Prologue: A Conversation Among the Valar

*Where is he now?*

*Not far from where Minas Tirith of old stood.*

*Where does he go, though? There is nothing to the north but ice and snow.*

*He goes to die.*

*He’s tried that before. We would not allow it.*

*We will not allow it here, either.*

*He is a stubborn one, isn’t he?*

*Very stubborn, which is probably why we have never given up on him.*

*So how do we prevent him from killing himself this time?*

*Do we send our Maiar to interfere again? I do not think it will work this time around. Before, the Maiar were able to inspire others who were near him to intercede for us, convince him to another way. Why, the last time — how long ago was that? Two yéni? — Fionwë was able to stop him from killing himself by setting one of the large carnivorous felines on him when he traveled to the desert to die. He never ran so fast in his life and for some time afterwards dying was the last thing on his mind. There is no one where he is going now, not even a convenient large feline.*

*Which is probably why he’s going there. He knows there will be no interference from others.*

*Unless we send someone after him.*

….long pause….

*Who?*

*Someone whose time has come.*

*Yes, that might work. He will need help, though. He cannot go alone.*

*No. In that you are correct. He will have company.*

*And then what? They meet on the ice, they have a nice conversation and then they all go back to the South to wait out the end of this ice age? I don’t see that happening.*

*No. In that you are correct. To send anyone after our stubborn son just to have them turn around once their task is done would be pointless, not to mention cruel. No. We will give them all an incentive to continue their journey. We will inspire them to come home.*

….another long pause….

*The way is shut. The Straight Path is frozen.*

*The Straight Path can be reopened if we allow it. We have always kept a guard on it in case any of the Firstborn remaining there wish to return, though none have done so in a long time. Yet, the way is there for them to find, if they so desire.*

*Those we send will not know that.*

*No, they will not, but we will inspire them with hope that the way will be found. That is all we can do. What they do with that hope is up to them and the one we hope they will save before it is too late.*

*It will not be easy for any of them and some may well come home through me.*

*That is as Atar wills.*

*There is no guarantee that even he whom we seek to save will survive the journey. Then all will be for naught.*

*Nay, it will not, for in any case he will be home and so will the others. That is our ultimate aim in all this: to bring them all home.*

*Then let their journey home begin.*

****

Words are Quenya:

Yéni: Plural of yén: an elven century equal to 144 solar years.

Atar: Father.

1: The Dream

Denethor son of Mablung sighed as he watched the sun set over the rim of the mountains that circled the land where he and others of his kind dwelt. The forests here were not very lush, not as Eryn Lasgalen and Ithilien had been, but they were all they had at this time. He shifted slightly on the limb of the one he considered ‘his tree’ and smiled at that thought. Yet, it was true that whenever he felt the need to be alone, to think without others to distract him, he would come here and climb this particular tree, a cedar. It welcomed him and he drew comfort from it. They were old friends.

He glanced at the sky, banners of gold and scarlet deepening to violet as the sun disappeared in a sudden rush, as it always did in these southern climes. He missed the lingering twilight of the far north, especially during the summer months. Here, the twilight never stayed and night descended upon them like a sword, swift and sure. The stars suddenly blazed forth instead of peeping out here or there like shy children uncertain of their welcome. He heard their distant, cold song and welcomed it, but he still longed for the north and the long twilight.

He sighed again and leaned back against the tree trunk, making himself more comfortable. He had been feeling restless of late and not even the antics of the Mortals whom he watched in secret as they struggled to survive in this unforgiving land had kept him amused for long. And so, he had come here, to his tree, to think, to wonder why he was still alive, to wonder how much longer he would continue living before he succumbed to fading as so many others had. He should have Sailed long ago, but that option was no longer viable.

No. For better or for worse, he was here, waiting, as they all were, his fellow Elves, for the ice to recede so they could finally return to reclaim their ancient land. He doubted the woods had survived, but once the ice was gone and the climate warmed he had no doubt that the woods would live again and he would help them along.

He smiled again at that thought. It would be good to have his forest back after all this time. He settled himself more securely on the limb, feeling suddenly tired. It was true he had not slept for some time now so he was not overly surprised at that and the song the stars sang seemed almost like a lullaby. As he allowed his breathing to slow and his mind to drift, he slipped softly onto the Path of Dreams….

He was unsure where he was. There was a drifting fog all around and it was difficult for him to see any details but he thought perhaps he was in a circular clearing and there were odd shapes surrounding him. They were not trees, of that he was sure, but what they were exactly, he could not have said. He felt no fear, only a mild curiosity, but when the Voice spoke, he found himself on his knees.

“Denethor son of Mablung, go north into the barren wastelands where once fair Imladris stood. There you will find one whom we wish to save. Bring the Exiled One home. It is time.”

“My lord,” Denethor said, shaking where he knelt. “Whom do I seek? Who is the Exiled One?”

“You will know him when you see him,” came the unhelpful answer. “Will you go?”

“What the Belain have asked, I will do, but must I go alone?” The very thought of that made him shiver in dread.

“Nay, you do not go alone. Seek others of your kind and bring them with you. Bring all who will come, for we call not only the Exiled One home, but you as well.”

“Me?”

“Yes, my son, you and those whom you convince to follow you. It is time and past time for all to return home.”

And then, before Denethor could speak, the fog shifted for just a brief second and he saw thrones circling him and on those thrones….

He gasped as he found himself waking into the real world. It was still night but from the position of the stars he could see that many hours had passed. He sat for the longest time contemplating his dream, which he knew was more than just a dream.

“The Exiled One,” he whispered. “Who can that be?”

Well, there was only one way to find out. He grinned at that thought even as he leaped softly to the ground. It would take him some time to find the others and he had the feeling that time was of the essence. Well, he could only do what he could do and leave the rest to the Belain to worry about. As he headed toward the mountains where he and the other Elves hid away from the Mortals living in the plains he found himself humming a spritely tune and his step was light and carefree. He could not remember the last time he had felt this way and it was some time before he could give it a name.

Hope. Yes, that was it. For the first time in too long a time, he felt hope once again.

It was a good feeling.

****

“You want to do what?” Eirien exclaimed in disbelief as she stood there staring at him from the cave entrance that marked her and Damrod’s home. “And all for a dream?”

“No dream,” Denethor insisted. “Or rather, it was a true dream, sent to me by the Belain.”

“Why and why you?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes, her hands on her hips.

Denethor shrugged. “Why not me? Why any of us? Dare we question the Belain as to their reasons? I am not so foolish. No. It was a true dream, a summons. The Belain wish for me, for us to seek out this Exiled One and rescue him and then convince him to join us in our search for Dor Rodyn. The Belain have called us home, Eirien. I for one would like to go.”

“But to the far north where naught is there but the glaciers?”

Denethor turned to see Damrod approaching with a few other ellyn. They had been hunting and were back carrying what game they had been able to scare up.

“I was told to seek where Imladris once stood. There I would find the one whom the Belain seek to save,” Denethor answered. “I know the journey will be long and wearisome and fraught with much danger, for none of us know what lies beyond these mountains anymore.”

Damrod gave him a searching look, then glanced at Eirien, his wife, before returning his attention to Denethor. “You are determined to go.” It was a statement more than a question.

“Yes,” Denethor answered with a nod. “If I must go alone, then I will, but the Belain urged me to speak to all whom I could find and encourage them to come with me, to seek the Blessed Realm.”

“But the way is shut,” Ragnor protested. “The Straight Path froze a long time ago.”

“I was assured that the way would be opened to us if we simply have the courage to go look for it,” Denethor retorted. “So, who will come with me? Who will dare the uncertainties of the journey and the chance to come to Dor Rodyn rather than remain here to fade to nothingness, not even a memory of a memory among the Mortals?”

By now close to fifty Elves were gathered around, listening to all that was being said.

