Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of J. R. R. Tolkien, nor any of the various dramatic incarnations thereof. No profit is being made from this work.

Foreword

Hello, and welcome to this story! It all started innocently enough, as I was writing a different story, called “Natural Children,” about Maglor’s relationship with Elrond and Elros. In the course of that story, I made some remarks about Maglor, hinting a little bit about his background, mostly through his memories. As I wrote, I found myself fleshing those memories out a little (all in the name of good authorial technique, of course), and then a little more. Before I knew it, there was an outline for another story, this time with Maglor in the starring role.

Behold. Here it is. Enjoy it, and I will meet you at the end.

1. A Friendship Set To Music

Macalaurë sang happy nonsense syllables under his breath as he clattered around the kitchen, assembling a dinner of choice tidbits left over from previous meals. He put a scoop of spiced barley on his plate, added a dollop of mashed turnips and a handful of broccoli florets, then slipped into the cold pantry to investigate the roasted leg of lamb that lay there. He heard the kitchen door open, but paid no attention. The other person dipped up a mug of water from the cistern and drank thirstily before poking his head into the cold pantry.

“Macalaurë!” Tyelkormo said. “What are you doing in there?”

Macalaurë smiled at his brother. “I am getting dinner for myself. What does it look like?”

“But it is not yet time for dinner. Not only are you spoiling your appetite, you are spoiling that leg of lamb. I was going to stew it.”

Macalaurë carried his plate out into the kitchen, set it on the worktable, and hunted in the cupboards for a wine glass and the half-finished bottle left over from the previous night’s dinner. “Nothing is preventing you from stewing that lamb. I did not take so much, and there is still plenty left over.” He poured himself a glass of wine, sat down at the kitchen table, and began to shovel food into his mouth.

“That is not the point.” Tyelkormo sat down opposite Macalaurë. “The point is that you are eating dinner here, alone, before I have even begun to cook.”

Macalaurë paused, swallowed a mouthful of turnips, and smiled at Tyelkormo. “My apologies,” he said. “I will have to miss dinner with the family tonight. I have an evening lesson at the house of Séretur.”

Tyelkormo’s expression quickly changed from one of annoyance to a broad smirk. “Oh, I see,” he said. “Will Séretur be instructing you on the harp? Will you be instructing his lovely wife Almiesárë in singing? Or might you be ‘instructing’ Calimë in something completely different?”

Macalaurë calmly picked up his fork and pasted a lump of mashed turnips on the bridge of Tyelkormo’s nose. “I am hardly the first musician in Valinor to have fallen in love with the daughter of his teacher. Nor are we the first such couple to have become betrothed.”

Tyelkormo scraped the turnips off of his face and popped the lump in his mouth. “Nor am I the first person to tease his older brother about an impending marriage. So, tell me. What is so compelling about the house of Séretur that you must forego dinner with Father and the rest of us?”

“If you must know, I am having an early harp lesson with Séretur, and then I must sit with Calimë and her mother and write the formal invitations for the wedding.” Macalaurë washed the last bite of lamb down with a swig of wine, and got up to take his dishes to the washbasin. “We will be inviting Mother,” he added.

Tyelkormo sat silently for a moment, then reached for the wine bottle. “I think I need a drink before I start the stew. Do you think Mother will come?”

“I hope she does. Whether or not she is estranged from Father, she is still Mother, and it is my wedding, after all. That does not happen every day. Perhaps she and Father will even manage to find it in their hearts to be civil to one another for the occasion.”

“I definitely need a drink,” Tyelkormo said, and took a swig directly from the bottle. “I hope you are right, Macalaurë. Especially about Mother and Father being civil. It would be a shame if they ruined your wedding day by quarrelling.”

Macalaurë rinsed his dishes and picked up a towel to dry his hands. “That will not happen, I assure you. One of the things that Calimë and I have been discussing is how to prevent such a quarrel, politely, of course.” He put the towel back on its rack, and turned to leave. Tyelkormo caught his arm.

“Good luck,” he said. “I hope that you and Calimë can persuade Mother to come. It would be a ray of light in our Exile, for all of us.”

Macalaurë ruffled Tyelkormo’s hair. “We will see about that.”

“That is all I can ask for.” Tyelkormo released his brother. “Now, go. Get to your lesson with Séretur before you are late.”

Macalaurë’s long fingers worked elegantly over the strings of his harp. Each note sounded pure and clear, trailing off into the air as he slowed towards the end of the piece. After a delicate pause, he rolled the final chord, and then moved his hand away from the strings, allowing the sound to hang, shimmering, in the air. The last echo died away, and Macalaurë brought his hand down, and sat back in the chair. Séretur lifted his chin and looked at Macalaurë.

“Acceptable,” he said.

Macalaurë snorted. “Acceptable? I am note-perfect, the phrasing is precisely as you have suggested, and my transitions are smoother than they have ever been. And all of this is merely acceptable?”

“Your technique is perfect,” Séretur said. “But your rendition of the piece lacked something. Heart, perhaps. You have not written it down in that notation of yours, have you?”

“No,” Macalaurë said. “I have respected your wishes on that subject, and you will never see this piece notated. I have learned it with my ears and fingers, as you wished.”

“Then the problem lies within you. Macalaurë, this is a love song. Can you make it sound like something to thrill the heart as well as enchant the ear? Come, try the opening section again. Think of something that makes your heart sing.”

Macalaurë thought for a moment, idly stretching and massaging his fingers. He repositioned the harp on his lap, and placed his hands on the strings. Closing his eyes, he breathed in and out, waiting for the moment of perfect stillness within. His hands came to life, and he began to play. He played through the first section of the piece, and was about to make the transition into its answering section, when he noticed Séretur glaring darkly at him. He sighed, and rolled a chord to make an ending. “What? What is it, Séretur?”

Séretur looked at Macalaurë, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “You were thinking about my daughter.”

Macalaurë set his harp down on the stand and laughed. “It is a love song, Séretur. You cannot be surprised that I find the thought of Calimë inspiring in that regard.”

Séretur’s expression softened a little. “No, I suppose I cannot be surprised. You are young, Macalaurë, and you have no children, so this will be hard for you to understand. There are some things that one may be perfectly happy to contemplate in the abstract, but may find more difficult when they involve one’s own daughter.”

Macalaurë was silent for a few moments. He ran his hand idly across the harp strings as he contemplated Séretur’s words. “Do you mean that you oppose our marriage?” he asked. “I do not understand. You gave your consent freely at the time of our betrothal.”

“That is not precisely it.” Séretur blew out a breath, considering his next words. He pushed the harp stand gently to one side, then drew up a chair to sit facing Macalaurë. “You are young, as I have said, and you are deeply in love with Calimë. I do not fault you for this, but I think it blinds you to some other truths.”

Macalaurë frowned, and sat up a little straighter, but did not argue. Séretur pursed his lips, then continued.

“You are the best student I have ever had. Your voice is already pure and powerful, and I can only imagine what it will become when it is fully developed. Your skill with the harp is considerable. On a very selfish level, I bless the day that the Valar exiled your family from Tirion, because it gave me the opportunity to teach you. You are kind, considerate, handsome, a skilled musician – all that I could ever have dreamed of in Calimë’s future husband. But, Macalaurë, Calimë is not simply marrying you.”

“What do you mean?”

“She is marrying your entire family.” Macalaurë looked puzzled, so Séretur elaborated. “I know that you think that marriage is an equal joining of two houses. That is what you have been taught, and that is the way it works – in principle. But yours is no ordinary family.”

Macalaurë turned his head to the side. “I know,” he said, and a note of bitterness entered his voice.

Séretur took Macalaurë’s chin in his hand and turned his face back. “You do not have to like it, but you must accept it. By marrying you, Calimë will become part of the House of Fëanáro, the exiled Prince of Tirion. Whether either of you will or no, she will be bound up with the fate of that House, and of its head. And even if he is your father, you cannot be blind to the fact that Fëanáro has become fey and wild. That is the reason that he, and you, were exiled here in the first place, because his temper finally escaped his control. Do you see why it is that I am of two minds about this marriage, Macalaurë?”

Macalaurë jerked his face away from Séretur’s grasp. “I am not my father, Séretur,” he spat. “You cannot be blind to that. But if the idea of Calimë becoming part of the House of Fëanáro distresses you, why did you consent to our betrothal at all?”

Séretur sighed, and sat back in his chair. A slow smile spread across his face. “In the first place, it was because I like you. But more importantly . . . Macalaurë, you know Calimë. Can you imagine the scene she would have made if I had refused her something that she wanted as much as she wanted this betrothal?”

A distinctly feminine laugh interrupted their conversation. Macalaurë and Séretur both turned to see Calimë standing in the doorway. Her dark eyes sparkled in her heart-shaped face, and her mouth worked in amusement as she pushed a stray curl behind her ear. She strode over to Macalaurë’s chair, and leaned down to embrace him from behind. He twisted around to kiss her. She returned the kiss, then raised her head to smile at her father.

“If you had refused this betrothal,” she said, “I would have made such a scene as to make the people regard my future father by marriage as a placid, gentle deer. And then I would have gone ahead and married Macalaurë anyway.”

Séretur laughed, and spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. “You see why I could not refuse? But it would appear that the time for music lessons has passed.”

Calimë straightened, but kept her hands on Macalaurë’s shoulders. “Indeed it has. You have had the time you required for a harp lesson. Now it is time to turn our attention to other things.”

“Clearly.” Séretur rose, and began to return the furniture in his music room to its original positions. “I will not tell you to practice, Macalaurë. You are far too good at that. Instead, simply play. Play for the joy of hearing your own music, and remember that joy in every piece that you play. You have done well today.”

“Thank you.” Macalaurë also rose. He bowed to Séretur, tucked his harp under one arm, and put the other around Calimë’s waist. Together, they left the music room to resume planning their wedding.

Almiesárë came into the dining room some time later, bearing a pitcher of ginger water and three cups. Macalaurë and Calimë scrambled to clear a space on the table among the lists, invitations letters, fabric swatches, and other detritus that had accumulated there. “It is time for a rest now,” Almiesárë declared. “Planning the wedding of the King’s grandson is hard work. Here is something cool to drink.”

Macalaurë and Calimë reached for cups gratefully, and Almiesárë poured generous helpings of the ginger water. Macalaurë sipped, and smiled.

“This is excellent. It warms the stomach and cools the brain at the same time.”

“Of course,” Almiesárë said. “I have been making this for Séretur and Calimë for years.”

“We drink it before performances,” Calimë explained. “It is good for settling the stomach when one has an attack of nerves before one must play.”

Macalaurë took another sip and nodded. “That is a good idea. Almiesárë, will you make a pitcher of this for the band at the party before the ceremony?”

“That I will,” Almiesárë said with a smile. “And I might just be convinced to make another pitcher for the bride and groom as well. If my wedding was any indication, you will both be grateful for it.”

Calimë rolled her eyes and laughed. “Mother!”

“Do not ‘Mother’ me, young lady.” Almiesárë’s eyes twinkled. “Remember, I have had a wedding, and you have not. That makes me the expert in this room.”

“Excellent.” Macalaurë downed the last of his ginger water and stretched. “Since you are the expert, Almiesárë, perhaps you would care to favor us with some advice.”

Almiesárë nodded smartly. “Certainly. What is the issue? We are inviting the Lady Nerdanel, of course, are we not?”

“Yes, of course we are,” Macalaurë said. “That is not the problem. The problem is this. What should we do about the rest of my family? My cousins, and my aunts, and . . . my uncles?”

Calimë leaned forward. “What he means is, would it be proper for us to invite Lord Nolofinwë? There is so much bad blood between him and Lord Fëanáro, after all. Would he see it as an insult, do you think, to be summoned all the way to Formenos?”

“And what if Nolofinwë did come?” Macalaurë added. “We would have to keep my father away from him as well as from my mother. Or, worse. What if we invited him, and he took the invitation itself as an insult, and did not come?”

“Ah,” Almiesárë said. “That is indeed a problem.” She ran her finger down the list of guests to be invited, as if the solution might be found somewhere among the names. Calimë heaved a great sigh, and laid her head on Macalaurë’s shoulder. He petted her hair almost absently, and turned his head to place a kiss at her hairline. Almiesárë looked at her daughter and her betrothed, and a gentle smile spread across her face.

“Weddings are about family,” she said, “so family must be honored. Lord Regent Nolofinwë and Lady Anairë are part of your family, Macalaurë. Whatever ill feeling there may be between Lord Fëanáro and his brothers, they are still family, and they should have the honor of being invited to your wedding.”

“My father will be most distressed if they appear,” Macalaurë groaned.

Almiesárë snorted. “That, if I may be so bold, is his affair. After all, who is getting married? You or your father?”

Calimë snickered. Macalaurë rolled his eyes, but tightened his arm around her. He nodded to Almiesárë. “You are right, of course. So, we will invite my uncles and their families. Arafinwë will be easy. He will welcome the messenger with open arms, and our biggest problem will be to ensure that he does not send Aunt Eärwen and Artanis straight away to fuss over us. But what of Nolofinwë? His pride is no less delicate than my father’s.”

Calimë and Almiesárë exchanged a glance, and then both mother and daughter burst out laughing. Macalaurë gave an uncertain smile, not quite understanding what was so amusing. At last, Calimë caught her breath, and took pity on her betrothed.

“Macalaurë, you know what my father is like. Do you truly believe that Mother and I have no idea how to handle a delicate sense of pride?”

“I suppose I do not, now that you mention it.”

“Of course. You are very clever. That is why I am going to marry you.” Calimë kissed Macalaurë’s nose. “We will deliver the invitation quietly, by a messenger from my father's House, not yours. Then the Lord Regent will be able to make a big public announcement that he will deign to attend the wedding of his nephew, the mighty singer Canafinwë Macalaurë, at the most humble request of Séretur Erufailon, master harpist of Formenos.”

Macalaurë stared at Calimë for a moment in stunned silence. Then he burst out laughing. “Calimë, you are a marvel!” he cried. “It is as if you had entered Nolofinwë’s mind. Of course he will come, if we take such care with the invitation.”

“Good. That is settled, then.” Almiesárë pushed a blank piece of parchment towards Macalaurë. “You write out the invitation for Lord Arafinwë and his family. Calimë and I will draft the invitation for Nolofinwë.”

Calimë and Macalaurë paused for one last kiss, and then bent their heads over their work.

Macalaurë returned home late, but was not entirely surprised to see light seeping from underneath the door to the forge. Still giddy from his time with Calimë, Macalaurë knocked on the door.

“Who is there?” Fëanáro’s voice came from inside.

“It is I.”

After a moment, the door opened, and Fëanáro pulled Macalaurë into the forge and embraced him. “Welcome home, Macalaurë. I trust that all went well tonight.” His tone was friendly, but his body vibrated with tension, and his eyes glittered. He cast nervous glances at the oaken chest in the corner, bound with thick bands of iron, where Macalaurë knew that the Silmarils were kept.

Macalaurë nodded, and dared to put a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Of course everything went well, Father. I had a harp lesson, and I spent time with Calimë and her mother taking care of wedding business. There was never a reason for anything untoward to happen.”

Fëanáro shrugged. “One never knows, Macalaurë. One never knows. Anything may go wrong, usually when one is least expecting it.” His eyes flickered toward the oak chest again.

“That reminds me,” Macalaurë said. “I have been meaning to ask you this for some time, but it has always slipped my mind. Have you decided what you will wear to the wedding? Almiesárë showed me the diamond fillet she intends to wear to give her daughter away, and I would have you wear something beautiful as well when you give me away. Would you consider wearing the Silmarils?”

Fëanáro’s eyes blazed, and he whirled around and seized Macalaurë’s shoulders in an iron grip. “No!” he cried. Macalaurë started, but his father held him fast. Then Fëanáro’s expression softened. He slowly opened his hands and released Macalaurë, who frowned in confusion. Fëanáro took a deep breath, and smiled.

“I – that is – I mean to say – That day will be your wedding. I would never dare to wear any jewel that might outshine the bridegroom. Even if you forgave me, Almiesárë never would.” He laughed a little, and Macalaurë laughed with him in relief.

“Very well. Perhaps you will wear your fire opals instead.”

Fëanáro nodded. “Yes. That is a good idea. I will wear fire opals. But, come. It is late, and you should go to bed.”

“Father! I am fully grown, and I am about to be married. I believe that I can determine when I should go to bed.”

“Perhaps so. But you are still my son, and you are not married yet, so allow me to enjoy being your father while I am still permitted to do so.” Fëanáro embraced Macalaurë, then released him with a pat on the shoulder. “Sleep well, my son.”

“Thank you.” Macalaurë turned and left the forge. He closed the door quietly and headed back to the house. Séretur had not been entirely correct, he told himself. Fëanáro had changed since the Exile, but Macalaurë could still recognize his father and take comfort from his love.

