquid. Handing one to each of the seated pair she then offered them an assortment of fruits.

Nerdanel selected a dark gold globe which she peeled efficiently before sectioning the juicy fruit inside. Maglor chose a small bowl of bright red berries, his hand just brushing hers.

He did not miss the tremor that seized her at that brief contact, nor was he unaware of his own long-suppressed yearning. Quickly she moved away to the opposite side of the table as if for a shielding, busying herself with arranging various items thereon. Maglor could not take his eyes from her.

Parting from the Silmaril had, he thought, been the most onerous decision of his entire life. Yet now, once more in the proximity of his beloved, he felt an even greater pain. How could he ask this innocent one to resume the betrothal bond with him? What had he to share with her? Even his family name was a reproach to many. He decided at that moment to release her from the bondage she had endured for millennia, freeing her to find one deserving of such love and loyalty. He stood and walked to her.

Slipping the silver ring from his finger he held it out to her. She froze in shock at this abrupt confrontation, staring at the ring as though it were beyond her comprehension. She retreated a step, shaking her head in disbelief.

Allindë: Forgive my brazenness in coming unbidden to you. Has your heart turned from me?

The silence that followed was broken only by the falling of her tears upon her gown.

With that said she rose and turned away from Maglor and going to Nerdanel knelt down before her.

Allindë: My Lady, long have we kept hope alive for each other. Now I ask leave to depart from this Isle and take up my place at the house of my father.

Nerdanel held open her arms and Allindë leaned forward into their comforting embrace. She gazed with sorrow into the face of her son. Easily she read the agony of fëa that tore him, though to outward appearances he was perfectly calm.

Nerdanel sadly: If this be your desire, Allindë, you are freed from both service and Isle.

In answer, Allindë turned about and carefully took the ring from the open palm of Maglor, but instead of taking from her finger the matching silver ring and restoring it to him, she clasped his hand gently and replaced his ring upon the finger that had borne it for the long yeni of his wanderings. Bowing her head to him, she left mother and son in stunned silence.

Maglor fixed his eyes on the silver band for but a moment, and then covered the distance between his betrothed and himself in a few long strides. Blocking her path he found he could no longer think clearly. Her loveliness drew him, captured him anew, the gentle nature he remembered, the quiet hours spent in company one with the other, her comforting touch on arm or hand or head, the wholeness he felt with her alone, the music of their fëa, myriad bright, peaceful times together; it all flooded his heart with vivid clarity.

Quiescent she stood, hardly daring to draw breath, when she felt the tender caress of his hand on hers. Still she waited, until with both he stroked her head following the length of her gleaming dark hair from crown to waist, then pausing…coming to rest on the gentle swell of her hips; that deeply intimate touch permitted rarely, and then only to a pledged lover.

Lifting her face, eyes wide and filled with sparkling tears, she boldly grasped his head, drawing him nearer still, until his lips met hers, and so sealed his fate. With a soul-deep groan, Maglor surrendered to the song of their enduring love that claimed him. Drawing her into a tight embrace, he knew he had at last come home.

In October 2004, I read a tale called Behold an Elf, and discovered that I was not the only person who dreamed of meeting the Eldar in our day. I was so delighted that I immediately emailed the author, one Eruanneth _Luin, to express my joy. She responded. I replied, and our friendship began. Since then, we have talked on the phone for hours, our conversations ranging from the silly to the profound. I do not remember now which one of us suggested that we collaborate on a story, but I am very glad one of us did, for it has been a wonderful experience. Thank you, my friend, for sharing this journey with me. Many thanks also to all of you who have come with us. Without you, we would simply be talking to empty air. Finally, my thanks and praise to J. R. R. Tolkien, whose lovely words have inspired me for over forty years.

This has been a wonderful team effort. Alassiel and I for some time prior to the start of this tale had ‘discussed’ Maglor and his terrible grief and continuing exile. As happens occasionally, a scenario began to develop and I recorded the events. Alassiel then asked if there was more, to which I had to reply, “I do no see it. If you do, write it.” We continued onward, each writing separate chapters as we ‘saw’ them appear. And so began the tale of this sole surviving Son of Fëanor, who at one point urged the breaking of the Oath.

The wonderful family of elves, Linwë, Oloriel and Veryandil, are the gift of Alassiel to the tale. She allowed me to explore them with her. Thank you, dear friend, for a lovely journey.

Special thanks to Nilmandra for first encouraging me to post on her site. A warm hug and many blessings I offer to the readers who shared this adventure, and added their comments.

Finally, my extreme gratitude to both the father, J.R.R. Tolkien, and his son, Christopher, without whom we would never have discovered, nor be allowed to explore, the unique place in time called Arda. Yes, I still long to see one of the elves of Tolkien’s mythos. Some things will never change.

Makalaurë by Eruanneth_Luin