“We could well die on the ice,” someone objected.

Denethor nodded, well aware of that risk, a risk he, at least, was willing to take. “We may all die,” he said bluntly, “even the one whom we are sent to save. Yet, what does it matter? Are we not all dying little by little even now? How many fled Eryn Lasgalen and Ithilien when the ice came? How many of us are left? Most have faded or have simply wandered away. Look at us! We cling to these mountains, barely sustaining ourselves, idling our time watching the Mortals on the plains going about their business. When was the last time any of us sang or danced? When was the last time any of us even smiled or laughed at a jest? When was the last time any of us had any hope in us? I cannot remember myself. I only know that I weary of this existence. It isn’t even living, for to live is to assume one has a future to look forward to, but I have not seen a future for any of us. I wish to live, if only for a short while, rather than continue existing as we have been doing for far too long. So who will dare the venture? Who will come with me?”

He paused, to gauge the temper of those listening to his impassioned speech. He noticed that the eyes of several were lit with an inner fire of excitement and he was glad, but others merely shook their heads and walked away and he sorrowed for them.

“I will go,” Damrod said. “My love, wilt thou join me?” He held out his hand to Eirien, who hesitated for a moment, her gaze shifting from Damrod to Denethor and back again. Then she put her hand in Damrod’s and stepped to his side.

“Yea. I will go with thee, my love,” she said quietly.

One by one, others declared either for or against Denethor until in the end there were about thirty of them who gathered around him. So few, he thought with sorrow, so few of us. But he shook off the melancholy, for he had feared that no one would join him on this mad hunt for one they didn’t even know. He turned to Damrod. “We must gather supplies and leave quickly. I fear time is not our friend.”

Damrod nodded. “We can trade for what we need with the Mortals,” he suggested, “though I would not trade with those on the plains. Let us go to the other side of these mountains where there are others. They will not know of us. Also, we must think of appropriate clothing. We can withstand the cold better than Mortals, but I think I want more than just this flimsy cloak around me when we travel across the tundra.”

“Agreed,” Denethor said. “I will leave it to you to organize these things.”

Damrod nodded and started to leave, then stopped, giving Denethor a strange look. “I can hardly believe we are doing this,” he said. “It’s insane, but then, perhaps we are all insane and do not realize it.” He flashed him a grin and Denethor grinned back.

“I do not think it insanity,” he replied. “I think it is something else, something we forgot.”

“What is that?” Eirien asked.

“Hope,” Denethor answered. “I think we forgot to hope, but now….”

Damrod and Eirien both nodded as did others who stood around them. “You are correct, Denethor," Damrod said fervently. "We did lose hope, but now, thanks to you, we have found it again, or perhaps it is more correct to say that we are beginning to find it for ourselves. We are no longer lost to ourselves, clinging to the shadows of memory. We have found the day again and with it hope.”

“The Harthadrim,” Denethor exclaimed with sudden insight. “That is who we are: the Harthadrim, the People of Hope.”

And to that, they all agreed.

****

It took longer than Denethor anticipated before they were ready to embark on the journey and he chafed at the delay, but realized that setting out without proper preparation was foolish. They needed to hunt and fish and dry the food for the journey while the ellith made lembas. Denethor and three others traveled over the mountains to another Mortal settlement where they were able to trade for things they would need, including knowledge of what lay further north, for these Mortals often times ventured away from the warmer climes to hunt and brought back many tales of their adventures. Denethor listened carefully, sifting fact from obvious fiction until he had a slim understanding of what lay ahead. It wasn’t much but it was all they had.

Others pooled their memories of the land as it had been before the ice came, creating a map of Middle-earth, marking it with possible landmarks. “If the ice has not destroyed all,” Ragnor said, “then we will be able to gauge where Imladris once stood and hopefully find this mysterious Exiled One whom the Belain seem so intent on saving.”

And many of them wondered just who the Exiled One might be. There were some heated discussions among them with everyone putting forth his or her own theory. Denethor had his own ideas about who it might be but kept them to himself. Many wondered what was so special about this Exiled One that the Belain would wish to save him, or have them do it.

“They don’t seem to have cared much about us,” Finduilas said to Eirien as the two ellith were making lembas. She was the wife of Ragnor and their three children, Haldir, Duilinn and Aerin, had elected to join them. None were married, for the number of eligible Elves was few among them. “Our only value to them is saving this other one.”

“Or perhaps it is the other way around,” Eirien offered quietly, stopping her task for a moment. At Finduilas’ questioning look, she shrugged. “Perhaps we all have value in their eyes because we are here to help rescue this other one where there are no others to do so. Perhaps they had to wait until there was a need for rescue before they could summon us as they wished, to join them in Dor Rodyn, to be reunited with our kith and kin who have Sailed or otherwise returned through Bannoth’s Halls.”

“Which we may do as well,” Finduilas said with a snort of faint amusement.

Eirien shrugged again. “It will be as the Belain and the One decree,” she replied philosophically and they continued with their baking.

At last, though, a day came some four weeks later when they were ready. They set out once the sun had set, deciding to walk under the cold gaze of Elbereth’s stars. Those who had refused to join them did not watch them leave, so there were no calls of farewell, no songs to send them on their way; there was only silence and Denethor felt a small qualm of fear and sorrow as he took the lead. The sorrow, he understood, for he grieved for those whom he could not convince to join them, but the fear surprised him.

Damrod, who as his unofficial lieutenant was walking beside him, gave him a shrewd look as they left the mountain ridge with its many caves that they had called home for many long years. “You are afraid.”

Denethor gave him a startled look and then blushed with chagrin. “Is it that obvious?”

Damrod shook his head. “No. I just know you better than others. What do you fear?”

“I do not know, or rather, I do know but do not wish to acknowledge it,” Denethor replied. “I fear the journey and what lies before us. So much is uncertain, so much is hidden from us.”

“And I think we all feel that same kind of fear,” Damrod said. “We are leaving behind certainty for uncertainty and that can be frightening even for us. Yet, I welcome that fear.”

“You do?” Denethor exclaimed. “Why?”

Damrod shrugged. “Because it tells me that I am still truly alive and that is a good feeling to have.”

Denethor thought for a moment and nodded. “Yes. It is a good feeling to have. And with the Belain on our side, what do we truly have to fear? We’re going home, Damrod. Home.”

Damrod smiled. “Home. Yes. We’re going home.” And with that he began singing an ancient tune about being welcomed to the hearthside by one’s kin and soon they were all joining in.

****

Words are Sindarin throughout this story unless otherwise indicated:

Belain: Plural of Balan: a Vala.

Dor Rodyn: Valinor.

Ellyn: Plural of ellon: Male Elf.

Ellith: Plural of elleth: Female Elf.

Bannoth: Námo. Technically speaking, Mandos, but used to refer to its lord.

2: The Choice

If he had guessed correctly, he was not far from where Minas Anor, as he thought of it, had once stood. The city was gone, of course, but the mountain remained with its out-thrust of rock, a towering bastion of stone, looking somewhat like a ship’s keel, though the long weathering of ice and snow had softened its edge, making it more rounded and crumbling so that it was not as prominent a landmark as it had once been. Still, even from this distance, it was an impressive sight.

He sighed, shifting the weight of his haversack to ease his back. It had been a long journey just to reach this point and he had much further to go. Not for the first time he questioned what he was doing. Why now? Why this way? He had no ready answers; he only knew that he was tired, so very tired and wished only to lie down and sleep forever.

He snorted in derision at that thought. If he wanted to sleep forever, he should have chosen a more comfortable bed. Traveling north to the tundra, to a land of ice and snow and bitter cold was stupid, to say the least, but he had become wary of things since the last time he had attempted to kill himself. Each time, someone or something interfered with his plans. It was too uncanny, almost as if someone or Someone was looking out for him, refusing to allow him this easy out. He had forfeited any right to Sail and something within him refused to allow him to fade, yet after all this time, he just wanted to stop.