2. From This Day Forward

Nerdanel had written to Macalaurë, in her lovely, rounded script, that she would be honored to come to Formenos for the wedding. She was due to arrive five days before the event, and her impending arrival sent Fëanáro into a frenzy of activity. He gathered all of his sons together, handed them rags and mops and brooms, and ordered them to scrub the house until it gleamed.

“Move!” he cried. “Do not forget to dust in the corners. This house must be spotless when your mother arrives.”

The brothers looked at each other in confusion. Finally, Curufinwë stepped forward. “Father,” he said, “is this really necessary? It is our own mother we are expecting, not a Queen of the Vanyar or the Teleri.”

Fëanáro whirled around and glared at his son. “Do you hold your mother in less esteem than a Queen, then? Will you welcome her into a house of filth and slovenliness?”

He snatched the mop from Curufinwë’s hand, dunked it into a bucket of water, and swabbed it over the floor, jabbing it at Curufinwë’s feet. Curufinwë cried out as he stumbled backwards. Tyelkormo caught him, and pulled him out of range of Fëanáro’s frenetic mopping. Pityo and Telvo, who were accustomed to doing what their parents and five older brothers told them to do, began to run their dust rags over the furniture. After a moment, Maitimo shrugged and began to move a broom around in a corner. Macalaurë stood in the middle of the perfectly tidy parlor, sighed, and rolled his eyes. Carnistir gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“You should not complain. In five days, you will be married, and then Father might allow you to give up some of these chores.”

“Either that, or he will add Calimë to the ranks of household staff,” Macalaurë retorted. “Or we will simply move out.”

Carnistir smirked, and fluttered his hand over his heart. “What? Then there will only be six of us to deal with Father’s moods. You wound me, Macalaurë.” He shoved his scrubbing brush into Macalaurë’s hands.

“What better reason to get married?” Macalaurë grumbled. Someone knocked on the door. “I will answer!” Macalaurë cried. He handed the brush back to Carnistir, and hurried to the door.

“If it is your mother, take her for a walk in the gardens!” Fëanáro called. “She cannot see the house like this.”

Macalaurë muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath, and opened the door. He was immediately enveloped in his grandfather’s firm embrace. “Macalaurë!” Finwë said. “How is my favorite bridegroom-to-be?”

“Relieved,” Macalaurë answered. “Father has gotten into one of his moods again, and he is making us all scrub the house down for Mother’s visit. Perhaps you can calm him.”

Finwë chuckled. “I do not know if anyone can calm your father when he is in a cleaning mood, but I will certainly try.” He released Macalaurë, and strode into the parlor, where Fëanáro was still shoving the mop across the floor in vicious little jabs. Macalaurë stepped forward and put a hand on Fëanáro’s shoulder.

“You have a visitor, Father,” he said. “And it is not Mother.”

Fëanáro looked up from his obsessive mopping, and a smile spread over his face when he saw Finwë. “Welcome, Father,” he said, and reached out to clasp Finwë’s hand.

Finwë took Fëanáro’s hand and pulled him into a brief, fierce embrace. “It is good to see you,” he said. Then he looked up, and nodded at the rest of the brothers, who had stopped their half-hearted dusting and sweeping. “Your brood is looking well. Come. Walk with me out to the forge. I wish to see the wedding rings you have made, since Macalaurë has told me so much about that. And there are other things we must discuss as well.”

Reluctantly, Fëanáro laid down his mop. “What might those be?”

“What you will do after the wedding. Things change when your sons become husbands, after all. That is an experience that I have had, and you have not. So, come with me to the forge, and we will discuss it together.” Finwë nodded once again at the brothers, and steered Fëanáro out of the house.

Carnistir watched them go, then turned and raised his eyebrows at Macalaurë. “You were bragging about your rings? I thought you did not care about them beyond ensuring that they would fit well.”

Macalaurë shrugged. “I do not. Nor did I ever brag to Grandfather about them. I might have mentioned that Father was making them, but I certainly did not brag.”

“But Father does not need to know that,” Maitimo said with a smile. “It was the perfect excuse to get Father out of the house, and that is all that we needed. Come, let us put the parlor back in order.”

By the time Nerdanel’s carriage actually pulled up in front of the door, the house was pristine. Calimë had come to meet and welcome her future mother by marriage, and she and Macalaurë were waiting at the gate. Finwë and Fëanáro were in the kitchen working on dinner, and that activity had calmed Fëanáro’s nerves enough that the atmosphere inside was pleasant and relaxed. Nerdanel climbed down from the carriage and embraced Macalaurë.

“Oh, Macalaurë, it is so good to see you!” she cried. “I have not seen you in far too long, and now it is almost the eve of your wedding.” Still keeping one arm firmly around Macalaurë, Nerdanel turned to smile at Calimë.

“You must be Calimë,” she said. “Macalaurë has told me so much about you in his letters. You are even more beautiful than the portrait he sent.”

Calimë blushed, and dropped a small curtsey. “It is an honor to meet you, my Lady.”

Nerdanel laughed. “Oh, none of that. You are as close to being my daughter as makes no difference. We shall both address each other by our names.”

“Thank you . . . Nerdanel.”

“Excellent.” Macalaurë grinned, gently removed Nerdanel’s arm from his shoulders, and moved to the carriage. “Let us take your horses to the stables, and then take your bags inside. Father and Grandfather should have dinner ready for us soon, and the others have been waiting all day to see you.”

He took the horses’ reins and led them to the stable. Nerdanel and Calimë followed, already chatting as if they had known each other for their entire lives.

Dinner was a cheerful affair. Fëanáro sat at the head of the table, and Nerdanel sat at the foot. Their sons, Finwë, and Calimë all crowded together, passing dishes up and down the table. For a little while, it seemed that the family was whole again, though everyone knew that that was an illusion. Nevertheless, they pushed that awareness to the back of their minds and concentrated on enjoying the moment. Nerdanel complimented the food, and shared bits of news from Tirion.

“What about the house?” Fëanáro asked. “Have you been maintaining it, as I asked you to? This term of banishment will not last forever, and I want the house to be in livable condition when I return to Tirion.”

“The house is in perfectly fine condition,” Nerdanel said. “I found the perfect solution for maintenance. Turukáno and Elenwë have moved in, and they will take care of the place until you return.”

“Turukáno?” Fëanáro cried. “Nerdanel, have you completely taken leave of your senses? How could you give my house to one of Nolofinwë’s children?”

Nerdanel bit back a scathing remark, then forced a pleasant smile. Calimë put her hand in Macalaurë’s in sympathy, and he clutched it tightly. “Perhaps we should adjourn to the parlor,” he said. “We can have tea there.”

Neither Fëanáro nor Nerdanel paid him any attention. “There is no reason for Turukáno and Elenwë not to live in that house,” Nerdanel said, keeping her smile firmly pasted on her face. “They have the baby to care for, and they wanted a place with more room than their apartment in the palace. I thought that the house would be better off with someone living in it, as I have my own life and my own business, and I did not wish to spend all my free time maintaining a house where I no longer lived. It was the perfect solution. That house is well suited to a young family, as you ought to know, and Turukáno and Elenwë will build a house of their own and move out when your term of banishment is ended.”

“Bad enough that someone else should be living there,” Fëanáro grumbled, “but the son of Nolofinwë, of all people?”

“Fëanáro, enough.” Finwë did not raise his voice, but his tone of command caused Fëanáro to sit back quietly in his chair. “Nerdanel’s choice was perfectly wise. Turukáno is as much my grandson as any of your sons are, and he should have the best resources available for his needs. You and Nolofinwë may work out your disagreements on your own, but please do not drag my grandchildren into your quarrel.”

An awkward silence descended over the table. No one seemed to feel like eating anymore, and they pushed bits of food around their plates. At last, Calimë sat up straight, and smiled a little too brightly. “Since we are speaking of living quarters, perhaps you will come and see what Macalaurë and I have done with our new rooms, Nerdanel?” she asked. “Macalaurë has been renovating the first guest suite as an apartment for us, and I would like to ask your opinion about the drapes.”

Macalaurë squeezed Calimë’s hand in gratitude, and the rest of the family relaxed a little, glad of the excuse to move on. “That is an excellent idea,” Maitimo said. He took Finwë's plate, and stacked it on top of his own. “Tyelkormo and I will clear the table, and then perhaps Pityo and Telvo will serve us tea in the parlor.”

After he had drunk one cup of tea with his father, Macalaurë went to the guest suite to find Nerdanel and Calimë. They were standing by one of the windows, examining the album of fabric swatches that Calimë kept there. Calimë looked up and smiled when Macalaurë arrived.

“I am glad you are here,” she said with a smile. “I seem to have displeased your mother.”

Reflexively, Macalaurë tensed for another argument, but Nerdanel merely laughed. “Oh, do not worry,” she said. “These rooms will be lovely for you, and I approve of the drapes most heartily. Calimë was telling me about your plans for the wedding feast and the ceremony, and I was somewhat surprised at how . . . well, how plain everything seems. You are still the son of the first prince of the Noldor, after all, and you should be married with at least some pomp, even here in Formenos.”

“I told her that it was our choice that the ceremony not be as opulent as one in Tirion,” Calimë added.

Macalaurë relaxed. He smiled, and put an arm around Nerdanel. “Do not fear, Mother,” he said. “Calimë and I have not foregone all traces of glamour. We have spent a fair amount of money, but not on jewels and flowers and fine fabrics.”

“We have hired the best dance band in all Valinor,” Calimë said. “They will arrive the night before the wedding.”

“All of our friends will be there,” Macalaurë said, “and they are all musicians. We wanted to provide an opportunity for them to hear the finest music available. The music will last longer than fine wine would.”

“I see.” Nerdanel nodded, somewhat mollified.

“And besides,” Calimë said, an impish smile on her face, “this is one party where neither Macalaurë nor I will have to perform. We can spend all night dancing if we wish, so we will take advantage of that and dance to the best music to be had in Tirion or Formenos.”

Nerdanel laughed out loud. “Oh, Calimë, you are made for my son,” she said. “I am truly glad that you have found each other, and I wish you every happiness.”

She reached out to embrace both of them, and for a moment, Macalaurë allowed himself to believe that his mother really had come home.

The next five days passed in a blur of activity. Nerdanel met Séretur and Almiesárë, and quickly became Almiesárë’s lieutenant in organizing the final touches on the wedding. Nolofinwë and Arafinwë traveled from Tirion with their families. Finwë commandeered one floor of the best inn in Formenos so that, he explained, the aunts and uncles and cousins could have their privacy. Everyone accepted this explanation graciously, and Macalaurë breathed a sigh of relief for his grandfather’s diplomatic skills.

“Why has Grandmother Indis not come as well?” he asked Finwë during a rare quiet moment.

“Indis sends her regards and her best wishes,” Finwë replied. “However, she decided that, with Nolofinwë absent, someone would need to remain behind and see that Tirion was in good hands.”

“Very . . . prudent of her.”

“Yes.” Finwë grinned, and waggled his eyebrows. “However, you should be forewarned. When next you set foot in Tirion, Indis will want to fuss over you and Calimë with all the grandmotherly affection she can muster.”

Macalaurë laughed. “I will remember that,” he said, “and warn Calimë as well.”

“Good,” Finwë said. “Now, I hope that you have not made any plans with Calimë this evening. I know that your uncles want to have drinks with you at the inn.”

As promised, Nolofinwë and Arafinwë did appear at the house just as the Lights were beginning to mingle. Turukáno was with them, and he and Nolofinwë hauled Macalaurë to his feet and playfully frog-marched him to the door. Fëanáro charged into the room, drawn by the commotion.

“Where are you going with my son, Nolofinwë?” he asked, with a scowl on his face.

Nolofinwë moved to stand face to face with Fëanáro. Being the tallest of the sons of Finwë, he made sure to look down his nose at his brother. “We are taking him with us to the inn, where we will set him horrifically drunk and teach him some of the finer points of being a husband.”

Macalaurë could not stop the grin that spread over his face at this thought, but Fëanáro’s scowl deepened. “I would think I had given him a satisfactory example,” Fëanáro said. “He does, after all, have six brothers.”

Arafinwë stepped forward, draped his arm around Fëanáro’s shoulders, and poked him in the chest. “No one doubts your prowess there, Fëanáro,” he said, laughing, “but there are some things that one simply cannot discuss with one’s father, which is why the Valar allowed Nolofinwë and me to come into this world, so that we could spare you and Macalaurë both the humiliation of having this discussion yourselves. We will return him tomorrow, only slightly the worse for wear.”

With that, Arafinwë clapped his hands, and Macalaurë left the house in the firm clutches of his married uncles and cousin.

Almiesárë and Nerdanel moved Calimë’s things into the newly renovated apartment the night before the wedding. The quilts and sheets were new, but they filled the clothes-presses with her old, familiar dresses, placed her books and some old toys on the shelves, moved her dressing table into the bedroom, and put her lute on its stand next to it. As a final touch, Almiesárë placed a portrait of herself and Séretur holding their baby daughter on the dressing table. “So she will not miss us so much,” Almiesárë explained.

Nerdanel nodded. “A wise thing to do.”

Calimë spent the night before the wedding in her old chamber in her parents’ house, with a small overnight satchel at her side, her wedding gown hanging all by itself on its hook, and Séretur keeping vigil outside her door for her last night at home. Although Séretur did not know it, Fëanáro kept a similar vigil outside of the chamber that Macalaurë shared with Maitimo.

The wedding would take place at Laurelin’s zenith. While Nerdanel and Finwë supervised the caterers and assistants in setting up the banquet tables, Fëanáro and Maitimo helped Macalaurë to dress. They robed him in a shirt, trousers, and surcoat of white trimmed with gold, and Maitimo braided a crown of flowers into Macalaurë’s hair. Fëanáro wore a lustrous, shimmering grey, which set off both the fillet of fire opals bound about his brow and his white-robed son, and Maitimo wore a green so dark that it was almost black. Together, they escorted Macalaurë to his place at the high table, to the cheers of all the wedding guests.

Calimë appeared a moment later, on Almiesárë’s arm, resplendent in brilliant white, her gown trimmed with gold to match her bridegroom. When she saw Macalaurë, she hurried to his side, and kissed him thoroughly, to everyone’s amusement. Almiesárë and Nerdanel laughed heartily, and Séretur suddenly seemed to have acquired a mote in his eye. Fëanáro held up a hand to signal for quiet, and began the first ritual, welcoming Calimë formally into his family, and presenting her with a necklace of many strands of the tiniest gold beads, cleverly strung so as to look like a fall of liquid gold around Calimë’s neck. Almiesárë then stepped forward and fastened a thin, elegant silver collar set with diamonds around Macalaurë’s throat.

The feast was excellent, and the wine flowed freely. Macalaurë’s stomach heaved with last-minute nerves. He wanted desperately to drink several bottles of the wine to calm himself, but he remembered the advice that Nolofinwë, Arafinwë, and Turukáno had given him, and limited himself to two glasses. Just as he thought he would faint from terror and anticipation, Fëanáro signaled that the marriage ceremony would begin. Maitimo, Tyelkormo, and Calimë’s two best friends whooped, and ran to raise the wedding canopy. Almiesárë whisked Calimë off to the side to pat some stray hairs back into place, Fëanáro took Macalaurë’s arm to steady him, and the ceremony began.

Fëanáro and Almiesárë chanted blessings, but Macalaurë paid no attention. All he could see was Calimë’s smile, the love in her eyes, and the way her hands shook as she removed her betrothal ring and placed it in his hand. Carnistir stepped forward to take the betrothal ring and give him Calimë’s marriage ring. In that instant, Macalaurë’s nervousness vanished. He hardly needed Fëanáro’s prompting as he spoke his marriage vows, calling on Manwë as his witness for the oath that would bind him to Calimë until the world ended. Something cool slid over his finger, and he heard Calimë repeating the same vow, calling on Varda as her witness. When their lips met, Macalaurë was aware of nothing save his beloved wife.

A great cheer shocked them both back to reality. The band played a fanfare, and friends and family clustered around to greet the newly wedded pair and wish them well. Macalaurë and Calimë had time for one brief dance together, and then everyone was dancing, drinking, and laughing. Macalaurë found himself dancing with Nerdanel, and then with Almiesárë, and he had a brief glimpse of Findekáno twirling Calimë under his arm. Turukáno and Elenwë swayed together off at the edge of the dancing, and Artanis held their baby daughter high above her head as she spun around, while the baby shrieked with laughter.

Finally, he managed to make his way through the crowd to Calimë’s side. She kissed him swiftly on the cheek, and fluttered her fingers against his arm. “Nature calls,” she said, and slipped away. Macalaurë groaned, and Arafinwë roared with laughter.

“Here,” he said, swiping a tall, slender glass from a tray that a waiter was carrying. “You may have one glass of sparkling wine to make up for your disappointment.” Macalaurë took a sip and giggled as the bubbles tickled his nose. He was about to drink more deeply, when he felt strong fingers laying claim to his arm once more.