He should have stopped a long time ago, he thought, maybe when the ice began to claim the land. He should have just stayed where he was, wandering the shore north of Lindon and allowed the encroaching glacier to cover him, ending his sorry existence once and for all. Instead, like the coward he was, he had fled, joining others, both Elves and Mortals, in the mass exodus to the South, to warmer climes where they sat out the Age. He had kept his own presence a secret, at least from the other Elves, though he suspected some knew he was there but respected his need for privacy and did not venture to seek him out.

During the long ensuing years he had drifted like a ghost from one Mortal settlement to another, earning a night’s lodging and food with his singing, as he had done before, though now he did not haunt the coasts, or at least, not as much as before. Most of the settlements were inland, protected from the cold northern winds by mountains. Conditions were not ideal and the Mortals lived from hand to mouth more often than not but they persevered and survived after a fashion. He had to admire them for that, at least.

He shook his head, as if to clear it of those thoughts. Well, it mattered little now. He was here and he would continue moving north. He had decided to see if he could find where Imladris had once stood. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to seek it out. Perhaps because it was the final link with his beloved foster son, Elrond, and his family. During the three ages in which Imladris existed he had occasionally come and overlooked the valley, keeping a watch over its lord and those who dwelt therein. He did not think anyone suspected his presence, though he would not have been surprised if Elrond or Glorfindel knew the truth.

Journeying to Imladris seemed appropriate. He would die on the ice, of that he was sure, but he would die near the only place he could with any certainty consider ‘home’. Even if he had never resided there, it was where he dwelled in his dreams, with his foster son, and there was no more sorrow or regret or pain. He unconsciously flexed his right hand, scarred by the touch of the Silmaril, grimacing at the familiar fire that never left him as he set off across the plain towards the Anduin, which still flowed, though sluggishly. He could see where the ice had held its iron grip upon the river but this part of the world was moving into what would have been summer in another age and the ice was beginning to recede, slowly but surely. In time, it would be gone completely but he would not be there to see it.

He eyed the river with some concern. It appeared narrower than he remembered and shallower, yet it was not so narrow or shallow that he could easily jump it or ford it. He might have to construct some kind of raft to get himself across. Unfortunately, there was little in the way of wood for that, but he would do what he could. He half thought about simply swimming across, but there would have been no way to keep his pack and his meager belongings from getting wet.

Yet, he was not deterred. He had made this choice to come north where he knew no one and nothing lived, where there would be no interference with what he would do. He moved along the bank, eyeing the land and the water. Perhaps if he went further north the river would be more iced over and if he walked carefully he might be able to get across. Even if such a route took him out of his way, it was safer than trying to swim it. So he trudged on. He eventually reached what he thought might have been the Harlond of old, shading his eyes against the glare of the ice and snow that lay about. Yes, the river did look frozen further on.

He had come into what had once been Gondor in the early morning, but now the sun was slipping further west and soon it would be dark. He needed to either get across before that or wait for morning and he chafed at the delay, for he had to travel many leagues out of his way to find a place where he could safely cross and then he would have to retrace those same leagues on the other side, for he meant to cross the length of what had once been Anórien and Rohan, hoping that the Gap that had once existed between the Misty Mountains and the White was still there. It would be far easier than attempting to cross the mountains themselves.

The sun decided for him, as it disappeared behind a bank of clouds. Snow clouds, they looked to be. He had best find or construct some kind of shelter. There was precious little in the way of materials so he gathered his cloak around him and hunkered down beside some boulders facing east, hoping they would offer him some protection against the rising wind.

The snow began falling and he brought the cloak’s hood up, wrapping his arms around his knees and began the ritual he had started at the beginning of his journey. It was a painful ritual but he was determined to die with a clean heart. Where had he left off on his mental list? Oh, yes. He sighed as he called to mind his two younger brothers, the twins, who had died on the shores of the Sirion in that ill-fated attempt at retrieving the Silmarils. A useless death for them both and he felt responsible for that even if Maedhros never had. He had been avoiding this for too long. It was time.

“I am sorry,” he whispered. “Please forgive me for any wrongs I committed against you, my brothers.” He kept the image of the twins before him, and then, as he had been instructed to do, he let them go. They bowed to him and walked away, fading into eternity. He hoped that wherever they might be all his brothers did indeed forgive him. He probably would never know.

“It is not for you to know if they forgive you or not,” the crone had told him. “It is enough that you have acknowledged that forgiveness is needed on your part and you have asked for it, humbled yourself as you have never done before friends and enemies alike.”

He had nodded in understanding, though in truth he hadn’t understood, not then. As the image of Amrod and Amras faded from his mind, he pondered over the chance meeting with the crone. She was the wise woman of the wandering tribe of Mortals who followed their scrawny herds from one oasis to another. He had come upon them as he was traveling north and had stayed with them for a few days, singing for his supper, as it were. The tribe was appreciative of his music and gifted him with many fine things to aid him on his travels. The cloak, for instance, was one such gift.

Only to the wise woman of the tribe did he confide his intent, and looking back, he wondered why he had done so, yet there was something about this woman with her wrinkled skin and graying hair and brown eyes faded with the years that nonetheless saw much and forgot nothing that had prompted him to confess what he would do.

“Life is a gift,” the old woman had said as the two of them sat before the entrance of her tent. “It can also be a burden. If you are determined to this course, then you must make it less burdensome.”

“How? What do you mean? And why do you not talk me out of it?”

“You are not as we,” she answered. “I sense it, though I do not understand it. I think you are one of the immortal ones, though not one of the gods. And I do not think I could talk you out of or into anything against your will,” she had added with a toothless smile.

He had held still, not sure how to react to this statement. It was rare that any Mortal saw him for what he was, for he had enough power still to fool the minds of others into seeing what he wished for them to see: one who was as they. But here was someone who saw through the disguise and he was at a loss as to how to respond.

“I am of the Eldar, the People of the Stars, the Firstborn of the One,” he finally said, speaking softly, almost to himself. “And I am cursed.” He briefly, oh so briefly, told her his history. “And now I truly weary of this existence and myself. I would see an end to both.”

For a long moment, the wise woman did not speak, merely gazing out upon the doings of her people as they went about the business of living. When she spoke it was with a question. “Are you truly prepared to die so burdened with guilt?”

“Guilt is all I have left,” he answered sourly and gave her a humorless grin.

“Hmph,” was her response. “Then you need to rid yourself of your guilt. Do not go into the dark so burdened.”

“And how do I do that?”

“Each night before you sleep, call to mind a person from your past, be he kith and kin or enemy sworn. Think of that person and the harm you may have caused him… or her. Then, ask for their forgiveness.”

“Ask for their forgiveness?” he had echoed. “But how can I truly do that? I am just bringing up an image, not the person in truth. How do I ask forgiveness of a memory?”

“Memory is all you have left, Child of the Stars,” she replied. “You yourself have said that those whom you knew are long gone and the few who remain cannot be reached. Therefore, call to mind all, whether living or dead, who have crossed your path and ask them for their forgiveness. Once you do that, and it must be a sincere asking, let them go. Let their image walk away or fade away, but let them go. You may never reach the end of your list before you walk through the final gate, but you will have done so with less guilt weighing you down. The gods themselves will know whether to give you mercy for the rest.”

And so, he had followed her advice, the only advice he had ever taken from a Mortal, and every night as he watched the stars in their stately pavane, he brought to mind those of his past. He had begun with his Atar, with Fëanáro, as being the hardest to seek forgiveness from. He had felt embarrassed as he spoke out loud, asking his father for forgiveness, unsure how effective this whole thing would be. By the end, he was weeping, the pain in his fëa rivaling that in his hand.