Calimë had returned, and her eyes were shining with a great secret. Macalaurë handed the glass back to Arafinwë and turned his attention to his bride. “There is something you want to tell me,” he said.

Calimë shook her head. “No. There is something I want to show you.” She lifted her reticule under Macalaurë’s nose and opened it. Macalaurë had a glimpse of something white and frilly inside.

“What is that?” he asked. “Your handkerchief?”

“No.” Calimë’s smile grew even more impish. “My underdrawers.”

Macalaurë’s mind took all of one heartbeat to sort through the implications of that statement. But by that time, he had already clasped Calimë’s hand, and they left the dancing, hurrying to begin their married life in earnest.

3. Nightfall

The first season of Macalaurë’s marriage proved to be a time of joy and discovery. He and Calimë had married just after the fields had been planted, and their love grew along with the crops, ripening in Laurelin’s warm light. They made music together every day, singing in sweet harmony. Sometimes Macalaurë would play an accompaniment on his harp, and sometimes Calimë would play on her lute. Their voices blended so smoothly, and the bond between them was so strong that they were often asked to perform at festivals and private parties. They saved the fees from these events in a strong box in their apartment.

“What will you do with your hoard?” Maitimo asked one day during dinner.

“When the term of Exile is over, we will move back to Tirion,” Macalaurë replied. “With luck, we will have saved enough by then to begin building a house of our own in the city.”

“With plenty of room for practicing,” Calimë added, “and for children.” She caught Macalaurë’s glance, and their eyes shone as they looked at each other.

“Oh, I would love for you to have children,” Telvo said. “Just think, we would all be uncles, and that would be splendid. Must you wait until we return to Tirion?”

“Perhaps not,” Carnistir said. “If the way they look at each other is any indication, Father will be a grandfather before much longer.”

Telvo considered this, then giggled. “It is strange to picture Father as someone’s grandfather,” he said.

Fëanáro raised an eyebrow at his youngest son. “Perhaps. But I must admit that the prospect pleases me. When Macalaurë has children of his own, then I will finally have my revenge.” He smiled at Calimë. “You have chosen the noisiest of all my sons, Calimë. Consider that fair warning for when his children arrive.”

Calimë laughed. “I shall take that under consideration,” she said. “I take it that you do not oppose our plan to build our own house in Tirion, then?”

“Oppose?” Fëanáro snorted. “Far from it. I welcome your plans.”

“Why, Father, you wound me,” Macalaurë said with a smile. “You were so eager to have us with you in your Exile, and you asked that we remain under your roof after the wedding. Are we such a trial to you now?”

Fëanáro set down his knife and fork and looked Macalaurë in the eye. “A trial?” he said with a smirk. “Not precisely. Macalaurë, while some things have changed since you married Calimë, one thing has not. In fact, your marriage has only set it into sharper relief. You are still the noisiest of all your brothers.”

There was silence around the table for a moment. Macalaurë considered Fëanáro’s words, and suddenly blushed bright red. Calimë let out a thrilled, scandalized giggle, and the others laughed out loud.

Fëanáro’s face suddenly clouded over. “Enough of this,” he snapped. “You have all finished eating. The table is filthy. Take your dishes into the kitchen and wash them. Calimë, spread the other tablecloth.”

Macalaurë and Calimë and the rest scrambled to do Fëanáro’s bidding, and the table soon bore no trace that a meal had been shared there.

Macalaurë continued to study with Séretur and give Almiesárë singing lessons. Once every few days, he and Calimë would go to Calimë’s parents’ house, where they would dine together after the day’s music lesson was finished. Macalaurë discovered that he enjoyed his new status as Séretur and Almiesárë’s son by marriage, not least because it provided regular opportunities to escape from Fëanáro’s increasingly tense household. At the house of Séretur, Macalaurë could eat without feeling his father’s eyes boring into him with every bite, and make pleasant conversation without skirting around an ever-increasing list of topics to be avoided at all costs. After dinner, instead of a mad rush to clear the table and clean the dining chamber, the family often lingered over glasses of wine.

The evenings at the house of Séretur were so pleasant that Macalaurë wished for more of them. To that end, he acted on a desire that had long been growing within him, and he asked Séretur to teach him to play the flute. Séretur was happy to oblige.

“I have taught you almost as much as I can on the harp,” he said. “Truly, you do not need lessons so much as occasional advice and guidance to keep your technique alive for your teacher in Tirion. The flute will be good for you. You sing so well that you will have little trouble learning to control your breath for the flute, and it will give you yet another way to think about music.”

So they added a third lesson to Macalaurë’s cycle of visits. Macalaurë’s skills grew as his relationship with Calimë deepened, and he was sure that he had never been so happy in his life.

Harvest time saw the arrival of a messenger from Tirion bearing elaborately decorated messages addressed to Finwë and Fëanáro. The decorations and seals indicated that the messages had originated from Manwë and Varda themselves. The Valar, it seemed, had decided to host an enormous gathering to celebrate this harvest, which had been particularly bountiful. It was to take place at the halls of Manwë on Taniquetil, the only place in Valinor large enough to accommodate the great horde of invited guests. Finwë’s message was a gracious invitation, addressed to him, his family, and those of his people who resided in Formenos. Fëanáro’s message, however, was a command, addressed to him alone.

“What is so special about this feast?” Fëanáro asked the room at large. “There have been harvests before, and also harvest festivals. Why must I present myself at this one in particular? Manwë knows that I am in Exile, and that I must make a special journey to be present at this event.”

Finwë looked more closely at the messages. “Perhaps this is our answer,” he said, indicating a particular passage. “It is to be a feast of reconciliation and friendship. It seems that Manwë will have peace between you and your brother.”

“Half-brother,” Fëanáro said. “If Nolofinwë wants peace, he can travel here to make it. I will not be ordered about as if I were a child.”

Finwë shook his head. “But you are a child in the eyes of Manwë and Eru. You cannot disregard such a command, Fëanáro. You must go to Taniquetil.”

“We will keep the house for you,” Maitimo offered. “We will guard it faithfully, and all your treasures with it. It will be no different than if you had decided to spend the day at the market in town.”

“I will assist your sons,” Finwë said. “I do not care to undermine Nolofinwë’s authority as regent by presenting myself at this festival while you are still under the ban. Therefore, you may go with the assurances of your father and your sons. We will keep your stronghold for you, and welcome you back with joy.”

Fëanáro scowled. “It seems I have no choice,” he grumbled. “Very well. I will jump at the bidding of my masters, and present myself on Taniquetil for inspection.”

“Shall I help you choose your festival garments?” Maitimo asked. “If you are to appear before the Valar, you should be dressed in your finest.”

Fëanáro whirled, and seized Maitimo by his collar. “You will not presume to tell me what I should or should not wear,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Child I may be in the eyes of the Valar, but to you I am an adult, and your father.” He let Maitimo go with a shove, and no one dared to bring the subject up again.

In the end, Fëanáro rode to Taniquetil clad in his sober, everyday work clothes, saying that the Valar had commanded his presence, but had made no such commandments concerning his attire. Before he left, he locked his jewels and artworks away in storage rooms in the forge, which he secured with bands of iron. He left the keys with Finwë, and charged him not to surrender them to anyone, Elf or Vala, who might ask after his treasures.

“I will keep your house safe,” Finwë said, laying a steadying hand on his firstborn’s shoulder. “Now go to Taniquetil, so that you may speak with your brother and return here to your nest.” Fëanáro bowed, mounted his horse, and left without a word or a backward glance.

A welcome peace spread over the house when Fëanáro left. His sons enjoyed the rare opportunity to relax, play games, make noise, and leave the occasional object out of place. On the night before the festival in Taniquetil, Macalaurë and Calimë invited some of their musician friends to come and celebrate the harvest, and the house rang with music and dancing all throughout the period of Telperion’s waxing. Tyelkormo cooked an enormous feast of fresh game and new vegetables, and they ate it in the parlor, on plates that they held in their laps. The party lasted until the mingling of the lights, and the guests went home in the soft glow of Laurelin’s early waxing.

Everyone slept late after that, and when they rose, they decided to spend the day in purely frivolous pursuits. Finwë smiled approvingly at his grandchildren, and left them to their own devices. As Laurelin’s light began to fade, they ate a supper of leftovers from the party, and Maitimo suggested that they gather around the dining table and play dice. Fëanáro did not approve of gambling, so this was a rare opportunity to indulge in this pleasure. Pityo and Telvo hauled a great sack of coins out of the cellar, and sat down with their brothers and Calimë.

They played and bantered among themselves for a long time. The lights began to mingle, and Curufinwë drew the curtains closed and lighted candles. Carnistir proved to be the luckiest player, and the pile of coins in front of him grew steadily larger. He won all of Macalaurë’s coins, and Calimë conceded defeat to him soon afterward. She laughed as she pushed the last of her coins across the table to her brother by marriage.

“I suppose my luck did not hold this time,” she said, with a mock sigh.

“Do not mourn overmuch,” Maitimo said with a grin. “There is a saying in Tirion: Those who are unlucky at dice are lucky in love.”

Calimë glanced at Macalaurë, and her eyes shone. Macalaurë returned her smile, and put an arm around his wife’s waist. “Well said, Maitimo,” he laughed. “Perhaps we should test your words. If you will excuse us.” He and Calimë rose from the table and turned to leave.

“Make us uncles tonight, Macalaurë!” Pityo called.

Macalaurë paused to make an extremely rude hand gesture at Pityo, and then escorted Calimë out of the dining room. The others laughed, and then resumed their game. Soon enough, Carnistir’s luck began to turn. As he reluctantly surrendered his hoard to his brothers, the game grew faster and more intense. It was only after seven more rounds that Tyelkormo looked up and frowned.

“What is wrong?” Telvo asked.

Tyelkormo shook his head. “I do not know,” he answered. “Something has changed. The room looks different.”

The sons of Fëanáro paused in their play. For a moment, there was quiet, broken only by the occasional cry from Macalaurë’s apartment. Curufinwë nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I agree with Tyelkormo. Something is not right, but I cannot say for certain what it is.”

“It is outside the house,” Tyelkormo said. For a moment, he wore the same expression as he had when he was a small child troubled by bad dreams.

Maitimo rose and went to a window. He took a deep breath, and pulled the curtains open. What he saw made him gasp with shock. Laurelin’s light had faded, but instead of the softer silver brilliance of Telperion, darkness was sweeping over the land. As Maitimo and his brothers watched, frozen in horror, Laurelin’s light died, and a blackness such as they had never seen before moved in to replace it. The darkness crept over the house, and it seemed to the brothers as though it had a life and a will of its own, a strange, menacing thing that would devour them whole.

A shrill scream from Macalaurë’s apartment tore through the air, and roused the brothers from their shock. “Something has happened to Macalaurë and Calimë!” Maitimo cried, and he hurried out of the room, with his brothers hot on his heels. They ran down the corridor and pounded on Macalaurë’s door.

“Macalaurë!” Maitimo cried. “Are you all right? What has happened?”

After a moment, the door opened. Macalaurë stood there, his hair tousled, wearing a light silk robe that he held closed with his hand. Calimë stood beside him, wrapped in a bed sheet. Macalaurë smiled uncomprehendingly at Maitimo.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Did Arda move for everyone?”

Maitimo let out a sigh of mingled relief and annoyance. “You must be well, if that is all that is on your mind,” he said. “Truly, I am glad to see it.”

Macalaurë and Calimë frowned at each other. “Maitimo, what has happened?” Macalaurë asked. “If we have disturbed you, then I apologize, but –“

“Something is not right,” Calimë interrupted. “The room is much darker than it should be. When did this happen?”

Macalaurë shrugged. “I do not know. I think we were too distracted to notice it.”

Calimë pulled the sheet tighter around herself, and went to the window. She twitched the curtains open with one hand, and promptly let out a sharp gasp of horror. “Macalaurë, the light,” she said. “It is gone!”

Macalaurë hurried to Calimë’s side and took her in his arms before he dared to look outside. He and Calimë stared at the lightless landscape for a long moment. When they turned back, Macalaurë was pale and trembling. Calimë hid her face in his chest. Macalaurë’s jaw worked for a few moments before he found his voice. “It is so cold,” he murmured.

Maitimo swallowed. “I will make hot spiced wine. We will drink it in the kitchen. Dress yourselves, and then come and join us there.”

Macalaurë nodded, then bowed his head over Calimë’s. Maitimo closed the door to give them some privacy, and led his brothers back down the corridor to the kitchen.

A short time later, the family sat around the kitchen table, sipping hot spiced wine in silence. Pityo and Telvo had gone around the house and pulled all of the curtains closed, and then hung sheets and towels over them. Curufinwë and Tyelkormo had followed them, collecting lamps and candles, which they had brought into the kitchen and lit. The room now blazed with light, a pitifully small shelter against the endless darkness outside the house. Carnistir had piled some small cakes on a platter, but they remained untouched, for no one felt like eating. Macalaurë and Calimë, now dressed in warm clothes, clung to each other for support.

At last, Maitimo rose, and went to one of the covered windows. He pulled the sheet aside, and peered between the curtains. For a long time, he gazed into the darkness. “There are so many stars,” he said. “I never knew just how many stars there were. They burn, and yet their fire is cold.”

“Can you see anything?” Carnistir asked.

“A little bit. The stars give some light, though not much.”

Carnistir rose, and joined Maitimo at the window. He clutched Maitimo’s hand for courage, and dared to look outside. “You are right,” he said. “I can make out the garden, with the fountain and the walkways. But what is that?”

Maitimo frowned. “What is what?”

“That darker shadow, down by the wall. Father’s forge is there, but I cannot see it.”

“The old elm tree is down there as well. Perhaps it is simply casting its own shadow over the forge.”

Carnistir shook his head. “No. You can see the shapes of all the other trees against the stars. But I cannot make out the shape of the elm tree. There is something else near the forge.”

“No!” Tyelkormo cried, leaping to his feet, and knocking his chair down with a crash that startled them all. “We must go down to the forge right now!” He reached over and hauled Curufinwë to his feet.

“I am not going down there, not in this dark,” Curufinwë said. Tyelkormo glared at him.

“You must. Father said that we were to guard his treasures while he was away. We have to go and make sure that the forge is secure.” He raced out the door and into the dark, and the others seized candles and followed him, for their concern for Tyelkormo outweighed their fear of the dark.

They had covered half the distance between the house and the forge when they heard a long, wailing cry. “That was Grandfather!” Macalaurë cried. “What was he doing in the forge?”

“Perhaps he has hurt himself,” Calimë said.

At that moment, a powerful force washed over them, extinguishing their candles and forcing them to their knees, and a cold, dank stench left them choking and retching on the lawn. Maitimo recovered first, and pulled Tyelkormo to his feet. “To the forge,” he commanded. “Now!”

The windowless forge was almost completely dark. As his eyes adjusted, Macalaurë saw a few embers that had not quite gone out, and he used them to light first his candle, then Calimë’s. The others clustered around the little flame. As the light spread from hand to hand, they were able to see the inside of the forge.

The place was a shambles. Every stick of furniture was overturned, every tool was cast carelessly aside. Pouches of gemstones spilled haphazardly over the floor, and gleamed in the glow of the candles. The iron chest where Fëanáro kept his greatest treasures had been wrenched open, the lock twisted and crumpled as if it were parchment. Telvo gasped, and took a step backwards. His foot connected with something soft that groaned.

“Grandfather!” Telvo cried. The others bent down to see.

Finwë lay on the ground in a widening pool of his own blood. Maitimo knelt down and tried to stanch the bleeding, but his efforts proved futile. Finwë bled steadily from gashes too numerous to count. His right arm hung useless at his side, and the left side of his head had been reduced to a raw mess, his eye and half his mouth shredded. Calimë swiftly folded her cloak into a pad and placed it beneath Finwë’s head, the only comfort she could offer him. Finwë twitched what remained of his lips into a smile, then took a deep, rasping breath.

“’elkor,” he murmured.

“Hush,” Maitimo said. “Do not try to speak. If I can just halt this bleeding –“

Finwë batted at Maitimo with his left hand. “Leave it. Dying. You ‘ust know. ‘elkor. Here. Sil’arils . . .” His head fell back on Calimë’s folded cloak. He breathed out a long, ragged sigh, and did not breathe again.

“Grandfather?” Matimo asked. “Grandfather!”

“Is he dead?” Telvo asked. Tyelkormo nodded, staring numbly at the body. Telvo clasped Pityo’s hand, and Macalaurë buried his face in Calimë’s hair. Carnistir put a hand on Curufinwë’s back. Maitimo sat back on his heels.

“Melkor,” he murmured. “That was what Grandfather was trying to say. Melkor was here, and he has stolen Father’s Silmarils.”

“We were supposed to guard them,” Tyelkormo said. “What will we do now?”

Maitimo swallowed. “We have no choice,” he replied. “We must ride to Taniquetil and tell Father what has happened.”

4. The Scarlet Tide

Without the cycle of Laurelin and Telperion’s lights, Calimë and the sons of Fëanáro had no idea how long it took them to ride to Taniquetil. Unsure of what to do with a dead Elf, they had wrapped Finwë’s body in a sheet and left it beneath the elm tree. Then they had thrown food and blankets into traveling bags and mounted their horses. Tyelkormo, whose sense of direction was the keenest, led the way, and they rode through the dark and silent countryside. Time lost its meaning, and they rested and ate when they were tired and hungry.

They did not speak to each other, for there was nothing to say. They had all witnessed the horror of the darkness and of Finwë’s death, and they all shared the dread of breaking the news to Fëanáro. When they rested, Calimë would sing, in an effort to keep their spirits strong. Sometimes, Macalaurë would make the effort to join her. But more often, the songs stuck in his throat, and he could do no more than harmonize for a little while before falling silent with grief for his grandfather.

Presently, the small party arrived at Taniquetil. They were weary, sore of body and of heart, but they did not stop, pressing onward toward the Ring of Doom, where they could see the shapes of Elves and Valar silhouetted against the stars. As they passed Ezellohar, they heard a song more beautiful and more haunting than any they had ever heard before. The song pierced their hearts, and Macalaurë and Calimë paused to listen.

“It is the voice of Nienna,” Macalaurë murmured after a moment. “She mourns the bitterness of the world.”

“That is fitting music to herald our arrival,” Maitimo said. He gritted his teeth and moved on, and the others followed. As they rounded a bend in the road, they saw a great light, which proved to be a bonfire surrounded by Elves holding torches. It was the first real light any of them had seen for a long time, and they allowed it to cheer and strengthen their hearts for the task ahead.

They left their horses just outside the Ring of Doom, and entered the circle on foot. The Elves in the circle leaped to their feet upon seeing the sons of Fëanáro. Arafinwë moved to greet them, but Nolofinwë restrained him, and they both stood and watched in silence. Calimë, who had never met any of the Valar in person before, clung to Macalaurë’s arm. Maitimo stepped forward and bowed to Manwë and Varda, and then to all the rest of the Valar. Then he turned to Fëanáro, who alone had remained seated, and went down on one knee.

“Father,” he said, his quiet voice resounding in the silence, “we have journeyed all the way from Formenos to bring you urgent tidings.”

“I trust that they are good tidings,” Fëanáro said, though the tension in his body belied his words. “Indeed, they cannot possibly be worse than that which we have already experienced here.” He made a vague gesture toward the withered hulks of the Two Trees.

Maitimo gulped. “They can,” he said, “and they are.” Swiftly, but without omitting a single detail, he told Fëanáro of the assault upon the forge that had cost both the Silmarils and the life of Finwë. He described how Finwë had used his dying breath to name Melkor as his assailant, then fell silent at the look of grief and rage that spread over Fëanáro’s face. There was a soft sound as Nolofinwë collapsed to his knees, and Arafinwë knelt to embrace him, seeking comfort as much as giving it.

Fëanáro paid his half-brothers no attention, but stared into Maitimo’s face, as if searching for some evidence that Maitimo had lied or been mistaken. Maitimo stared back, and allowed the grief and weariness in his eyes to vouch for his tale. Fëanáro’s face twisted, and he leaped to his feet. One of his outflung hands caught Maitimo across the mouth, and Maitimo fell onto the grass. Macalaurë and Tyelkormo ran to him.

Fëanáro let out a great cry of pure rage, directed at Manwë. “A thousand curses be upon the head of this Vala, your own brother,” he roared. “Melkor, you called him, but I name him now Morgoth, for he is the Black Foe that has stolen the light from the world, and robbed me of both my father and the jewels that hold my heart.”

Manwë stood still and silent, neither protesting Fëanáro’s outburst nor offering comfort. Fëanáro advanced on him, heedless of the danger. “And a thousand curses be upon you and your summons,” he snarled. “Had I not obeyed like the dog you take me to be, I might have been guarding my home, my kin, my treasures. Had you not expected me to jump at your bidding, I might still have joy left in my life!” With that, he spat in Manwë’s face and darted out of the Ring of Doom, vanishing into the darkness.

For a moment, no one moved. The wind shifted, and Nienna’s song of mourning drifted faintly on the breeze. Nolofinwë and Arafinwë clung to each other in shock, no longer proud princes of the Noldor, but terrified children of a murdered father. Macalaurë helped Maitimo to sit up as Tyelkormo dabbed at his split lip with a handkerchief. Manwë and Varda stood stone-faced and silent, but Yavanna bowed her head and wept, and Aulë cast his hood over his face.

At last, Anairë went to the center of the Ring and knelt down before Maitimo. “Come,” she said. “Let me take you and your family back to the palace.”

Maitimo stared at her stupidly. “The palace? No, we cannot. It is forbidden –“

“Stuff and nonsense,” Anairë replied. “We cannot stay here forever. You all look exhausted. There are torches and lamps at the palace, and we can clean you up, feed you, and give you soft beds.”

“But, the ban . . . our Exile . . . “

“Fëanáro’s Exile,” Anairë said. “Not yours. Come. If there was ever a time for our family to come together, it is now.”

Macalaurë and Tyelkormo helped Maitimo to his feet, and Arafinwë helped Nolofinwë to rise as well. Anairë assembled Finwë’s family and led them down the hill to the carriages that would bear them back to Tirion.

As comfortable as the palace in Tirion was, it was not a perfect retreat from the troubles of the world. Although many of the Noldor who lived in the city were old enough to remember the perilous Great Journey across Middle-earth, many more were not. To them, the death of an Elf was a novel experience, and crowds quickly gathered at the gates of the palace begging the sons of Fëanáro to come out and tell the tale of Finwë’s death. Anairë sent them away with many sharp words, telling them that her nephews had no desire to relive their loss merely to satisfy curiosity.

She and Nolofinwë also worked together to handle the problem of refugees. The presence in Formenos of Melkor, or Morgoth, as people now called him, had cast that land into an even deeper darkness than the rest of Valinor. The air was cold and clammy, and many families fled to the relative warmth of Tirion. Anairë and Nolofinwë worked tirelessly to find temporary housing for the newcomers. Among them were Séretur and Almiesárë, and Calimë rejoiced in the comforting presence of her mother and father.

Shielded from prying eyes and political problems, cared for by aunts, uncles, and cousins, the sons of Fëanáro at last allowed themselves to grieve. Maitimo renewed his old friendship with Findekáno, and they spent many hours together sharing memories of their grandfather. Turukáno and Elenwë came to stay in the palace, so as to be close to the family in this time of need. Macalaurë watched his cousin playing with his baby daughter, and approached Calimë in the privacy of their chamber as she brushed her hair by candlelight.

“Let us have a baby,” he said, taking the brush gently from her hand and running it over her hair. In the mirror, he saw Calimë’s eyes open wide with shock. She pushed the brush aside and turned around in her chair to face him.

“You cannot be serious,” she said. “Your grandfather is dead, and the world has been plunged into darkness. You would have us bring a child into the world at such a time?”

“Yes,” Macalaurë replied. “I can think of no better way to defy Morgoth’s evil than to create a new life.”

“No,” Calimë said. “That is a noble sentiment in the abstract, but I will not subject a real, living baby to such a fate. Such a child would be born into a world of uncertainty and perpetual darkness. I will not be party to such cruelty.” She turned back to the mirror, making it clear that she considered the discussion to be at an end.

Macalaurë sighed, and resumed brushing her hair. “Someday,” he murmured. “I wish to be a father someday.”

Calimë nodded soberly. “Someday,” she agreed. “But not now.”

The Valar searched for Morgoth, hoping to reclaim the lost Silmarils so that they could ask Fëanáro once more for permission to release their light and revive the Trees. But Morgoth had hidden himself well. As time went on, it became clear to the Elves that the search would not succeed. Although none would dare to lay actual blame on any of the Valar, Morgoth’s escape struck many of the Elves as only the latest in a string of failures on the part of those whom they had trusted to protect them. In the streets and marketplaces of Tirion, the conversation circled endlessly around the new weakness of the Valar.

Indis had returned to the Vanyar, so it fell to Nolofinwë and Anairë to attempt to keep the peace. But in the darkened, overcrowded city, there was little that they could do to stop the spread of rumors and gossip. And it was an undeniable fact that the Valar did not communicate with the Elves, so that no one knew what they might be planning regarding Morgoth or the vanished light. It was into this atmosphere of fear and uncertainty that Fëanáro eventually returned to Tirion.

He drove through the city gates in a wagon, its box covered with a heavy canvas sheet. The guards, who knew full well that Fëanáro’s term of exile was not yet ended, nevertheless allowed him to enter unchallenged. Fëanáro drove straight to his old house, and summoned his sons to attend him.

When he heard the summons, Macalaurë pulled a cloak about his shoulders and went to kiss Calimë. “Stay here with the rest of the family,” he said. “I will return as soon as I am able.”

Calimë frowned. “I do not like this,” she said. “I wish that you did not have to go, or that he would come here, or that I might go with you. I do not want us to be separated.”

“It will not be long,” Macalaurë said, trying to sound reassuring. “Doubtless he merely wishes to rant and rage for a while. You are better off not witnessing it. I love you, and I will return to you when he has calmed down somewhat.” With that, he gave Calimë one last kiss and followed his brothers out of the palace. He did not return.

Fëanáro and his sons remained closeted together in his house for a very long time. Lights burned ceaselessly in one window only. Arafinwë wondered out loud if he should pay a call to make sure that everything was well. Nolofinwë shook his head. “Nothing is well in these times,” he said. “Fëanáro will not welcome you, Arafinwë. We will wait here. He cannot remain in that house forever. He will come out of his own accord, eventually, and then perhaps we will be able to reason with him.”

Fëanáro did emerge eventually. He marched through the streets with his sons at his heels, all of them clad in shining armor and plumed helmets, carrying large swords. They did not speak, and looked neither to the left nor the right as they marched to the courtyard of the palace. By the time they arrived, they had attracted a crowd of onlookers bearing torches, who gathered together, pressing close to see what Fëanáro intended to do. The Lord Regent and his wife and family, drawn by the same curiosity, though tempered with apprehension, joined the throng in the courtyard. Fëanáro mounted a stone bench, removed his helmet, and gazed out over the crowd. For a moment, there was silence, and then he began to speak.

The people of Tirion had remembered Fëanáro as a craftsman, for the objects and buildings he had designed had remained in the city even after he had left. But they had forgotten his equally powerful gifts as an orator. Now, impassioned with grief for his father, driven by rage at the silent Valar, with the torchlight reflecting in his armor, Fëanáro raged against Morgoth and the dying of the light. He exhorted the Noldor to stand up and reclaim the independence and will that was theirs by birth, a gift from Eru Iluvátar that could never be revoked, though the world be plunged into darkness.

Standing with his brothers in the first rank around the bench, Macalaurë found himself captivated by his father’s speech. It was not merely the words, though they were fair and seductive. It was not merely the substance, though Fëanáro’s descriptions of the lies and deceptions of the Valar had a frightening logic to them. It was not merely the promises, though Macalaurë’s blood stirred and boiled at the thought of vast new lands to explore and new songs to be sung. And it was not merely the sight of Fëanáro in his wrath and grief, though it seemed that he had never looked more beautiful, his face shining in the torchlight and his hair whipping in the wind. It was a combination of all of that, and something else besides. Fëanáro represented certainty and action, and Macalaurë knew that he could not resist, and that he was not the only one.

“After Morgoth to the ends of the Earth!” Fëanáro cried. “War he shall have and hatred undying. But when we have conquered and have regained the Silmarils, then we and we alone shall be lords of the unsullied Light, and masters of the bliss and beauty of Arda. No other race shall oust us!”

Macalaurë heard his own voice screaming assent and encouragement, joining with hundreds of others all around him. They cried out in support of the one who had appeared as a leader in their hour of need, and he took their cries in and seemed to grow larger and more powerful. Suddenly, Fëanáro pulled his sword from its scabbard and raised it above his head. He began to chant, in tones that rang through the courtyard, the beginnings of an oath.

Macalaurë did not stop to think. Maitimo’s hand was on his arm, and Telvo was at his side, and there was a great pushing, and somehow all seven of Fëanáro’s sons were standing on the bench, their swords drawn. Their blood pounded as they repeated each line of the oath that Fëanáro swore, binding themselves forever to the pursuit of Morgoth and the Silmarils. “Darkness doom us if our deed faileth . . . “ they said, and the light of the torches gleamed in their eyes.

No sooner had they sworn than Nolofinwë pushed through the crowd, his eyes blazing, Turgon following close at his heels. “No!” he cried. “That is no oath for you to swear. You will bring down wreck and ruin upon the people with your actions! I command you to rescind that oath, now, while there is yet time.”

“You will command me, Nolofinwë?” Fëanáro cried. “You who are but the second-born son of my father, bastard issue of his adulterous union with Indis?”

Nolofinwë recoiled, as though Fëanáro had physically struck him. “Yes,” he said. “I command you, as Lord Regent, which title was bestowed upon me by our father before his death and not revoked.”

“I revoke it,” Fëanáro spat. “As the first-born, I claim the crown as King. The people will follow me.”

A great roar went up from the crowd at that. Macalaurë reached out and grasped Maitimo’s hand as quarrels and a few physical fights broke out all over the courtyard. His cousins had appeared, and argued with each other, and Arafinwë stepped between Fëanáro and Nolofinwë to prevent them from coming to blows. Macalaurë’s head began to spin from the noise and commotion, and a surge of nausea welled up inside him.

Suddenly, one clear voice separated itself from the rest. “Macalaurë! Macalaurë!” He opened his eyes and saw Calimë fighting her way through the crowds to reach him. Séretur was just behind her. Macalaurë turned towards his wife and stepped down from the bench to go to her.

Just as he did so, Séretur caught up with his daughter and seized her arm. “No!” he cried. “You will not go to him. Look in his eyes. He is mad!”

Calimë twisted around and tried to break free of Séretur’s grip. “He is my husband! I will go to him.”

“He is his father’s son, Calimë. It is as I told you. Fëanáro’s madness has claimed Macalaurë. I will not let it claim you!” He pulled her back into the crowd.

“Calimë!” Macalaurë cried. He moved towards her, intending to push his way to her side, but something brought him up short. He turned around to discover that Fëanáro had seized him by the arm. “No, Father!” Macalaurë screamed. “Let me go! He is taking Calimë!”

“Let him take her,” Fëanáro snarled, twisting his hand in Macalaurë’s hair. “I will have nothing to distract you from the Oath you have sworn.”

Macalaurë shrieked and fought, but Fëanáro was strong in his rage, and would not release him. Dimly, he saw Séretur dragging Calimë back into the crowd. He had just enough time to scream her name, and then she was gone.

After that, Fëanáro did not let his sons rest for even an instant. They were to prepare for the great departure quickly, before the Noldor could change their minds. Macalaurë wept until his throat was raw and he had to lean on his brothers to remain upright, but he was not spared any of the labor. There was no chance for him to seek Calimë, and she did not come to him.

It did not take long at all before the Noldor were assembled at the gates of Tirion, their belongings and their treasures packed. Barely one tenth of the people remained behind, but among those were Séretur and Almiesárë, with their daughter confined in the room they had taken in the city. Macalaurë could not force his heart to accept the fact of his separation from Calimë, and he had withdrawn inside himself, passively obeying Fëanáro’s commands, but nothing more.

Maitimo helped him mount, and they rode at Fëanáro’s side as the first column of the Noldor left the city. Once they were firmly underway, Fëanáro turned to Macalaurë, and a spark of compassion glinted behind his eyes.

“I am sorry that you had to give her up,” Fëanáro said. “But you may comfort yourself by knowing that she will be safe in Tirion. Our road ahead is perilous, and many battles await us before we find that which we seek. You would not have wanted to expose your lady to such danger.”

Macalaurë stared straight ahead and made no reply, nor did he give any sign that he had heard Fëanáro. Fëanáro sighed, and continued onward.

So convinced was he of the righteousness of his cause that, when a herald from Manwë himself appeared before them on the road to pronounce his new exile, he laughed in the herald’s face. In that hour, his speech became so fervent and powerful that it even roused Macalaurë from his stupor. Macalaurë watched the herald depart, then turned to his father.

“So we are once again cast out of Tirion,” he said. “Where do we go now? Surely you cannot mean for us to return to Formenos.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Fëanáro replied. “We seek the Eastern Lands, across the Sea. That is where Morgoth has fled, and that is where we shall seek the Silmarils and found our kingdoms. I will make you prince of a realm mightier than any that has ever stood in Arda before, Macalaurë. You will sing in golden halls and play a harp of silver.”

“Wood and gut would suit me better,” Macalaurë said. “How will we reach these vast lands?”

“We will take ships, of course. We ride north, to Alqualondë. I will explain our purposes to the Teleri, and ask for the use of their ships. Then we will sail across the Sea to the land from which our ancestors came. There our fortune awaits us.”