When the storm of weeping had lessened, he had felt lightheaded and weak and fell almost instantly asleep, a deep sleep untroubled by the dreams that usually haunted him. The next morning, still feeling somewhat empty, his mind numb, he had continued his march north. Yet, that evening, as he sat before his fire sipping on a mug of tea, he called to mind his ammë as he had last seen her and spoke to her long into the night, telling her all that he had done, the good and the bad, and finally as the stars began to fade and the sun rose, he had asked for her forgiveness.

In his mind he saw her smile, that beautiful smile she reserved for her sons. He imagined himself standing before her and she gently embraced him, kissing him on the forehead in benediction as she had done countless times when he was younger.

“I love you,” he heard (or imagined) her saying and then, keeping in mind the crone’s words, willed her to turn and fade away into eternity, leaving him oddly at peace. He had remained where he was that day, doing a little bit of hunting. That night, he spoke to Maedhros and was appalled at the anger that spewed out of him at his older brother. It had been both cathartic and frightening and he didn’t know what to do with the anger, with the absolute fury that threatened to engulf him.

“Let it go. Let it all go.”

It was the voice of the old woman and taking a deep breath he had done just that, though not before asking Maedhros for his forgiveness. As the image of his brother faded away, he felt immensely weary and slept the rest of the night, his dreams, what he remembered of them, seeming to center around his older brother and all that they had shared in their lives, the good and the bad. When he woke the next morning, he felt less rested than he had before and reluctantly continued his journey.

For two nights, he refused to enact the ritual of forgiveness, fearing what it would do to him eventually, but on the third night he found himself inadvertently thinking about Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir and before he realized what he was doing, he had asked each one of them for their forgiveness. He had wept for hours afterwards.

Oddly enough, or perhaps not so oddly, he found he could not think about the twins. He knew he had to ask them for their forgiveness but for some reason he shied away from that. Instead he had gone on to think of other people, those who had owed him allegiance first and then others in no particular order: his cousins, Fingolfin, Fingon and Finrod, Elu Thingol and his queen, Melian, Dior and Nimloth, Elwing and Eärendil, even his foster sons, Elrond and Elros. That had been hard, harder than he thought it should be, for he had loved them and cared for them, but behind that love and caring had been the memory of their mother flinging herself from the tower to save the Silmaril.

And now, his own twin brothers.

He sighed as their images faded away. The falling snow occluded the stars and he could not hear their song. All was a grayish white that blinded him and he rested his head against his knees, blocking out the sight, wondering if he should call to mind another person, but he felt weary again and sat out the night with his mind silent.

Dawn came reluctantly and with it the end of the snowfall. He shook off the snow that had blanketed him, looking about. He stood and chewed on some dried meat to break his fast, scooping up some of the snow to ease his thirst as he made his way lightly over it. He was not sure, but yes, shading his eyes he could see in the middle distance something that rose out of the middle of the river.

“It must be Cair Andros,” he said out loud, recalling what he could of the geography of this land, and another hour’s walk proved his supposition to be true. This was lucky for him, he saw, for the river narrowed on either side of the island and was mostly iced over. He cautiously made his way across, stopping at the island to explore part of it, though there was little enough to find. Then he crossed to the other side and began making his way southwest toward what had once been Anórien. He had wasted two days reaching this point, but it could not be helped. Feeling as if time was running out, though he was unsure why that would be, he raced lightly over the snow, feeling lighthearted, laughing as he ran.

He was still several leagues north of where the Mering stream had flowed out of the Entwash when the coming night forced him to stop and make camp. Later, after he had eaten, he went through his ritual, bringing to mind his cousin Galadriel. Another hard one, but then, they were all hard in one way or another.

“Forgive me, Cousin….”

****

Words are Quenya:

Atar: Father.

Fëa: Soul, spirit.

Ammë: Hypocoristic form of amillë: Mother.

3: Journeying

“Are you sure this is the right way?” Damrod asked.

Denethor’s answer was a snort. “We’re heading north,” he answered. “Imladris is to the north, so yes, this is the right way.”

The two of them were standing upon a hill overlooking a river, the Anduin, they suspected, though its course had changed and it was not as wide as it should have been. They had gone ahead of the others to scout out the area. Below them was a wide plain, what should have been southern Ithilien. Gone were the trees and only scrub grasses and small scraggly bushes of an indeterminate type remained. Far to the east rose the mountains that had surrounded Mordor, ice-capped and forbidding.

“What I meant was, how do we cross that?” Damrod said, pointing to the river. They were somewhere near Pelagir, they thought, but couldn’t really be sure. The River Poros had disappeared completely, so they were not entirely sure of their landmarks.

“We’ll have to continue further north and hope to find a way across,” Denethor said. “Remember, whoever the Exiled One is had to come this way as well. If the Belain say we are to meet him in Imladris then a way will be found. The Belain would not have sent us on a fool’s mission.”

“Are you so certain of that?” Damrod asked. “Your dream or vision wasn’t very informative about the route we must take.”

“Did you expect them to draw me a map?” Denethor asked with amusement.

“It would’ve been nice,” Damrod retorted.

Denethor laughed, clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s go back to the others.” With that, they descended the hill and returned to the camp where everyone else was eating. Eirien shoved a couple of bowls of stew into their hands as they approached the fire.

“So, where are we?” she asked and everyone else gathered around them to listen.

“As far as we can tell, we are at the southern borders of what was once Ithilien,” Denethor answered.

“Are you sure?” someone asked. “We should have crossed the River Poros long before this.”

“I doubt it exists anymore,” Damrod answered, “and what must be the Anduin lies just to the west of us, though its course appears to have changed somewhat, flowing more southeast than southwest, and it is not as wide as it used to be.”

“We have no means to cross it,” another stated. “There isn’t enough wood to build even a single raft.”

“We’ll have to continue north,” Denethor said, “and hope that there will be a way across.”

“Hope,” Eirien repeated the word. “We are traveling purely on hope. It seems a rather flimsy thing to rely on.”

Denethor nodded. “Yet, it is all we have. Would you go back to what we were before? I know I would not, nay, could not. To go back is certain death. To go forward... well, who can say? The Belain have sent us, sent me, to rescue one whom they apparently cherish. I do not think they would do so if there was no chance of us finding him. A way will be found. We just have to have faith.”

“Then, let us go on,” Damrod said. “You are right, Denethor. Behind us is only death or fading. There is nothing for us there. Death may well be our lot if we continue this mad journey but I would rather face Lord Bannoth with my pride intact. To tell you the truth, I cannot remember the last time I felt this alive.”

“That goes for us all,” one of the other ellyn said and there were murmurs of assent to that.

“Then, let us break camp and be on our way,” Denethor said as he finished his stew. “The road is long and we have many leagues to travel.”

“Do you think the Exiled One is before us?” someone asked as they set about gathering their supplies. “Do you think he is already in Imladris?”

“I do not know,” Denethor replied. “It would be nice to be able to catch up with him before he reaches Imladris, but I think we will not.”

“What if we’re too late? What if he is already dead?”

“The Belain would not have sent us on this journey if there was no hope of succeeding,” Denethor answered. “They are not that vindictive. We will find the Exiled One, I have no doubt. What happens after that is anyone’s guess.”

“Well, talking about it won’t see it done,” Eirien said as she lifted her burden, settling it on her shoulders. “Let us go.”

Denethor smiled and gave her a gracious bow. “After you, my lady.”

There was laughter among them and they set off again in high spirits and with hope in their hearts.

****

He was near where Edoras had once stood when the blizzard hit, sweeping from the northwest with a viciousness that seemed almost sentient. There was a howling that he thought was more than just the wind and he felt a thrill of something like fear course through him as he searched desperately for shelter.

There. He was sure he could see the tor upon which Edoras had once stood. He struggled through the drifts, keeping his head down against the fury of the wind. It seemed an eternity before he came to the tor, stumbling as the wind nearly threw him against the side of the hill. He inched his way around to the south hoping that the tor would block the wind some and he might find a place to hole up. Climbing to the top was out of the question, for there was no shelter there. As he moved further south, the wind began to die and the snow fell less heavily and he was able to see further. The White Mountains loomed menacingly in the middle distance. He had kept away from them, fearing what might live there, sticking to the open plains that had once been the Eastfold as he made his way westward.

Stopping to catch his breath, he gazed about him and discovered a shallow opening on the side of the hill. He thought perhaps it had once been a culvert where waste from the city had flowed but he wasn’t sure and he didn’t care. It was shelter of a sort and for that he was grateful. He set about packing snow around the opening, creating a wall that would further protect him from the storm’s fury, then hunkered down as far as he could, his cloak wrapped tightly around him.

The waiting was wearing and he could not tell the hour. He spent the time as he waited out the storm wondering why he was doing this.

“If I want to die, why am I seeking shelter?” he said to himself. “This is ludicrous. I should just go out and let this blizzard kill me.”

Yet, he knew he would not. He had determined to die where Imladris had once stood. He did not know why that was so important to him. He’d never lived there, had never actually walked its halls or spoken to any of its inhabitants. He had skulked about the hills surrounding it, watching. Only once had he been in danger of being discovered when the twin sons of his foster son had gone hunting one day. He had seen them leaving the valley and out of curiosity had followed them to see where they were headed. He had been careless, though, and had almost been caught. The memory of being chased through the woods by the sons of Elrond, desperately staying ahead of them until he was able to elude them, still made him burn with embarrassment. He chuckled at that. It had been many yéni before he felt he could safely return to watch his family again.

And that was who they were: his family. He suspected, though, that only Elrond would ever acknowledge him as such. Certainly Galadriel and Celeborn never would have. And thinking of Celeborn, he saw in his mind’s eye the ellon standing before him.

“I am sorry, so very sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you,” he said to the phantom image standing indifferently with snow falling about him. “Please forgive me. I am so sorry.”

Celeborn stood there staring at him dispassionately for another moment and then turned and walked away, fading into the white of the blizzard. He closed his eyes, tears frozen on their lids, then opened them again, calling to mind Oropher, who had been a kinsman of Elu Thingol and Celeborn. As long as he was stuck here waiting for the storm to end, he might as well continue down his list.

“Forgive me....”

****

“Cair Andros,” Denethor proclaimed as they sighted the island.

“Are you sure?” someone asked.

“Almost sure. Look. Do you see how it is shaped like a prow, though admittedly, it’s rather blunted, but the shape is still there.”

“It really doesn’t matter, does it?” Damrod offered. “This is the shallowest place and the ice looks just thick enough to get us across if we take care.”

“Then, let us wait until nightfall,” Ragnor suggested.

“Why?”

“It will be colder then and the ice will thicken more. I do not trust it now. We are coming into what used to be summer and the sun has been visible all day.”

The others contemplated his words and in the end they agreed to wait until nightfall. “Let us take our rest then,” Denethor said. “We will continue walking after we’ve crossed over for the same number of hours as are left of the day. I chafe at this delay, though I understand its necessity.”

“How far ahead do you think he is?” someone asked as they set about breaking open supplies to cook a meal. A few of the ellyn volunteered to go hunting. Game was scarce in these parts but it was there to be found.

“It’s hard to say,” Denethor replied. “I do not know when he started his own journey. It could have been days or weeks before we set out. I hope we are not too far behind him.”

“It is very frustrating not knowing for sure who the Exiled One is or how much of a head start he has on us,” Finduilas said with a sigh as she poured some tea into earthen mugs.

Denethor smiled. “Very frustrating, but there is little we can do about it but continue as we have.”

“Oh, I know that,” Finduilas retorted with a sniff. “It’s still frustrating, though.”

Others chuckled at her tone and Denethor nodded in full agreement.

The hunters returned a few hours later with some scrawny rabbits which were welcomed. They were quickly dressed and smoked for later consumption. Just as the sun was beginning to set, they began breaking camp and as the first stars began peeping out, Denethor led the way across the ice. They took it slow, only a few people at a time until all were safely on the island and then they did it again, even slower for the night was complete and the moon had not yet risen to give them better light, for they did not even have torches with them.

At last, though, they were all on the west side of the river. “So now that we are on this side of the river we have to choose which way we will go from here,” Damrod said to Denethor. “Do we head northeast across what was once the Entwash and attempt to find a pass over the Misty Mountains or do we head west into Anórien and assay the Gap?”

“Crossing the Entwash even in a frozen condition would be perilous, to say the least,” Denethor replied. “My guess is that the one whom we followed would take the easier route through Anórien and Rohan to reach Eriador.”

“Cutting across to the mountains might save us time, though,” Ragnor interjected. “We could possibly get ahead of him, be in Imladris waiting for him.”

Denethor, however, did not agree. “I think we should stick to the easier way even if it is longer. We do not know what the conditions of the mountains are now. There may no longer be a pass over them or they may be different from the ones we remember and we will waste time looking for them. No, our road is southwest into Anórien and then on to Rohan.”

With that, they set out, swiftly leaving the river behind them as they walked lightly over the snow fields. About an hour or so later, the moon rose and their pace quickened so that by the time Denethor called a halt a few hours before dawn, they were already on the northern edge of what had once been Anórien. They rested for a time but were on their way again an hour after sunrise.

****

The storm lasted for several days as far as he could tell. It howled about him in his less than adequate shelter with the snow filling the space between him and the wall he had built to keep the worst of the blizzard away. Every once in a while, he roused himself to scoop some of the newly fallen snow out of his shelter, sucking on dried meat, washing it down with snow. He had stopped his litany of forgiveness, as he thought of it, after speaking to Oropher and then Thranduil, too tired and heart-sore to continue as the storm raged on. Eventually, the wind began to die down and the snow fell less swiftly. Clouds broke apart and the sun, thin and watery, came out, causing the snow and ice to sparkle.

Crawling out of his shelter, he stretched to ease his stiff muscles and looked about. It was so quiet, so peaceful with the wind gone. There were no birds singing, nothing moved. He wrapped his cloak more firmly about him and shouldered his pack. He was facing the White Mountains, so he moved to his right, walking behind the tor to come round to the other side. He vaguely wondered if the Royal Highway still existed underneath the snow and ice. He shrugged away the thought. It didn’t matter. The way was clear enough: straight west. By his estimate, barring any further delays because of storms, he had another week of walking before he reached the Gap, assuming it still was there. Anything could have happened to the land in the intervening centuries since he had last wandered this way. He had lived long enough to see entire mountains sink into plains and plains rise into mountains. Nothing was assured in this world.

Well, he would find out soon enough. Taking a last look at the tor, remembering the golden hall of Meduseld and the proud horselords who had lived there, he sighed and turned away.

“Perhaps I’ll stop to see if Helm’s Deep still stands,” he said to himself, then shook his head at the folly of the thought. The last thing he wanted to do was to venture close to the White Mountains. No telling what lived there. Yet, he was curious to know if anything of these people had survived. Why that was important to him, he had no idea, but he had admired them, their reckless bravery, their horsemanship, their love of life and the land that sustained them. They had been worthy of respect and it sorrowed him to think that nothing of them had remained.

Well, it was days before he would come near Helm’s Deep. He would decide then. For now, it was best to get on. He still had a long way to go to die.

4: The Road to Imladris

At Helm’s Deep he killed a bear.

Not that he had meant to. It was his own stupid fault, he realized as he set about skinning the creature, smoking the meat and setting out to cure the pelt. He was going to just leave it but decided it would make a fine cloak and a warmer one than the one he now had. He knew the conditions further north would be brutal.