Macalaurë sat straighter on his horse and told himself that the tears trickling down his face were the result of the wind in his eyes, that they had nothing to do with the fortune he had left behind in Tirion. “So be it, Father,” he murmured. “We ride to Alqualondë.”

5. With Awful Glories Crowned

His heart pounding in his throat, his sword covered with foul black blood, Macalaurë rushed to Maitimo’s side in answer to his brother’s call. The others arrived more or less promptly, save only Tyelkormo and Curufinwë, who paused to hasten a last company of Orcs in their headlong flight down the mountainside. The Orcs had ambushed the company of Fëanáro as they pitched their camp, but the Noldor had acquitted themselves well. To their own astonishment, they had not only defeated the enormous horde, but they had done so with relatively few casualties, at least as far as Macalaurë could tell.

Their business finished, Tyelkormo and Curufinwë joined their brothers, and Maitimo looked them over and counted noses to ensure that they had all survived without serious injury. He slung his arm around Macalaurë and breathed a long sigh of relief when he had finished. “We are still together,” he said, flashing a grim smile. “We have survived our welcome to these shores. Let us hope that that bodes well for our future here.”

Pityo glanced around at the still-smoking battlefield. “Where is Father?” he asked.

Maitimo’s head jerked up at that, and Macalaurë’s stomach twisted into a knot. Pityo and Telvo immediately ran to examine the faces of the dead and wounded, but Carnistir paused.

“The battle is not yet over,” he said. “Listen. Do you hear the cries?” He pointed further down the trail. Sure enough, smoke rose just beyond the ridge, and carried with it uncanny screams.

“What is that?” Macalaurë asked.

“Whatever it is, it is not Orcs,” Maitimo said. “There is only one way to find out.” Without another word, he ran down the trail, his brothers hot on his heels. Exhausted as they were, they could not stop to rest before they discovered what had become of their father.

They ran farther than they had expected, with growing dismay that Fëanáro had gone so far ahead without telling them. Finally, they rounded the last bend in the road, and stopped short at what they saw.

Fëanáro was locked in desperate battle with three of the largest monsters his sons had ever seen. They were creatures of smoke and fire, over twice Fëanáro’s height, and they fought with whips of flame. Fëanáro’s bodyguards lay dead at his feet, burned and bloody, and Fëanáro himself bore many terrible wounds, and his hair was singed short. Even as Maitimo charged forward, one of the whips curled around Fëanáro’s body. Fëanáro screamed with pain and rage, and the sick, sweet smell of burning flesh filled the air.

The monsters turned at the sound of Maitimo’s cry, and beheld the seven sons of Fëanáro running towards them with drawn swords. The largest of the monsters roared a challenge. There was no sound, but the hot wind smelled overpoweringly of sulfur. Macalaurë stumbled, and the twins turned gray, but they did not stop. To their astonishment, the monsters turned and fled. The brothers did not pursue them, but clustered around the crumpled form of Fëanáro.

Gently, Maitimo turned him over, and the others gasped. Fëanáro had been burned and beaten, blood and other fluids oozing freely from his wounds. But he still lived, and his eyes were as fierce and bright as ever. Macalaurë and Carnistir quickly removed their cloaks and bound them together to make a sling. Maitimo and the twins rolled Fëanáro onto it as gently as they could, and they all lifted the sling to bear their father back to camp.

But they had not gone more than a dozen paces before Fëanáro began to choke and cough as fluid filled his lungs. Maitimo motioned to the others to set him down. Macalaurë moved behind Fëanáro to support him in a sitting position to ease his breathing. Maitimo rubbed Fëanáro’s back and encouraged him to cough into a handkerchief, but Fëanáro batted it away.

“Leave that,” he rasped. “It will do no good. My hour is come.” He paused, and labored for a breath.

Macalaurë squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of his father’s dying. But he could not ignore the wet, bubbly breath or the stench of burned flesh and hair. Fëanáro coughed, then fell back in Macalaurë’s arms. Two tears emerged from Macalaurë’s eyelashes and rolled down his cheeks. He opened his eyes and saw that his brothers were also weeping.

“Curse Morgoth to the Void,” Fëanáro murmured. “He has taken my father and my jewels, and now he has sent his minions to take my life. My dying curse on his name.”

“Let us take you back to camp, Father,” Maitimo said. “Perhaps we can save you. There are bandages there, and salves, and –“

Fëanáro silenced him with a wave of his hand. “The time for that is long past,” he said. “It is my fate to die here, and even I cannot fight it any longer.” A shudder ran through his body, and Macalaurë held him close. Fëanáro glanced at his sons, gathered around him.

“There are worse ways to die than in the bosom of one’s family,” he said. “The pain is not so much now. Remember the Oath that brought you here, and keep it in memory of your father, for in the keeping of that Oath I will have vengeance for my death.” Fëanáro began to struggle, and Macalaurë raised him until he was almost fully sitting up. He looked out once more over the mountains. “Cursed be the name of Morgoth,” he said, and collapsed. Macalaurë caught him and heard the last breath rattle from his body.

The brothers sat frozen in shock for a moment, not daring to believe that Fëanáro, who had dominated so much of their lives, was now dead. Curufinwë choked back a sob, and Tyelkormo put an arm around his shoulders in mute support. Macalaurë held his father’s body and stared at it, marveling at how small and shrunken it seemed now that the life had left it. He had enough experience with death now to know that it would soon cool and stiffen, and he did not know if he could bear to watch that happen.

Even as he wondered what to do, Fëanáro’s body grew suddenly warmer under his hands. For a moment, Macalaurë dared to hope that they had been wrong, that death had not stolen their father after all. But he quickly abandoned that idea as the body grew hotter and hotter. Macalaurë squirmed, then moaned in pain as the heat, beyond feverish, began to burn his arms, but he could not let his father go. Maitimo leaped to his feet and pulled Macalaurë back as Fëanáro’s body glowed red for a moment, then abruptly turned to ash. Even as they watched in horror, the ash crumbled into gray powder, and the wind began to scatter it.

“Now we cannot even bury him,” Telvo said softly.

Macalaurë slumped against Maitimo, shaking uncontrollably. Maitimo tore his eyes away from the ash heap and turned to his brother.

“What of you?” he asked hoarsely. “Are you hurt?” He examined Macalaurë’s arms, which were beginning to blister. “We should return to camp now, and take care of you.” He began to leave, but Tyelkormo stopped him.

“Wait,” he said. He leaned down and plucked Fëanáro’s gold circlet from the ashes, the only thing that had remained of his body. This he placed on Maitimo’s head. “Father is dead, so you are King now.”

Maitimo blinked in surprise. Slowly, Tyelkormo sank to his knees in acknowledgement, and the others followed suit. Maitimo regarded them soberly for a moment, and nodded.

“All right,” he said. “That is enough.” He raised Macalaurë and put an arm around his waist. “This does not change the fact that the King’s brother is hurt. We return to camp by royal command.” He straightened the circlet on his head and led Macalaurë away, as the others followed.

A somber silence hung over the camp. The soldiers had duly bowed and acknowledged Maitimo, even as they struggled to accept the implications of the crown upon his head. Maitimo issued brief orders for a party to return to the site of Fëanáro’s last battle and collect the bodies of his guards for burial, and then he escorted Macalaurë into the tent they had shared. Without a word, he collected bandages, ointment, soap, and a basin of water, and began to tend Macalaurë’s burnt arms.

“What do we do now?” Macalaurë asked, as Maitimo tied off a bandage.

“We will establish a more permanent settlement,” Maitimo answered. “That will serve us as a base, and we can plan our next encounter with Morgoth from there.”

“You plan to seek him out again, after what he has already done?”

Maitimo nodded. “That is our Oath. We swore before all of Tirion, with Manwë and Varda as witnesses. Father used his dying breath to remind us of it. We have no choice in the matter.”

“It is madness.”

“Perhaps.” Maitimo sighed. “But it is our fate and our doom, and we have brought it upon ourselves.” He was about to elaborate, when a young squire appeared at the entrance to the tent and cleared his throat.

“A messenger has come to see you,” he said, and hastily added, “my Lord.”

“Ah. One moment.” Maitimo quickly bandaged Macalaurë’s other arm, and nodded for the page to continue.

“He is an emissary of Morgoth,” the squire said. “He said that his master wishes to discuss terms of surrender with the Lord of the Noldor. He also mentioned the possibility of the return of a Silmaril if the discussion is held promptly.”

Maitimo brightened, and flashed a smile at Macalaurë. “Perhaps it will be easier to keep our Oath than we anticipated,” he said. “Perhaps we have defeated Morgoth after all.”

Macalaurë shrugged. “I hope you are correct.”

Maitimo thanked the squire and asked him to summon the rest of the brothers to the tent. When they arrived, Maitimo informed them of the arrival of the messenger and the proposal he brought. They sat in silence for a moment, considering this new development.

“I do not like this,” Pityo said. “It is too sudden. I am sure that there is more to this than we know.”

“And our men are weary,” Telvo added. “They do not have the heart for another encounter with Morgoth, especially not so soon after Father’s death.”

“But it will be a surrender, not a battle,” Tyelkormo said.

Curufinwë nodded. “If Morgoth truly wished to continue fighting, he would not offer us a Silmaril.”

“Not if he wished to use it as bait,” Pityo replied.

Maitimo listened to the argument thoughtfully. “Macalaurë? Carnistir? What have you to say on this matter?”

Carnistir shrugged. “Nothing useful. It is simply that I cannot shake the feeling that this parley will not end well.”

“Morgoth is a Vala,” Macalaurë said. “I cannot believe that we could have defeated him this easily.”

“He offers a Silmaril,” Curufinwë said.

“He knows that that is what we want the most.”

“Enough.” Maitimo rose, and the others fell silent. “If we have learned anything from our adventures, it is that anything is possible, even things we never dreamed could come to pass. I do not believe that there could be much harm in mere talk, but to refuse the summons of a Vala, even one who offers surrender – that I will not risk. I will go and meet with Morgoth, as he requests.”

“I do not like this,” Carnistir said.

Maitimo nodded. “I know. If it will ease your mind, I will bring three companies of guards along with me. They will help to keep me safe.”

Tyelkormo rose to his feet. “I volunteer to lead the companies.”

“No. None of you will come with me. This meeting will be perilous, and I do not wish to risk any of you.”

“Will you have us sit here like cowards?” Tyelkormo asked. “We fight as well as you do.”

“It is not that.” Maitimo laid a hand on Tyelkormo’s shoulder and pushed him back into his chair. “If you were to accompany me, I would be constantly trying to watch over you, as is the eldest brother’s prerogative. If I go into this peril, I wish to do it knowing that all of you are safely here, for that will put my mind at ease.”

Tyelkormo sighed. “Very well. We will wait for you. Come back to us soon.”

Maitimo smiled. “I will.” Then he left the tent to summon Morgoth’s emissary to bear a return message to his dark master. He assembled his three companies of guards and marched away within the hour.

Time dragged by in the camp, and Maitimo did not return. The brothers moved restlessly, trying to entertain themselves and keep their spirits up while they waited. Pityo, Carnistir, and Curufinwë played dice, while Telvo whittled, and Tyelkormo paced. Macalaurë picked up his harp and tried to play a few tunes. The movement hurt his arms, but he persisted, not wanting to give up the soothing sound of the melodies he had played with Calimë, before the world turned upside down.

The sentry’s call shattered the tension, and the brothers abandoned their pursuits and ran to the edge of camp. To their horror, they saw Morgoth’s messenger approaching, with an enormous company of Orcs at his heels. Carnistir turned pale, and Curufinwë’s hand strayed to the sword at his side, but Macalaurë seized his wrist.

“He comes under the flag of parley. We will honor that.”

The messenger’s mouth curled into a grin, and he emitted a croaking laugh. “Ah, the fabled honor of the Elves. You will honor our parley, will you? As you honored my master’s request so faithfully? Your Lord and brother arrived armed for battle rather than truce. Fortunately,” and his grin grew even wider, “so did we.”

He signaled to the Orcs nearest him, and they slung large, stinking sacks off their shoulders. Chuckling, they opened the sacks and upended them at Macalaurë’s feet. The severed heads of Maitimo’s guards, still oozing blood, fell out and rolled on the ground. Macalaurë stifled a gasp of horror and forced himself not to vomit at the sight. The laughter of the Orcs rang in his ears. Curufinwë and the twins knelt down and frantically began to turn the heads face up, as if that would make any difference to the departed fëar of their owners.

“You see,” the messenger said, “that is what we do to treacherous Elves such as your brother. Look and learn.”

“Maitimo is not here,” Curufinwë said, clutching the head of a friend between shaking hands. “What did you do to him? Where is my brother?”

“Do not fear,” the messenger replied. “He is alive and, presumably, well . . . or, at least, better off than these brave fools. He stays at Angband as a guest of Morgoth. The length of his sojourn is up to you.”

“Explain yourself,” Macalaurë demanded.

The messenger nodded, as though they were having an entirely reasonable conversation. “My master requests that the Noldor forsake this war that they cannot win. He claims the land of Beleriand for his own. You may return to the West, if they will have you, kinslayers that you are. If even your own folk will not accept you back again, my master graciously offers you the lands far to the south of here. Your brother will enjoy his hospitality until you make your decision.”

With that, the messenger bowed, then signaled to the Orcs. They turned and departed, leaving the pile of heads behind them. Macalaurë looked down at the masses of blank, staring eyes, and the world swam around him. Curufinwë clasped his elbows, careful to avoid the bandaged burns, and led him to a chair where he could sit down. The others followed, clustering around Macalaurë.

“He is lying,” Carnistir said. “I can tell. He has no intention of releasing Maitimo, no matter what we do.”

“Then we will not leave here,” Macalaurë said. “We will stay until we can think of a way to liberate both Maitimo and the Silmarils. Though I fear that it will be a long time, for I am hardly the tactician that Maitimo was – is.” He winced at his own words.

Tyelkormo sighed. “If we are to remain here, we cannot go without a leader.” He stepped into Maitimo’s tent and returned, bearing the circlet in his hands. “I hate having to do this twice in one day,” he murmured.

Macalaurë spotted the circlet in Tyelkormo’s hands and shrank back into his chair. “Oh, no. No, I do not want that. Take it away.”

“No,” Tyelkormo said. “You have all but declared Maitimo dead. You are the oldest after him, the next heir of the House of Finwë. You cannot refuse it.” He pulled Macalaurë to his feet, stern and implacable. Still, a spark of compassion flared in his eyes as he set the circlet gently on Macalaurë’s head.

“Swear to it,” he said. “Swear to bear the burden of Kingship, to be first among the Noldor, to receive fealty and honor and to give protection and guidance to your people. Swear, Macalaurë.”

Macalaurë choked. “I swear it,” he murmured. Then the world began to spin again, and the terrified cries of his brothers faded away into a comforting, silent darkness.

Macalaurë awoke to find himself lying on his camp bed. Someone had removed his shoes and covered him with a light blanket. A single lantern gave off a dim glow, and Macalaurë could see the circlet gleaming where it sat on the trunk next to the bed. Something moved in the shadows. It turned out to be Curufinwë, who knelt by the bed, a basin of water and a rag in hand. He dipped the rag in the water and gently dabbed it over Macalaurë’s brow.

“I am glad to see you awake, my Lord,” he said softly. “You frightened all of us.”

Despite his pounding headache, Macalaurë sat up and seized Curufinwë’s wrist. “Do not call me that.”

“Call you what?”

“Do not call me ‘my Lord.’ I do not wish to be anyone’s Lord. I wish to be a brother, a son, a husband, anything but a Lord. But I can no longer be a son or a husband, and I have sworn to be a Lord. At least grant me this one wish, Curufinwë. Let me be a brother still. Let me be your brother, and not your Lord.”

For a heartbeat, Curufinwë sat frozen in shock. Then he nodded, and murmured, “Macalaurë.” He set down the basin and the rag, put his arms around Macalaurë’s waist, and laid his head in his brother’s lap. “I have lost my father and one of my brothers today,” he said. “I do not wish to lose another one.”

“I know.” Macalaurë reached down and rubbed Curufinwë’s back, wishing that it were possible to give something more than simple physical comfort.

“Will you sing to me?” Curufinwë asked. “It is so dark outside, and it has been dark for so long. I think I have forgotten what it was like to see light or to feel joy. Perhaps if you sing something, it will make things better.”

Macalaurë nodded. “Of course I will sing, if my little brother asks for it.” He thought for a moment, and then smiled. “I know what you might like to hear.” He took a breath, and then began. “The first to come was a fair maid, combing out her locks. . . “

Curufinwë’s arms tightened about Macalaurë’s waist as he recognized the familiar childhood song. Softly, he sang along with the refrain. “With a whoop whoop whoop and a heigh-ho, along the narrow stretch . . . “

They sang together in the gloom for a while, saving and bolstering their strength for the long, difficult road that lay before them.

6. The Country Of The Heart

The supply wagon creaked and swayed gently as it trundled over roads that were little more than trails through the wilderness of Beleriand. The company of soldiers surrounding the wagon rode with heavy heart, for they had recently suffered severe losses in a battle that had resulted in only the merest shell of a victory. Now, they returned from the sad duty of burying Amrod and Amras, the twin sons of Fëanor, who had died in the battle for the keep of Sirion. Maedhros, the leader of the company, rode straight and tall at their head, not even bothering to wipe at the tears flowing down his face. He had buried all but one of his little brothers, and he feared his heart would break beyond repair if anything were to happen to Maglor.

But for now, at least, Maglor was safe. He sat in a nest of blankets in the supply wagon, fast asleep, with his arms around the two little boys nestled at his side. In his fresh, raw grief over Amrod and Amras, Maglor had spotted the sons of Elwing and taken them into his heart in that same instant. Despite Maedhros’s warnings, Maglor would not be parted from the children. And so they lived, and the warm weight of their sleeping bodies comforted Maglor in his sleep, and when he soothed their nightmares, his own subsided as well.

The procession halted, and Maglor gradually became aware of a hand gently stroking his hair and patting his cheek. He blinked his eyes, and saw Maedhros’s face. “Wake up, Maglor,” Maedhros said. “We will make camp for the night here, and I will send a messenger ahead to your house to alert them to your arrival. We should reach it tomorrow afternoon.”

“Mmm, yes.” Maglor rubbed sleep out of his eyes and tried to focus his thoughts. “Have them ask around the village for children’s clothing that I might borrow, and perhaps, if some good lady has some old toys that could be spared, at least until I can make new ones . . . “ He smiled at the children sleeping in his arms. The ghost of a smile flitted across Maedhros’s face as well.

“I can see that you will care for them well,” Maedhros said. “You have already begun to plan for their arrival.”

Maglor shrugged. “We left Sirion in such a hurry, there was no time to gather much beyond their cloaks and their favorite stuffed toys. I will have to wash these traveling clothes when we arrive home.” He rubbed his thumb over a bloodstain on the hem of one tiny shirt. “Or burn them.”

The smile faded from Maedhros’s face. “I suppose you are right. Is that Elrond?”

“Elros.”

“I see.” The twin in question shifted a little in his sleep, and put his thumb in his mouth. Maedhros nodded. “Elros is the one who sucks his thumb.”

The corner of Maglor’s mouth twitched. “It is not that simple. They both do it, but not at the same time.” He turned his attention to the boys, tightening his embrace and running his fingers lightly through their hair so that they would wake without knowing that he had caused them to do so. Elros and Elrond snuffled and blinked, snuggling closer against Maglor as they left the world of dreams behind. Maglor drew his legs up and shifted the boys onto his lap, then kissed the top of each head, breathing in the rich, heavy scent of sleepy children. He was only partially aware of Maedhros withdrawing to leave them in peace.

Just after noon the next day, the company reached Himring. Here their paths parted. Maedhros would lead his troops along one road to his keep, set high on a hill where he could monitor all of the comings and goings into the valley. Maglor, with the twins and the rest of his company, would continue on down another road to the valley where Maglor maintained a farmstead, and where his men dwelled nearby in a small village.

At the parting of the ways, Maedhros called a halt so that they could sort out cargoes of supplies and gear, and so that he could bid his brother farewell. He dismounted, and went to Maglor’s side. Maglor paused in unloading the wagon in which he and the boys had ridden.

“Thank you,” Maedhros said. “Thank you for your presence and that of your men. I know that I cannot repay their sacrifices of blood and suffering, but I am gratified at their service.”

Maglor could not quite bring himself to look Maedhros in the eye. “I swore an Oath, long ago,” he murmured. “Providing troops for this campaign was part of that Oath. My men follow me willingly, at least for now.”

Maedhros sighed. “I know that we did not recover the Silmarils,” he said. “But I promise you that Amrod and Amras did not die in vain. Someday, we will recover Father’s jewels.”

“And that will soothe all the hurts we have accumulated over the years.” Maglor let out a bitter laugh that was more than half a snort. Maedhros winced.

“No, it will not,” he answered. “But it will fulfill our Oath, the promise we made to Father as he lay dying in your arms.”

“Perhaps.” Maglor glanced up at Maedhros’s face, then looked away again. “In any event, I have jewels of my own now. I know that I am bound to follow your commands as the head of the House of Fëanor, but I beg you not to call me to war while Elros and Elrond are still small. We owe them that much, at least.”

Maedhros pressed his lips together for a moment, then nodded. “I will give you that time. I think it will do us both good to know that we will not be going to war again for a while.” Maedhros moved to embrace his brother, but Maglor stiffened and turned his head to one side. With a forced smile, Maedhros contented himself with a hand on Maglor’s arm.

“Farewell for now, Maglor,” he murmured. “Raise them well.”

Maglor gave a quick, convulsive nod, and climbed onto the seat of the wagon at the head of his train. He chirruped to the horses and drove away down the hill. Maedhros stood and watched him go. For a moment, he thought he saw a tiny hand waving farewell to him from the wagon box.

Maglor arrived home just as the sun was beginning to set. The rich light promised a beautiful sunset, golden as ripe wheat, red as blood. Maglor managed a small, private smile. The sunsets in the valley were a treasure that he had longed to share with someone ever since he had moved there. Now he had the boys, and the sunsets need no longer be a solitary pleasure.

He climbed down from the wagon seat and went around to the box to lift first Elros, then Elrond out of the wagon. A tall, gangly lad who lived in the village emerged from Maglor’s great house and took the horses’ harness. The twins clung to Maglor’s legs and regarded the boy suspiciously, but Maglor smiled at him.

“Thank you, Mebedir,” he said.

Mebedir bobbed a greeting back at him. “It is my pleasure, Lord Maglor,” he answered. “Lord Maedhros’s messenger said that you would be arriving with two children, and Naneth came up to the house to get a little supper started for you. She is inside now.”

“That is most kind of her.”

Mebedir smiled. “She brought a bundle of old clothes as well, and you will find them just inside the door. She told me to tell you so that you would not trip on the way in.”

Maglor chuckled. “I thank you for the warning, then.”

Mebedir suddenly spotted the twins, and knelt down for a closer look. “Oh, are those the boys?” he breathed. “They are adorable.” He smiled at them. Elros immediately buried his face in Maglor’s leg, but Elrond risked a brief glance at Mebedir. Maglor reached down and ruffled the twins’ hair.

“I think they are a little shy right now,” he said. “They have had a long, difficult journey, and supper and bed are in order for them now.”

“I understand.” Mebedir rose to his feet, bowed, and led the horses away to the stable. Maglor watched him go, then took the twins’ hands.

“Welcome to your new home,” he said. “Are you hungry? Mistress Belbeneth will have something good to eat waiting for us inside.” With that, he led Elros and Elrond inside, making sure to step around the bundle of children’s clothing sitting on the floor near the entrance. The house was warm, and an appetizing scent filled the air.

Mebedir’s mother, Belbeneth, peered around the kitchen into the main room. “Lord Maglor!” she cried. “Be welcome in your home. I am roasting a chicken for you and the boys, for you must be ready for some food now. It is almost ready to eat. You go to the table, and I will bring it out to you.”

“Thank you, Mistress.” Maglor knelt down and removed the twins’ cloaks, hanging them next to his own on hooks near the door. “Let us go wash our hands and faces for supper,” he said. “Are you big enough to wash yourselves, or would you like help?”

Elros and Elrond glanced at each other. “We can wash ourselves,” Elrond whispered.

“But we are not big enough to hold the pitcher,” Elros added. “Nana says we might drop it and hurt ourselves.”

“That is very wise of her,” Maglor said. Then, before the twins could think any further about what had become of their mother, he patted them on the shoulders and stood up, gathering the bundle of clothes into his arms. “Come with me, and I will bring these clothes upstairs,” he said. “Mistress Belbeneth brought them here just for you, so you will have fresh things to wear tomorrow.”

He carried the bundle to the stairs, and noted with a small flash of pleasure that Elros and Elrond followed him, holding hands and huddling close together.

Supper was a quiet affair, despite Mistress Belbeneth’s attempts to engage the boys in conversation as she cut slices of chicken breast into bite-size morsels on their plates. “They will find their tongues soon enough,” she concluded. “Poor things, the journey from Sirion must have been hard on them.”

“The battle, too,” Maglor said. “I am glad that your husband survived it, at least.”

Mistress Belbeneth nodded, then clasped Maglor’s hand briefly. “I am so sorry to hear about your brothers, my Lord,” she said.

Maglor glanced down at his food and pressed his lips together. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I will miss them. But you still have Mórion. Mebedir has not lost his father, and I am glad of that.”

A small smile bloomed on Mistress Belbeneth’s face. “By your leave, my Lord –“

“Yes, of course.” Maglor gave her hand a squeeze. “Go to him. You have been more than kind to us. I think we can manage things here. Give him my thanks.”

She bobbed a curtsey, waggled her fingers at Elros and Elrond, and left. Maglor watched her go, then turned to the boys. They stared at him, silently gnawing on pieces of chicken and baby carrots. Maglor began to eat his own supper, and allowed himself to enjoy the presence of company at the table.

Elros and Elrond said nothing during the meal, but carried their plates into the kitchen nicely enough, and watched with some interest as Maglor washed the dishes. He wondered if they were old enough to learn to wipe dishes, and resolved to find out at breakfast the next morning. Tonight, he would put them to bed and hope that sleep would find them.

Maglor put the dishes away in their cupboard. “It is bedtime now,” he said. “Run and fetch your stuffed toys, and I will show you to your chamber.” Elros and Elrond scampered off. When they returned, Maglor led them upstairs again, and opened the door to his best guest chamber, across the corridor from his own bedchamber.

“This will be yours,” he said. “It does not look like much now, but the bed is soft and warm, and you will soon have new toys to play with.” He poured water into the washbasin and left the twins to wash while he searched through the bundle of clothes, which he had left on the writing desk. Before long, he found two small nightshirts. “Shall we see if these fit you?” he asked.

The nightshirts turned out to be slightly too large, but Maglor did not mind. Elros and Elrond would grow into the shirts soon enough. He turned down the blankets and helped the boys climb into the bed. They wriggled and squirmed until they lay comfortably together, both dark heads on one pillow. For a moment, they looked so much like Amrod and Amras that Maglor could not prevent a few tears from spilling down his face.

“Are you sad?” Elrond asked softly.

Maglor nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Why are you sad?” Elrond asked.

“Because my baby brothers are dead.”

“Did they die in the big fight?”

Maglor nodded again. Elrond stuck his thumb in his mouth. Elros wiggled a little.

“Did Nana die in the fight, too?” he asked.

The question brought Maglor up short. The look of desperation on Elwing’s face as she hurled herself out of the window haunted his dreams. They had not been able to find her body after the battle, nor any trace of blood on the rocks, but Maglor could not imagine that anyone could have survived that fall. “I am not certain,” he said, “but it is likely that she did die.”

Elros’s eyes filled with tears, and Maglor reached out to stroke his hair. Elrond removed his thumb from his mouth and tugged at Maglor’s sleeve. “Are you Ada?” he asked.

Briefly, Maglor wondered if the horror of the battle at Sirion had damaged Elrond’s mind. “No, I am not,” he said. “Why did you think that?”

Elrond gave a disappointed little sigh. “Ada is a sailor,” he explained, “and we never see him.”

“Nana said he would come for us one day,” Elros added. “She said Ada would come and take care of us, and we would be a real family again.”

There was something in Elros’s voice that made Maglor shiver inside. He knelt by the bed and gathered both twins into a firm embrace. “We will be a family,” he said. “I am not your father, but I promise you that I will love you and care for you just as much as your father would. I swear it to you on my life. You will be as my own children to me.”

Elros put his arms around Maglor’s neck and clung to him. Elrond hesitated. “What if Ada comes back?”

Maglor did not believe for an instant that Eärendil would ever return to his sons, but he saw no need to mention this to Elrond in that moment. “Then he will find his sons hale and hearty and glad to see him.” This answer seemed to satisfy Elrond, and he, too, embraced Maglor.

Eventually, Maglor laid the boys back on their pillow, and tucked the blanket beneath their chins.

“Will you sing us a lullaby?” Elrond asked. Both twins had become fond of Maglor’s singing during their long journey from Sirion. Maglor smiled and began a long ballad about the romance of Elwë and Melian, a subject certain to lull small children to sleep.

The next morning, Maglor dressed Elros and Elrond in fresh clothes from Mistress Belbeneth’s bundle, and used their filthy, blood-stained old clothes to start the fire that would cook their breakfast. As they ate, he described the valley and the farm outside the house until Elros and Elrond were fairly bursting with eagerness to explore it.

“You may run and play as much as you like today,” Maglor told them as they finished eating, “but there is one small task you must do first.”

With that, he gathered his own dishes and took them to the kitchen. The boys followed with their own plates. Maglor washed them and then gave each twin a towel and showed them how to wipe the dishes. As he had hoped, they were old enough to do this simple chore, and held the plates carefully so as not to drop them.

“You did that very well,” Maglor said when they finished. “If you can do that for every meal, it will be a great help to me. What do you say? Will this be your own special job?”

Elros and Elrond nodded enthusiastically, proud of their efforts. Maglor led them out of the kitchen and opened the door. “Let us go and visit the animals in the farmyard,” he said. “I am sure they would love to become acquainted with two such charming little boys as yourselves.”

Elros and Elrond cheered, and fairly dragged Maglor into the yard. Mórion and Mebedir, who had come to help on the farm while Maglor settled the boys, introduced them to the flock of chickens and the two goats that sniffed eagerly at the newcomers in their world. The geese proved less friendly, hissing and flapping their wings. One even attempted to bite Elrond, who hid behind Maglor, and would only be coaxed out by Mebedir holding a kitten from a new litter he had found in the barn.

The horses and cows who lived with the cats in the barn seemed large and threatening to little boys, but proved, upon closer acquaintance, to be placid and friendly. Maglor privately decided to acquire ponies for the boys when they were a little older. He knew that Maedhros sometimes received bands of Dwarves traveling through Himring. Perhaps he could negotiate with one such band through Maedhros for two sturdy, dependable ponies.

Two small bodies flung themselves at him and distracted him from his plans. “Do we really get to stay here with the horses and the chickens and the kitties?” Elrond asked.

“As long as you wish,” Maglor said, “though I hope that you wish to stay until you are all grown up.”

The twins looked at each other and nodded. “We will stay if you will be our new Ada,” Elros said.

Elrond poked him. “He is not our Ada. He said so, last night.”

Elros frowned, and poked out his lower lip. He regarded Maglor suspiciously. “Well, what are you, then, if you are not our Ada?”

Maglor blinked. He had not considered this question. “I suppose I am your guardian,” he said slowly.

“Guar-di-an.” Elrond sounded the word out carefully. Elros made a face at the word.

Maglor burst out laughing. “Oh, please! You cannot call me that. I have never cared for titles. My name is Maglor, and you may use that.”

Elros smiled. “Maglor.”

“Maglor,” Elrond echoed.

Maglor knelt down in front of them. “Yes. And you are Elros and Elrond.” He drew them close in a loose embrace. “And, beginning right now, we are a family.”

7. Not The Only Way To Go

The door banged open, and Elrond clattered into the house. He knuckled Elros’s head, and Elros laughed and chased him into the kitchen. He managed to land one good-natured punch on Elrond’s arm, and then they both grabbed handfuls of shelled hazelnuts from the bowl in front of Maglor.

“Stop that,” Maglor said. “Those were to go into dinner tonight. How can I cook when I have two adolescent boys eating everything in sight?” But he smiled as he said it, and Elros and Elrond merely grinned at him as they ate their stolen nuts.

“It is a good thing there are only two of us,” Elrond said. “Your parents must have been at their wits’ end with seven.”

“Not all at once, fortunately,” Maglor replied. “Though Amrod and Amras did prove a handful. Of course, they had five older brothers to teach them manners.”

“What are you cooking tonight?” Elros asked.

“I had planned to try rolling trout in nut meal and frying them,” Maglor said. “It is a Sindar style of cooking fish, and I have found that I enjoy that mode of cooking.”

Elrond shrugged. “I hope we have enough.”

“Do not fear. I made sure to take a whole fish for each of you from the traps.”

“That is not what I meant.” Elrond held out a grubby letter to Maglor. “Uncle Maedhros sent this. He plans to arrive this evening, for he has something important to tell you.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow at Elrond as he took the letter from Elrond’s hand. “I thought I told you that it is impolite to read other people’s letters.”

“I did not read it. The messenger told me what was in it.”

Sure enough, the seal was intact. Maglor broke it carefully and read the message inside. Maedhros had not written any further details about his mission. Maglor sighed, and folded the letter, then turned to Elros and Elrond.