Still, he shouldn’t have allowed his curiosity to get the better of him, yet the thought of seeing if anything of the redoubt that was Helm’s Deep had survived the ice had intrigued him and he decided he wanted to see for himself. He did not know why that was important to him and decided not to bother trying to understand his motives at this time.

At any rate, there had been little to see: part of an outer wall and the ruins of a tower. That was where he’d surprised the bear and had been hard-pressed to survive the attack, barely getting his sword out in time to protect himself. And why he didn’t just let the bear have its way with him he didn’t know. Perhaps he just didn’t fancy being any bear’s dinner. After all these ages of surviving, death by bear seemed… ludicrous.

And in the confusion of it all his beloved harp had been broken as he tripped over stones in his initial shock at having several hundred pounds of angry bear charging at him. He stared ruefully at the splintered frame and sighed. He didn’t know why he was upset. It wasn’t as if he would be taking it with him when he died. It was probably better this way, he told himself half-heartedly, even as he broke the frame even more, throwing the pieces of wood onto the fire and carefully rolling the strings and shoving them into a pocket of his haversack. Why he bothered, he couldn’t say, except that old habits died hard.

The bear meat would take time to smoke and the pelt would need several days to be properly cured, or at least cured enough to wear. He chafed at the delay, wishing to reach Imladris and be done with it all as quickly as possible. He snorted at that thought. He would die soon enough and it would not be an easy death. Starvation never is. So, there was no sense in rushing it. He reached forward and turned the meat on the skewers that hung on the improvised rack above the fire and watched the sun set in glorious colors of red, gold and deepening purple.

****

Denethor stared about him and then upward at the tor rising before him. “Edoras, or what’s left of it,” he muttered more to himself than to the others.

“Over here,” Damrod called and they all trooped toward the south to see what the ellon had found. He was crouched before what looked to be a dirt-filled culvert. “Look,” he said, pointing.

Denethor nodded as he took in the wall of snow surrounding the culvert. “He was here and not too many days ago.”

Damrod grinned. “It is the first sign that the Exiled One actually exists outside your dreams.”

Denethor gave his friend a considering look. “Did you ever doubt it?”

Damrod shook his head. “Nay. I did not, but I think others may have.” He did not look at anyone directly but Denethor was aware of those among them who had shown some reluctance in continuing their journey. Only the thought of returning to the South and all that that meant had kept them from leaving. Now, however, this slim evidence might encourage them to hope more and believe that their journey was not in vain. Looking at the pitiful camp had certainly lifted his own spirits.

“We are not that far behind him,” was all he said, refusing to comment on Damrod’s observation. “We may not catch up with him anytime soon but I think we are closer to him than before. He must have had to hole up from the storm we encountered.”

“It must have been a veritable blizzard to force him to take shelter,” Finduilas observed. “By the time it reached us it was just annoying.”

Denethor chuckled along with the others. The storm had been all but spent by the time it reached them as they were entering what had once been the Eastfold. He wondered if the Belain had deliberately sent the storm to delay the one ahead of them so that they would be able to catch up with him. It was a frightening thought and he kept it to himself.

“Well, there are still several hours of daylight left to us. Let us go on,” he said and the others set out without complaint. Denethor could not help but notice that there was a decided spring to his companions’ steps as they walked on top of the snow and Denethor hid a smile at the sight of it.

****

When he came through the Gap of Rohan and headed north, he had thought originally to stay along the eaves of the Hithaeglir, the Misty Mountains that had been such a barrier to the migrating Elves so long ago and still rose precipitously, a formidable barrier that separated Eriador from the rest of Middle-earth. In the end, though, he decided to risk going straight north across what had been Dunland to Ost-in-Edhil of old, though he doubted anything of it existed now. Still, in going that way he hoped to avoid the marshy Swanfleet and meet up with the Mitheithel further north where it met the Bruinen. From there he could follow the Bruinen to Imladris.

He was not sure how long it would take him and the geography could have changed, but he knew that if he could find the rivers still flowing, he would have a good chance of finding Imladris even if nothing of it actually survived after all this time. He shrugged the bear cloak closer to him as the wind came barreling down from the west. The sky was clear though and he did not sense another storm. Well, standing about wouldn’t get him to where he was going, so he set off at a brisk pace hoping he would find some suitable shelter from the night. There was game here; he had seen tracks and frozen dung which he collected, knowing he might not have the luxury of a wood fire for too much longer, for he had salvaged some of the harp wood that had not burned completely to bring with him as kindling. Maybe he could snare some rabbits for his dinner. He was thoroughly sick of bear meat by now.

****

Maglor stared about in consternation. He’d been trekking northward for the better part of ten days, half expecting to come upon the Sirannon and the marshes but never finding them. Instead, here he was staring at a swiftly flowing river that could only be the Mitheithel. Ice still covered much of it though it was broken up. He wondered if the glaciers were finally retreating or perhaps, because it was now early spring in these parts, the ice was simply not as thick as it would be in winter. There was no way to tell. He didn’t know and didn’t care. He shaded his eyes against the snow glare as he looked northward. There could be no mistake: there was the confluence of the Mitheithel with the Bruinen several leagues away. At this rate, he could easily reach Imladris in perhaps another seven or eight days, barring any unforeseen delays. The weather had been remarkably calm during his trek and he hoped it stayed that way.

Shifting his haversack to a more comfortable position, he made his way along the banks of the Mitheithel, softly singing a ballad he had once heard a Mortal sing. It was not an Elvish tune but he found it pleasing in its own way and had added it to his repertoire.

****

“So how do we go from here?” one of the Harthadrim asked.

Denethor stared at the northern sweep of snowfields that confronted them as they passed the Gap of Rohan and moved into Eriador. He had mixed feelings about it. He well remembered the journey out of Lindon following Oropher across Eriador and the Misty Mountains in search of a new home. He had never been back this way in all that time, preferring to remain, first in Eryn Lasgalen and then in Ithilien, following Prince Legolas to that fair land. He honestly knew very little about the geography of these western lands.

“Has anyone any idea of the lie of the land from here?” he asked. “I have never been here myself and only vaguely know where Imladris lies.”

“And you tell us this now?” Damrod asked in disbelief. “Why then did the Belain choose you to lead us if they knew you had no idea where to go?”

“Perhaps because they knew others would come with me who did know,” Denethor retorted mildly. “Surely there is at least one among us who knows the way from here.” He glanced around at the others, but most just shook their heads. As his gaze swept among them, one raised his hand hesitantly. “Voronwë?”

“I lived in Lothlórien and often traveled to Imladris, but usually across the mountain passes. But I did have occasion to travel to Ost-in-Edhil as well so I know that if we head directly north or a bit more northwest we should eventually reach the Mitheithel. From there we only have to follow it northward until it meets with the Bruinen and then from there…”

“That assumes that either of those rivers still exist,” Ragnor said with a huff of impatience.

“We can only hope they do,” Denethor said with a sigh. “Very well, Voronwë. You may lead us.”

“Me?” the Noldo exclaimed in dismay.

Denethor smiled. “Well, you’re the only one who knows where we are. So, yes, for now, you lead and we will follow.”

Voronwë sighed and then shrugged. “Well, the sun will be setting in a couple of hours. We should probably start looking for a suitable place to camp. If we continue northwest we should come upon some hills that may offer us some shelter.”

“Good,” Denethor said, “and perhaps we’ll find some game along the way. Our supplies are getting low and we still have a long way to travel.”

“Why don’t some of us see if we can scare anything up,” Damrod offered and Denethor nodded his approval. Damrod motioned for Sador and Rían, two of their better hunters, to join him and they loped away while the others followed at a slower pace with Voronwë now walking beside Denethor telling him what he remembered of the geography of Dunland.