“Well, it seems that we will be four tonight at dinner instead of three. I will go and clean another trout. You will crack more hazelnuts to replace what you have stolen.”

The twins laughed, and reached for nutcrackers.

When Maedhros arrived, Maglor knew immediately that all was not well. Maedhros’s smile was a little too broad, his laugh a little too hearty as he greeted Elros and Elrond and embraced Maglor. However, he seemed determined to pretend that nothing was out of the ordinary, and Maglor decided to go along with the game, at least until they had eaten. He took Maedhros’s cloak and hung it by the door.

“Welcome,” he said. “Dinner is nearly ready. I am sure that you are hungry. I know that the boys are.”

“That is no great guess,” Maedhros said. “They are always hungry recently. I am surprised they have not yet eaten you out of house and home.”

“Ha. Father and Mother survived having adolescent twins. I will do the same.” Maglor glanced around the room. “Elros, will you help Maedhros get ready for dinner? Elrond, please come and set the table. The sooner you start, the sooner we may eat.”

The twins needed no further prompting, and everyone soon sat at the table, eating and talking. Maedhros still had not brought up his important message, and his eyes darted furtively around the table. It made Maglor profoundly uneasy, but he knew that Maedhros would not reveal anything if pushed. Elros and Elrond chattered about an expedition that they planned to take the next day with a friend of theirs. This friend’s mother was an herbalist, and had planned to take all three boys out into the woods to teach them how to identify, harvest, and prepare some of the simpler remedies she used.

“The fish is truly excellent, Maglor,” Maedhros said, when the twins paused for breath. “Your skill at cooking never ceases to amaze me.”

“It is not a difficult art to master,” Maglor replied. “Elros and Elrond have begun to learn some of the skills, and they are able assistants.” He glanced around the table and noted that the fish fillets had disappeared. “Boys, will you clear the table? Set the dishes to soak and bring in the bowl of berries and cream. They plucked the berries this morning,” he told Maedhros as Elros and Elrond cleared the table.

Maedhros nodded, and a shadow passed over his face. He watched until the boys had left the room. For a moment, no one spoke. Maglor could hear the water splashing in the kitchen. At last, Maedhros took a deep breath and looked Maglor in the eye.

“It is time,” he said.

Maglor frowned. “Time for what?”

“Morgoth’s army is rising again. There have already been several battles, and our aid is desperately needed. We have one last chance to defeat the Enemy and regain the Silmarils. I require your assistance in this matter, as I have in the past.”

Maglor chewed his lip and looked down at the table. “I suppose that is fair,” he said. “Elros and Elrond are old enough to care for the house by themselves, and –“

“No.” Maedhros’s soft word startled Maglor.

“You cannot mean . . . I will not take them to war, Maedhros. I will not do that to them.”

Maedhros’s jaw tightened, and he had to force the next words from his mouth. “It is time, Maglor. You cannot keep them any longer. They have distracted you from your Oath long enough.”

A sick knot twisted in Maglor’s stomach, and he feared that he would vomit the fine dinner he had just eaten. “I made promises to the boys as well, Maedhros. I will not allow you to kill them. Not now, not after all these years.”

Pottery crashed behind them. Maglor and Maedhros whirled around to see Elros and Elrond standing just inside the main room, the shattered remains of a bowl of raspberries and cream at their feet, and identical expressions of disbelief and horror on their faces. Maedhros closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You and I both know that they present a complication in our quest,” he said quietly. “But you are right. To kill them now would be –“

“Unthinkable,” Maglor snapped, tensing himself to rise and defend Elros and Elrond if need be.

“Yes. Unthinkable. But they cannot stay with you any longer.” Maedhros glanced away from Maglor and began to undo the straps on the steel hand he wore at mealtimes. He did not meet Maglor’s eyes as he spoke. “They are not old enough to fight, that is true. But they are old enough to serve as pages, or squires, perhaps.”

“Whom would they serve in such a capacity?” Maglor asked. “You? I would not allow that.”

“What about Gil-galad?” Maedhros replied. He finished unstrapping his steel hand, and laid it gently on the table. “Do you not think it time to return Elros and Elrond to their own folk?”

Maglor had no immediate answer for that. Elros and Elrond took advantage of the momentary silence and stormed forward. “You cannot send us away, Maglor,” Elros cried. “You promised! You promised that we would always be a family.”

“Do not blame Maglor,” Maedhros said. “This is not his doing. It is mine, and I am not giving him any choice in the matter.” He turned to Maglor. “I do not wish to invoke my authority as Head of the House of Fëanor, but if I must . . . “

“You cannot haul Elros and Elrond off to Gil-galad just like that,” Maglor said. “He would likely have you killed as soon as he saw you, and to dump the twins in his lap with no warning –“

“He has had warning,” Maedhros said. He rose and walked to the cloakroom, returning with a letter bearing Gil-galad’s seal. This he dropped on the table in front of Maglor. “He has already agreed to my arrangements. In writing. We will leave tomorrow morning, and meet him at a location five days’ ride from here. He will take custody of Elros and Elrond then.”

Maglor opened the letter. The text confirmed Maedhros’s words. Maglor could do nothing except stare at the page. He was vaguely aware when Elros embraced him and began to weep. Elrond stood straight, choked down tears, and glared at Maedhros.

“I hate you,” he said. “You led the attack on Sirion that destroyed our first home, and now you will wrench us away from our second. You are a horrible person, Maedhros Fëanorion, and I hate you forever.” With that, he turned away from Maedhros and put his arms around his brother and his guardian, though there was no comfort to be found in that embrace.

The little party set out for the meeting place early the next morning. Elros and Elrond had packed some of their clothes and a few favorite objects, but they had left the majority of their treasures and possessions behind, never to be seen again. Maglor had packed food for the family, but Maedhros’s guards had to provide for themselves. Now, Maglor sat tall and straight on his horse, riding behind his brother along the narrow trails that would lead to his doom.

They did not speak as they rode, for there was nothing about which to speak. Maglor tried to concentrate on nothing beyond the immediate present, the cool, fresh air, the motion of his horse, and the details of the trail. He knew that he would fall from his horse, weeping, if he dwelled too long on memories of the twins’ childhood, and he could not bear to contemplate the immediate future. So he lived in a fantasy of the present, in which this lovely journey went on forever, never coming to an end.

When they made camp in the evenings, the twins would build a fire, and Maglor would cook something simple. After they had eaten, they would sit and watch the fire die, and Maglor would sing to the twins or tell them a favorite story. Maedhros always sat slightly apart, and did not presume to intrude upon them. Only once did he speak to Maglor.

“You have raised them well,” he said, as Maglor tucked a blanket around the sleeping boys. “Gil-galad will be pleased when he meets them.”

“I do not care what Gil-galad thinks,” Maglor replied. “Would you care about the preferences of the man who was to rip your heart from your body?” He made a show of unrolling his own blanket and lying down beside Elros and Elrond, signaling that the conversation was at an end.

One evening, Maedhros announced quietly that they would meet Gil-galad the next morning. No one had much of an appetite, but Maglor made Elros and Elrond swallow a little food, and he forced himself to choke down a few bites as well. After they had finished their attempt at supper, Maglor put an arm around each of the boys and drew them close, as he had not done since they had become young men, and had declared themselves too old for such displays of affection. They did not protest this liberty, but snuggled closer. Elros laid his head on Maglor’s shoulder.

In a halting voice, Maglor began to speak of Sirion, of the dreadful battle that had led to his adoption of the twins. He described everything that he had seen and done on that terrible day, and did not omit a single deed. He spoke of how he and his bodyguards had pursued Elwing higher and higher through the keep, and how they had cut down those of Elwing’s ladies who had dared to offer resistance. At last, he described his final confrontation with Elwing.

“I did not lay one finger on her,” Maglor said, “but I bear the blame for her fate. I forced a choice upon her that she should never have had to make. I made her choose between her life and the jewel, and she chose the jewel. I cannot blame her for that choice, though it grieves me even now to tell of it.”

He paused, and squeezed his eyes shut. Elrond brushed away tears, and Elros clung to Maglor. Maglor took a deep breath, and shifted the twins so that he could look them both in the eye.

“I have had many years now to contemplate my actions that day,” he said. “Of all the evil deeds I have done in my life, that is the one I regret the most, forcing Elwing to make that choice. I had thought that we would have more time to approach this on our own terms, but that has not been granted us. Tomorrow, you will go with Gil-galad, and return to your own people. I do not anticipate that we will ever meet again. And so I ask you, Elros, Elrond, on this night, I beg your forgiveness for the wrong I have done you.”

The twins looked at each other for several long moments. Maglor wondered, not for the first time, if they were actively sharing their thoughts or merely thinking the same thing. Whatever the process, they seemed to come to a wordless agreement and turned back to him.

“You took our mother and our old life from us,” Elros said, “but you did not act alone in that; Uncle Maedhros commanded you. Yet you gave us a home and a new life afterwards, and you showed us the loving kindness of a true father. This you did of your own will. For myself, I consider that you have paid that particular debt. I forgive you willingly.”

“I forgive you as well,” Elrond said. “But I will not extend that courtesy to Maedhros.”

In spite of himself, Maglor smiled at that. “Well, that is your own business, Elrond,” he said. “But I am grateful for your love and forgiveness.”

Elrond bowed his head and peeked at Maglor from beneath his eyelashes. “Can you not come with us tomorrow?” he asked. “We could ask Gil-galad to let you stay with us.”

Maglor sighed. “I wish I could agree to that. But Maedhros is correct in one regard. I did swear an Oath, once upon a time, before your parents were a glimmer in your grandparents’ eyes. I am bound by that Oath. I put it aside for a while to raise you, but I cannot renounce it forever. I must follow Maedhros.”

Elros stifled a yawn, and Maglor began to hunt around for blankets. “Perhaps it is time to go to sleep,” he said.

“I do not want to sleep,” Elrond said, trying and failing to hold back a yawn of his own. “Tonight is our last night together. I do not wish to waste it sleeping.”

“We will have a hard day tomorrow,” Maglor said. “We all need our rest. Will you two sleep by my side tonight? That way, we can still pass the night together.”

The twins agreed eagerly, and they snuggled down, one on each side of Maglor, as they had done when they were small. Despite their protests that they were not sleepy, they were soon walking the path of dreams. Maglor remained awake a while longer, but eventually, the soft breathing of the children he had raised as his own lulled him to sleep as well.

The next morning dawned all too quickly. Maglor made Elros and Elrond wash themselves as thoroughly as possible, and shook out the best of the clothing they had packed. After they had dressed, he inspected them to make sure that they were presentable, their hair neatly combed, and their clothes hanging just so. Elros and Elrond endured the attention in stunned silence, their hands clasped tightly together. Maedhros watched the process from a distance, but did not interfere, knowing that the real reason for Maglor’s fussing and activity was to prevent himself from weeping.

At last, even Maglor could not find anything else about the boys’ appearance to correct. Maedhros inspected the campsite one final time, then gave the soft, gruff order to move out. They mounted their horses and began the short ride that would take them to the meadow that Gil-galad had designated as a meeting place.

With every step his horse took, Maglor withdrew deeper into himself, letting layer after layer of protective numbness bury his heart. He had lost people he loved before, more times than he cared to think about, but not since Nerdanel had left their home had the process been so slow, so formal and polite.

The trees ahead of them grew thinner, and Maedhros called a halt. He motioned to a page, who rummaged around on one of the pack ponies until he found a clean, white handkerchief. He cut a switch from a young tree near him and tied the handkerchief to it to make the white flag of parley. This he handed to Maedhros, who tucked it into the crook of his right arm. Then Maedhros commanded the party to move forward again. They emerged onto the meadow to meet Gil-galad and his escort in a flood of sunshine.

Gil-galad appeared to have arrived at the meeting point some time earlier. His troops had pitched tents and cleared ground for a cooking site. At the moment, they waited, mounted in silent formation, behind their lord. Gil-galad himself waited somewhat apart from the rest, mounted upon a large bay horse, resplendent in shining armor, with the crown of the Noldor kings upon his head. At his side stood a tall, strange Elf who wore no armor, and whose long silver beard fluttered slightly in the wind. Although he had never met the Elf, Maglor guessed that he must be Círdan the Mariner.

Maedhros halted just at the edge of the meadow and raised his flag. Gil-galad nodded, and beckoned them forward. They halted again at a distance close enough to exchange words, but too far to exchange friendship. Maedhros handed the flag to his page and raised his left hand in greeting.

“My Lord Gil-galad, and my King,” he said. “I have come to this field, as we arranged, to deliver the sons of Eärendil and Elwing into your custody. They are unharmed and in good health, just as I have described to you.”

“Maedhros Fëanorion,” Gil-galad replied. “I am gratified to see that you have honored the terms of our arrangement. Let the sons of Eärendil come forward, and I will give you leave to depart in peace.”

Moving as if through water, Maglor dismounted and unloaded the twins’ packs from the pony that bore them. Elros and Elrond dismounted and stood huddled close together, not daring to take a step toward Gil-galad. Maglor set their packs at their feet, managing to remain outwardly calm and in control. Elrond glanced nervously over his shoulder at Gil-galad, then suddenly flung his arms around Maglor.

“Farewell, Maglor,” he said. “I love you.”

Elros moved forward and joined the embrace. “I love you, too,” he said. “I will never forget you, I promise.”

Maglor opened his mouth to speak his last farewell, but at that moment, a sharp pain shot through his chest, and his throat swelled so that no sound came forth. Instead, he clasped the boys tightly for a brief, eternal moment, then slowly and deliberately opened his arms to let them go. They shouldered their packs, then turned and began to walk across the field towards Gil-galad and Círdan. Elrond paused once and glanced back over his shoulder. Then Gil-galad and Círdan were greeting the boys, and pages were relieving them of their packs and ushering them into a tent, and then they were gone. There was nothing left. Even the pain in Maglor’s chest faded away, leaving emptiness behind.

Maedhros and Gil-galad exchanged polite formulas of farewell, and it was time to leave. Maglor mounted his horse without thinking, and followed Maedhros back into the woods. They rode without speaking for a while, for Maglor would not be roused, but sat as if blind, deaf, and mute, allowing his horse to carry him along.

At last, Maedhros called a halt, and the party dismounted to stretch their legs. Maedhros put his arm around Maglor and steered him behind a small thicket for privacy.

“You were very brave,” he said. “I am sorry to have caused you such pain, but we both know that it is better this way. They are alive and with their own people now, as they should be.”

Maglor hung his head and said nothing. Maedhros sighed, and gathered his brother into a tender embrace. “When this war is over,” he said, “our Oath to Father will be fulfilled. You shall have a Silmaril for your own, one of the fairest jewels the world has yet beheld, shining with the light of the Trees that are now vanished from the world. You will have one of Father’s creations, Maglor, a little piece of him. Would you not like that?”

Maglor tilted his face up and stared at Maedhros with eyes that had no life in them. He had no desire for a Silmaril now, but he supposed that, all things being equal, having one was better than not having one. “Yes,” he murmured. “I would like that.”

“Good.” Maedhros led him back to the rest of the party, and they mounted their horses and rode onwards.

In due time, they came to the parting of the ways. Maedhros turned to Maglor and smiled at him. “Come and spend some time in my house, Maglor,” he said. “You will not be haunted by memories of Elros and Elrond there.”

This made sense to Maglor, and he followed Maedhros down his trail. He never set foot in his own house again.

8. Witness To Another Possibility

“Hold still,” Maedhros commanded. “I do not wish to get soot in your eyes.”

Maglor sighed, and stopped fidgeting. Maedhros stretched out his hand to a pot of soot dampened with lamp oil that sat on the cot beside him, and scooped some of the mixture onto his fingers. He smeared it over Maglor’s face, using his stump to blend the grime into his brother’s skin. After a while, he sat back and eyed Maglor critically in the dim light of the camp lantern.

“That should do,” he said. “Do my face now.”

Slowly, as he did many things these days, Maglor rose from the cot. He picked up Maedhros’s small bronze mirror, and examined his reflection. His face looked quite different, as dark as night, the features blurred and distorted by the coating of oil and soot. His eyes glittered. With a sigh, he put the mirror down, picked up the pot of soot and sat down next to Maedhros. He scooped up a handful of grease and began to rub it into Maedhros’s skin.

“I still do not think this is right,” he said.

“It is necessary,” Maedhros replied. “We do not want our skin to shine if Eönwë’s guards are carrying torches.”

“I did not mean the paint,” Maglor said, rubbing at Maedhros’s chin. “Have we truly sunk so low that we would steal into the camp of an ally at night and rob him of the jewels as though we were common thieves?”

Maedhros’s expression hardened. “You said that you would follow me in this. Do you intend to break your word now, of all times?”