****

The landscape, to put it mildly, was bleak, or, he amended, bleaker: a barren white desert of scrub grass and lichen clinging precariously to the frozen ground, and this far north, it was indeed frozen. If he had not completely misjudged, where he stood should be Imladris. Of course, he could be wrong. It was easy enough to lose oneself in the trackless snowfield and it was only because of the rivers that he felt he had come to where Imladris once flourished. At any rate, he was tired of traveling and this was as good a place to die as any.

He sighed, wrapping the bear cloak closer around his thin frame. Even he was beginning to feel the cold, a cold he equated with the Helcaraxë. Not that he ever crossed that land bridge to Ennorath. He had come by ship, and that crossing had been frigid enough for his taste. He scowled at the memory and felt his hands clench in remembered shame and anger for his treachery and all those who had followed Fëanor, leaving Fingolfin and the others to fend for themselves. He had never been able to look Finrod or anyone else who had crossed the hell that was the Grinding Ice in the eye after that without feeling regret for what was lost between them.

Looking about for some kind of shelter against the coming night and its brutal winds, he spied a clump of rocks in the middle distance. They weren’t much, but they would have to do. He intended to die here, but not immediately. He gave a snort of wry amusement at that thought. It had been his litany all through his journey north.

“You’re a fool,” he muttered to himself as he trudged over to the rockfall to set up his camp. The rocks were a tumble of boulders. There was an overhang that would do well enough, he decided, and he settled down to start a fire. Even as he threw dried dung onto a slab of rock and began the laborious task of lighting it, he wondered why he even bothered.

“I came here to die,” he muttered to himself as he scooped some snow into an iron pot to melt. Then he shrugged. By his estimation, he still had provisions to last him a few more days before he would need to hunt again. Perhaps he would just let them run out. “No sense letting the bear meat go to waste.” He chuckled, wishing he had something other than bear meat for his last meals.

Night descended in a rush of brilliant flame as Anor sank into the West. The tundra was awash with crimson, indigo and deepening purple shadows that faded slowly with the coming of the stars. He gazed heavenward and felt a tightening of his throat. Their beauty always affected him this way and he struggled not to weep as he watched Eärendil’s Star glitter coldly just above the western horizon, brighter than any of the other stars now shining. It would be a dark night, for Ithil would not rise before dawn. He felt a need to sing but the tightness around his chest would not loosen. Instead, he huddled closer into his cloak and refused to look up for the rest of the night. And so he never saw Menelvagor rising above the mountains nor did he notice the curtains of light — red mostly with some green — shimmering silently above him.

Dawn roused him from his troubled sleep and he stood, stretching for a moment before crouching over the fire that had burned out several hours earlier. It took him some time to rekindle it and then he set about half-heartedly fixing something to eat. All the while, he replayed in his mind memories of warmer climes and the warmth of family and friends that he had known in his long years. As he sipped on some hot water — he had long ago run out of any tea — he began his daily ritual of asking for forgiveness. He mentally reviewed his list and resisted a sigh. It was a long list and he feared he would never get through it before the end. Well, he would have to get through as much of it as he could and hope the Belain would understand.

He called to mind a Mortal whom he had chanced upon during his travels, one who had shown him a kindness that was rare among Men who were so suspicious of the Elves. He had not treated the Man well, he knew, and the shame of it burned him. Even as he began asking him for forgiveness some sound that was more sensed than heard brought him to his feet, his sword out before he had straightened completely. He glanced around him at the desolate landscape, trying to determine what had alerted him. At first he could see nothing and was ready to dismiss his feelings as a product of imagination but then from the corner of his eye he saw movement. Turning to the southeast, he shaded his eyes against the glare of the snowfield and after a moment he was able to see what approached. What he saw caused him to drop his sword in shock.

People!

He stood there, wondering if he was seeing things, if perhaps the loneliness and despair that had gripped him for longer than he could remember had finally taken their toll and he was now imagining things, slipping into delusions as a precursor to his death. He bent his knees and slowly reached for his sword, never taking his eyes off the approaching group numbering about thirty, all dressed in furs that, like his own bear cloak, blended well into the bleak landscape, making for good camouflage. He did not sheathe the sword, but held it point down. The group made its way unerringly toward him, almost as if the people knew he was there, though his fire was smokeless and he was still hidden among the boulders. When they had come within ten feet of his camp they stopped. One of those who was in the lead swept back his hood, his silver tresses glinting in the sunlight, his ears slightly leaf-shaped.

“Mae govannen,” the Elf said, giving a slight bow in his direction though he was sure the ellon could not see him. “May we join you?”

He stood there still in shock. The last thing he had expected to see in this desolate wasteland was others of his kind. He stepped out from his hiding place, purposely waiting to sheathe his sword until he was in full sight of them. He gave them his own bow. “Mae govannen. What little I have is yours.” He swept a hand back to indicate his campsite, welcoming them to join him.

The silver-tressed ellon smiled as he and the other Elves came forward. “We thank you, friend, for your hospitality. I am Denethor, once of Eryn Lasgalen and Ithilien, and leader of this ragtag group of sorry Elves.” He gave him a lop-sided grin and some of the others chuckled, as if at an old jest.

“I am... Glîrhir,” he said, barely hesitating over the lie.

Denethor raised a delicate eyebrow but said nothing. Instead, he turned to his followers, issuing orders and soon, to Maglor’s surprise, his dismal camp was transformed into a lively gathering as the others set about building their own fires and setting up tents made of fur. The group appeared to be equally divided between ellyn and ellith and most were obviously Sindar, though Maglor could see some whose darker tresses suggested Noldorin ancestry. All of them were cheerful and seemed unbothered by his presence or the cold. Someone even began singing and soon others joined in.

Maglor stood feeling uncertain, not sure how to react to the presence of these others. He had long ago abandoned any pretense of needing contact with other people, be they Elves or Mortals. When he had decided to walk out onto the ice and die he had put all that behind him. Now, however, the numbing cold that he had allowed to nearly smother his heart was fading under the relentless warmth of these Elves.

Denethor gave him a knowing smile. “We are all that are left, or who were willing to leave.” Maglor gave him a quizzical look as he resumed his seat before his own small fire, indicating that Denethor should join him, which he did. “We have named ourselves the Harthadrim,” he said.

“Of what do you hope?” Maglor asked. He himself had lost all hope, except the hope to die soon and bring his sorry tale to an end.

One of the ellith had taken Maglor’s tin cup of hot water and added a few dried leaves, the scent of apples rising in the steam, bringing with it a wealth of memories of long summer nights when there had once been summer. He gave her a heartfelt smile of thanks and she smiled back before moving away.

Denethor nodded to the other Elves bustling around them. “We hope to find Dor Rodyn,” he said simply. “We have not faded as you can see and are unlikely to do so, or so it seems.” He took an appreciative sip of his own tea. “We have lingered overlong in these Mortal lands and we few who are left or who could be found have decided to head West.”

Maglorgave him a skeptical look. “The seas are frozen,” he said. “You will find no grey ships waiting for you in which to sail. Círdan and the Falathrim are long gone.”

Denethor nodded. “True, but we are undeterred. It is our hope that the Belain will show mercy upon us and open the Straight Road for us. All we need do is to continue West.”

In spite of himself, Maglor was intrigued. “Do you truly believe you will find Dor Rodyn? I think you will most likely die first.”

The other ellon shook his head. “Even if that is true, we will have come to the Blessed Realm regardless. We will not fade. We have no other options.”

“You could just wait here and die, thus saving yourselves the bother of a hopeless journey,” Maglor said harshly, his own desire for death sitting less comfortably upon him in the presence of these others who exuded life and hope.

“Is that why you are here?” Denethor asked shrewdly.

Maglor cast his eyes down, feeling shamed for some reason. “I have no reason to live, and Dor Rodyn is closed to me.”