“I will not break my word,” Maglor said, more sharply than he had intended. “I allowed you to cover my face in this vile substance, and I am spending the time to do the same to yours. Do not forget, I swore the same Oath that you did. I have spent much of my adult life attempting to fulfill it, and in the process, I have lost most of what I loved. You, my dear big brother, are the only thing I have left in this world. I promised you that I would help you acquire the Silmarils tonight, and I will keep that promise. But –“ he poked Maedhros’s chin, “I did not promise to approve of your methods.”

Maedhros pulled away from Maglor and reached for the mirror. “I suppose that is fair,” he said, examining his face. “You have done a good job here. Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” Maglor wiped the leftover paint from his hands and pulled dark leather gloves on. “Now, let us go and do this deed, before I lose my stomach for petty thievery.”

Some time later, the last living sons of Fëanor slipped into Eönwë’s camp. They carried few weapons, and wore armor of leather instead of steel, and soft boots upon their feet, so that they made no noise as they crept forward. Their loose, dark clothing and painted faces blended in with the night shadows. Maedhros had planned their expedition in some detail, and he pointed Maglor toward one particular tent. Two sentries stood outside it.

Maglor crept up behind one of the guards, drawing a thin wire from his belt pouch as he did so. Quickly, before he could stop to think about what he was doing, he slipped the wire around the guard’s neck and drew him into the underbrush to strangle him there. When the other guard turned to see what had become of his companion, Maedhros stepped out of the shadows and stuck a knife into his heart.

The guard died instantly, and fell at an awkward angle. Maedhros tried to catch him, but could not reach far enough with the stump of his right arm. The guard’s body tumbled to the ground with a soft sound. Maedhros froze, his eyes darting around until he located Maglor. He gestured frantically, and Maglor sprinted to his side. Maedhros hustled him inside the tent, and they wasted no time rummaging through the boxes of war spoils until they came upon a small wooden box. Maglor pried the lid open just far enough to peek inside. Brilliant light flooded the tent, and Maglor snapped the box shut.

“We have found them,” he murmured.

“Good,” Maedhros replied. “Now let us leave quickly, before we are discovered.”

Maglor pushed the box into Maedhros’s pouch, and both of them drew their knives. They stepped out of the tent. An instant later, torches flared, revealing a company of archers with drawn bows, aiming their arrows straight at Maglor and Maedhros.

The bottom dropped out of Maglor’s stomach, but he stood his ground. The fact of his crime no longer mattered. He and Maedhros finally had the Silmarils in their possession, and he would do whatever he had to do to make sure that they kept them. His hands were steady and sure as he drew his sword, ready to defend his father’s legacy and his brother’s life.

“Hold!” Just as Maglor prepared to run at the archers, a powerful voice shattered the silence. Everyone turned as Eönwë himself strode into view. Even unarmed and attired only in a simple gray robe, Manwë’s herald still cut an imposing figure. The archers nearest him dropped to their knees, and Maglor could not suppress the shiver that ran through his body. Even Maedhros gulped.

Eönwë came to stand directly in front of the brothers. In the form he had taken for the war against Morgoth, he was taller even than Maedhros, and much broader and more imposing. “So,” he said, in a calm voice that conveyed disappointment more than anything else, “it has come to this.”

“We claim our own property,” Maedhros said.

“By trespass and theft?” Eönwë replied. When Maedhros made no answer, he shook his head wearily. “Did I not say to you that you have forfeited your right to these jewels through your evil deeds? That you have resorted to such shameful measures to acquire them only provides further proof of that point.”

“They are all we have left of our father,” Maglor choked out. “The only goal for which we have fought all these years.”

Eönwë’s expression softened a little. “I do not think that is as true as you would have me believe, Maglor Fëanorion,” he said. “But your words move me. I will let you go this time. Take the jewels, and do not cross my sight again.”

Maedhros moved reflexively, but Maglor restrained him. “Thank you, Lord Eönwë,” he said.

“Do not be so hasty with your thanks,” Eönwë answered. “Perhaps I have not given you so great a gift as you believe.” He turned on his heel, and walked back to his tent. The archers lowered their bows. Maglor grabbed Maedhros’s hand, and they fled into the night.

Maglor had wanted to return to their own camp, but Maedhros would not follow him. Something dark and greedy lurked behind Maedhros’s eyes, and he would not risk the chance that one of their own men might attempt to take the Silmarils by force. Maglor tried to convince him that no one would dare cross them, especially in this matter, but his words fell on deaf ears. After more than five hundred years, the goal to which Maedhros had dedicated his life was finally within his grasp.

Maedhros led Maglor through the forest, along dark, little-known trails. They walked until Maglor’s legs shook, but still Maedhros pressed onwards. Gradually, the sky began to turn gray, then pink. As they emerged from the forest, the sun rose over the horizon.

Maglor looked around and blinked. They were standing on a bluff overlooking the ocean. A cool, salty breeze blew towards them from the sea, but the stench of sulfur tainted the air as well. Not far away, an enormous chasm gaped in the earth. Maglor walked to its edge and stared down. Something seemed to have sliced Arda to its very core. Thick, fiery liquid boiled and rumbled at the bottom of the chasm, far below. The heat was so intense that Maglor could only stand it for a few heartbeats. He turned away from the crack of fire, and fled to Maedhros’s side.

“How did that crack appear?” he asked.

“I do not know. Doubtless it was the work of a dragon, or a Maia, or perhaps one of the Valar themselves, during one of the battles,” Maedhros said. “But I am not certain, and in all honesty, I do not care. What I care about is this.” He drew the jewel box from his belt pouch.

The sight of it made Maglor sick, but he found that he could not turn away as Maedhros slowly pulled the lid off the box. Neither one of them had seen a Silmaril in many years, and they had forgotten how compelling the jewels were in their radiant beauty. Hundreds of tiny facets sparkled and shone, reflecting the morning sunlight, and even that seemed a mere ornament to the more vibrant light that came from deep within the jewels.

“Beautiful,” Maglor breathed. “I had forgotten how beautiful they are.”

“Only two of them left,” Maedhros said. “The set will forever be incomplete.”

Maglor nodded. “It is just so with our family. There are only two of us left.”

At that, Maedhros raised his head and looked Maglor in the eye. Somewhere behind the reflected light of the Silmarils, Maglor thought he saw a spark of compassion. Maedhros forced a smile, and offered the box to Maglor. “Choose,” he said. “Take one for yourself. Since one is lost to us, and but two remain, and we two alone of our brothers, so it is plain that fate would have us share the heirlooms of our father.”

The jewels were identical in every way that Maglor could see. There was nothing about their size, their brilliance, or their shape to distinguish one from the other. Maglor reached into the box and quickly plucked one of the Silmarils out. It sat, cool and heavy, in his palm, glowing softly. Maedhros set the box down and took the other Silmaril for himself.

“Ours at last,” he said with a smile.

“Ours,” Maglor repeated.

Even as the word left his mouth, he noticed that the jewel had grown warmer. Pleased that it seemed to respond to the living warmth of the one who held it, Maglor smiled. But the Silmaril continued to grow warmer and warmer. It became uncomfortable to hold, but Maglor could not bear to drop it. A sharp pain blossomed in his hand, and he gasped. A memory stirred in his mind, of holding his father’s body as it burned away from within. He squeezed his eyes shut against the memory and the present pain, and two tears trickled down his face.

When Maglor opened his eyes, he saw Maedhros writhing in anguish on the ground, his Silmaril clutched tight in the reddening fingers of his only hand. The cords in his neck stood out, and the veins in his forehead bulged as his mouth opened around a silent scream of utter agony.

“Maedhros!” Maglor cried. With an effort, he opened his hand and let his Silmaril tumble out into the grass, half expecting the grass to catch fire. But nothing happened, and Maglor crawled to Maedhros’s side. He caught Maedhros’s flailing hand in his unharmed one and pinched the wrist.

“Drop it!” he commanded. “It is causing you pain. Eönwë was right, Maedhros! The jewels are burning us. Let it go!”

Maedhros let out an unearthly shriek, and shoved Maglor off of him. Maglor landed on the hand that had held the Silmaril, and for a moment, stars as bright as the jewels themselves danced in front of his eyes. When he could see again, he looked around and saw that Maedhros was running across the meadow. Maglor rose unsteadily to his feet and gave chase.

“Maedhros, stop!” he yelled. “Where are you going? Drop the Silmaril!”

Maedhros abruptly stopped running and turned to stare at Maglor with eyes that held nothing but pain. For a moment, Maglor thought that Maedhros had understood and come to his senses. Then a wave of heat washed over him, and he smelled sulfur, and he knew where they were. Maedhros turned his beautiful, agonized face away from Maglor and stared down into the fiery chasm.

“Maedhros, no!” Even as Maglor stretched out his hand and took a step forward, Maedhros gave one last, quick glance over his shoulder, and stepped over the edge of the chasm.

Maglor began to scream, and did not stop until his breath gave out and he collapsed, sobbing, in the soft, cool grass of the meadow.

He did not know how long he lay there, insensible to the world around him. The sun had climbed higher in the sky by the time he sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face. There was not a cloud to be seen in the sky. The wind had shifted, blowing the clean scent of the ocean in to cover the sulfurous odor of the chasm. Maglor could almost believe that he had fallen asleep after a pleasure stroll, but the pain in his hand and the ache in his heart told him otherwise.

He rose, and went to stand on the edge of the chasm. For a long time, he stared down into the lake of fire that had swallowed his brother.

“You fool, Maedhros,” he murmured. “You led this quest that took from me everything I once held dear, and now you would leave me here alone.”

Maglor was growing dizzy from the fumes. It would have been so easy to embrace the vertigo and fall forward, joining Maedhros in oblivion, but Maglor’s basic sense of self-preservation would not permit that. He wrenched himself away from the chasm, and stumbled back to the place where he had dropped his Silmaril. It lay undisturbed in the grass, twinkling seductively at him.

Maglor did not dare to pick it up, but he squatted in front of it, contemplating the bright jewel that had cost so many lives and caused so much turmoil. For the sake of the Silmaril, Maglor had given up homes and families, learned to kill without remorse, and broken every promise he had ever made.

No, that was not true. He had kept one promise. He had regained a Silmaril, fulfilling the Oath he had sworn at Fëanor’s side, in the courtyard of the palace in Tirion, on that endless night so many centuries ago. Those who had sworn with him were dead, and those who had witnessed the swearing had also died or vanished, but Maglor and the Silmaril remained.

A new thought suddenly burst into the echoing void of Maglor’s mind. The Oath had never spoken of what would happen after the Silmarils were regained. He had kept his promise the moment he had taken the jewel in his hand and claimed it for his own. Now he was free of the burden that had weighed upon him for the majority of his adult life. A fierce hatred flared in his heart for the glittering piece of rock that had stolen so much from him, and he glared down at the Silmaril.

“I hate you,” he said. “You came before me or my brothers in Father’s affections. For your sake, we followed him out of Aman and became kinslayers, the Dispossessed. For your sake, Dior and Thingol were slain, and Elwing vanished. For your sake, I gave up Elros and Elrond, my brothers, my father, and my wife. No more will I live in your shadow. Fëanor’s legacy is mine, to do with as I will. I will have none of it!”

Maglor reached out and seized the Silmaril, ignoring the pain. He strode to the edge of the bluff and looked out over the endless blue ocean. Somewhere beyond the horizon was his home, where he could never return again. With a cry of pure rage, Maglor drew his arm back and hurled the Silmaril as far as he could into the ocean. It made a small splash and sank quickly.

Maglor stood alone on the bluff and stared out at the ocean, trying to comprehend the new world he had just created, a world with no Silmarils in it to plague people and drive them mad with desire. It was the world that he had dreamed of ever since he set foot on the pristine shores of Middle-earth. He had been so young then, still reeling from his participation in Fëanor’s rebellion and horrified at what he had done at Alqualondë. A small part of him had been glad that Calimë had not witnessed his role in that horror.

At the thought of Calimë, Maglor’s heart skipped a beat. They had had such a short time together that he wondered if they had ever truly been married. He had thought about her often over the years, but he did not know if she had done the same. Perhaps she had taken up a new life in Tirion and had forgotten about him.

The bluff was not especially high, and Maglor slid down it easily. He took off his boots and stockings, and walked barefoot along the beach, enjoying the feel of the sand between his toes. When he reached the water, he rolled up his trousers and waded in up to his knees. The salt water was cool and smooth against his skin. Maglor bent down and bathed his hands, feeling the water soothe the lingering pain of the Silmaril.

Maglor had never had the chance to go to the seaside with Calimë. He had never had the chance to live with her alone, just the two of them together, doing as they pleased. They had not even had time to have children of their own before fate tore them apart. Standing knee-deep in the waters of a nameless beach on the coast of Beleriand, Maglor mourned the life he had lost with tears as salty as the ocean. He waded back to shore and lay on the damp sand at the water’s edge as he cried.

Eventually, he stopped crying, more from exhaustion than anything else. The sun shone warm upon him, and the rhythm of the waves was soothing in his ears. A strange sense of peace descended over Maglor. Something flared inside his heart, something that he had thought gone forever. His old bond with Calimë made its presence known. Even as he had not forgotten her, he knew that she had not forgotten him. It was their joy that the bond had remained strong, and it was their sorrow that they would spend the rest of time parted from each other.

There was only one thing left to Maglor now. He sat up, and scooped up handfuls of water to wash the sand from his face and hair. Softly at first, then growing stronger, he began to sing. He sang all the old love songs that he had sung with Calimë, and all the ditties and play-party songs he had made up to amuse and entertain his little brothers. He sang the Noldolantë, and then the lay of Beren and Lúthien.

The sun moved across the sky, and still Maglor sang. When he had sung every song he could remember, he sang fragments of those he could not remember fully. When even the fragments faded from his memory, he walked up the beach, climbed the bluff, and lay down in the grass to sleep.

His men found him there the next morning, having searched long and hard after their lords had vanished two nights previously. Mórion, his lieutenant, knelt down beside him and very gently laid a hand on Maglor’s shoulder. In one startled flurry of movement, Maglor sat up, shoved Mórion away, and scuttled back, crouching down in the grass and glaring at his old friend.

“My Lord,” Mórion said. “We have been searching for a day and a night. Are you well? What has become of Lord Maedhros?”

Maglor said nothing, but shook his head, then turned his face away.

Mórion closed his eyes in grief, then opened them again and held his hands out to Maglor. “I sorrow with you, my Lord. Will you come back to camp with us? We will take you home.”

Maglor stared at him for a moment, then rose and walked along the edge of the bluff. His men followed him, uncertain of what to do. After a while, the bluff grew higher, and made an overhang above the beach. Maglor climbed down the bluff and discovered a small, relatively dry cave below the bluff. He walked in and sat down on the sandy cave floor, then looked up at Mórion, spreading his hands wide in a gesture of welcome.

Mórion was about to ask Maglor what he meant by that, but then he looked into Maglor’s eyes, and he knew. He knelt down before his lord and bowed his head. “I see. So be it. We will give you what help we may.”

He turned to the rest of the soldiers, who were waiting just under the overhang. “Go back to camp,” he said, “and bring food, blankets, clothes and knives from Lord Maglor’s tent.”

“But, Mórion –“ one of the soldiers said.

“Go, I tell you!” Mórion’s voice softened. “It is all that we can do now, but I will do it for my Lord.”

The soldiers saluted, and marched off. Mórion remained at Maglor’s side. Maglor did not speak, but passed the time singing to his far-away, beloved Calimë, while Mórion listened.

After some time, the soldiers returned, bearing gear from Maglor’s tent. They stowed it in the cave, saluted their fallen lord one last time, and marched out. Mórion remained behind for a moment longer. “Farewell, my Lord,” he said. “I pray that you will find your peace one day and return to us. Perhaps I might return here, at intervals, to check on your welfare –“

Maglor shook his head, and stared out at the sea. Mórion sighed.

“Very well,” he said. “Then this is truly farewell. I thank you for your service to your people. Rest now.” With that, he turned and followed the soldiers out of the cave. As they climbed the bluff and headed back to camp, they heard Maglor start to sing again. But they did not stop to listen, and instead, marched away until they could no longer hear Maglor’s voice.

END

Afterword

Many thanks to those who have read and enjoyed this story. If you are interested in finding out more of what happened to Maglor between the chapters of this one, he also appears in “Four Hands Around,” “To Save The Whole,” and “Natural Children.” Personally, I think he is the most interesting son of Fëanor, because he both challenges and embodies many stereotypes about musicians, and specifically about singers. I always enjoy reading stories about Maglor that take his musical vocation seriously, and as a musician myself, I found that I had to add to that group.

I did enjoy the challenge of structuring this as a series of loosely connected episodes all dealing with a central theme, that of promises made and broken. On the one hand, it allowed me to tie together disparate events taking place hundreds of years apart, that I might not otherwise have been able to include in the same story. On the other hand, it did force me to leave out important events of Maglor’s life, simply because I could not, at the time, think of a way to relate them to the overall theme of the story. But I do enjoy the episodes I ultimately selected, and I hope that you did, too.

I’ll see you next time!