“It cannot be completely closed to you,” Denethor said with a slight smile, “if your fae ends up in Lord Bannoth’s Halls, unless you intend to refuse his call and join the Houseless Ones.” His eyes darkened with disapproval.

Maglor blinked and then sighed, giving Denethor a wry look. “Truth to tell, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I only wanted to get the dying part over with.”

For a moment, Denethor gazed at him, deep in thought. Then, he nodded, as if coming to a decision. “Join us,” he said.

Maglor stared at him in surprise. “Why would I do that? Your journey is hopeless. Si mîn phain raeg!” he spat in contempt. “You will all die.”

If his manner upset the leader of the Harthadrim, Denethor gave no indication. Instead, he shrugged. “What you say may be true, but we will not be swayed from our quest. Before we decided on our course we were a spiritless people, lost to ourselves, to our memories and our regrets. But look at us now. Hear you not the singing and the laughter? See you not the spring in our steps and the smiles on our faces? For the first time in long years we have hope again. We may indeed die somewhere out on the ice further West, but we will die with hope.”

Maglor stared about him, seeing the truth in Denethor’s words. He saw people full of purpose. They knew that the odds were against them. It was unlikely that they would ever find the Mên Dîr, but he sensed that that would not deter them.

“I once heard Lord Glorfindel say that Lord Bannoth does not care for quitters,” Denethor said. He shrugged when Maglor gave him a measuring look. “I suppose if anyone should know it would be he.”

Maglor snorted in wry agreement. Still, he hesitated. He had accepted his fate, knowing there was no other way. Death seemed the only viable option, but now.... He glanced about him again and there must have been something in his expression, a hunger for what he knew could never be his, for Denethor leaned over and gently placed a hand on his knee to get his attention.

“All else being equal, Lord Maglor, what do you have left to lose?” he asked quietly.

The sound of his true name on the ellon’s lips startled him. “You knew who I was all the time,” he whispered.

Denethor nodded. “And we knew where to find you.”

Maglor felt his heart lurch in his throat. “I don’t understand,” he said faintly.

Denethor smiled. “A dream came to me,” he said, “in which I heard a voice bidding me to seek for you in the barren wastelands where once fair Imladris stood. ‘Bring the Exiled One home’ the voice said to me. ‘It is time’. I spoke to these whom you see here and we resolved to find you and take you with us. Of course, we had no idea just who this ‘Exiled One’ was until we found you. So you see, mellon nîn, your welcome is assured if you will turn away from death and join us in hope.”

Maglor could feel tears in his eyes at the look of calm acceptance and assurance in Denethor’s eyes. “We may still die,” he stated half-heartedly, already counting himself among Denethor’s people.

Denethor nodded. “But you will not be alone if you do.”

Alone. He had come out here alone to die alone. Now, however, he was being offered another way. He might still die, they all might. There was no real guarantee that the Straight Road would open for them, and yet.... For a long moment he sat in contemplation, staring at the fire, weighing Denethor’s words against his own thoughts. Finally, coming to a decision, he looked up to see Denethor smiling at him.

****

Helcaraxë: (Quenya) The Grinding Ice.

Ennorath: Middle-earth.

Anor: Sun.

Ithil: Moon.

Menelvagor: Orion.

Mae govannen: Well met.

Glîrhir: Song-lord. 

Falathrim: People of the Falas, the western seaboard of Beleriand, who later relocated to Mithlond after Beleriand’s destruction. Their lord was Círdan the Shipwright.

Fae: Soul, spirit.

Bannoth: Námo. The name is the Sindarin form of Mandos by which the Vala was more popularly known to the Elves of Middle-earth.

Si mîn phain raeg!: ‘Now all roads are bent!’.

Mên Dîr: The Straight Road.

Mellon nîn: My friend.

5: The Baranduin

“Well, unless I’m completely out of reckoning, this should be Bree, which means the Baranduin is only a day's walk from here,” Maglor said. They had been traveling steadily westward for the better part of three weeks and were just now reaching the borders of what had once been the Shire.

“Yet another river,” Rían sighed. “How many more must we cross?”

Maglor turned to the elleth. “This is the last one until we get to the Lhûn. It is perhaps the trickiest for there are no good places to ford the Baranduin unless one goes south about a hundred miles from here.”

There were sighs all around and Maglor gave Denethor a brief, wintry smile. The fording of the Mitheiethel where once the Last Bridge had been had been rough for, of course, there was no bridge, not anymore. Maglor suppressed a shudder at the near mishap that had occurred when Gilgaran had somehow lost his balance while crossing the swiftly flowing river and had been swept downstream. Maglor had not yet crossed and ran along the bank, trying to stay ahead of the current, plunging into the frigid waters at a point where he knew the hapless ellon would come and waited for him. By the time he had gotten them both safely to the other side (no point having to cross twice), Maglor was barely conscious because of the cold and Gilgaran was nearly dead. It took almost two hours for Denethor and the others to revive them. Denethor had been frantic and when Maglor had finally opened his eyes he had burst into tears, falling upon the Noldo and Maglor found it ironic that he had had to comfort Denethor and not the other way around.

“Let’s see how it looks,” Denethor said. “If we need to, we will go south.”

There were more sighs and Denethor turned to the others, giving them a feigned look of surprise. “What? Are we late for an appointment? Were you expecting to have tea with Lord Manwë this afternoon?”

“We’ve been on the road for so long,” Ragnor complained. “How much longer must we endure all this?” He swept a hand to take in the surrounding area. It was not completely snow-covered. Summer was half over now and much of the snow had melted, leaving clumps of sere grasses and mud behind.

Maglor resisted his own sigh. Joining with the Harthadrim had not been a difficult decision. He had thought he wanted to die, was ready to do so, but in the end, what would have been the point? Better to be doing something, even something as daft as looking for the Straight Road that had been closed to them all for so long than to just sit in the snow waiting for the next blizzard to cover his body. But he had forgotten what it was like to be with others. He’d been alone for so long that having others around him, complaining or arguing or just being in his vicinity, grated on his nerves. Often, once they had settled in a camp for a night or a few days, he would stalk away, determined to find some privacy, some place where he was alone with himself.

The first time he had tried to do that, perhaps three days after they had set out for the West, the others became upset, begging him not to leave them so soon.

“Please, lord, do not desert us,” Denethor had pleaded and Maglor had relented, allowing himself to be drawn back to the fire, assuring them that he was not deserting them.

“I only wished for a little privacy,” he had said softly, not looking at anyone. “You do not appreciate how difficult it is for me to be with you all.”

After that, they had reluctantly allowed him to leave their camp and Maglor half suspected that many of them were sure he would never return, but return he did, for he had promised Denethor that he would and he had yet to break a promise and wasn’t about to start now. Sometimes he would return with game that he had had the fortune to find and that mollified the others considerably.

And on those nights when he went off by himself he continued with his litany of forgiveness, for he would not do it in the presence of the others, fearing their ridicule.

Crossing Eriador had been no picnic. In many ways it was proving more difficult than reaching Imladris had been. The lie of the land was against them, or at least, against Maglor who knew the geography of the road between Imladris and Mithlond intimately or thought he did. There was, of course, no East-West road and the landmarks that he had hoped to find had disappeared or were changed enough that he was sometimes unsure just where they were.

He had deigned to lead them at Denethor’s insistence when they set out from Imladris, for the others admitted having little or no knowledge of the land. One or two of the Elves had lived in Eriador ages before but they had lived further south in Ost-in-Edhil and had fled over the mountains when that city had been destroyed by Sauron, eventually joining their Sindarin and Silvan kin in Lothlórien or Eryn Lasgalen and even Edhellond, overlooking the Bay of Belfalas.

Amon Sûl and the Weather Hills had disappeared altogether, worn down to gentle folds in the land though the marshes just beyond them still existed, a soggy quagmire into which he had inadvertently led them, only realizing what he had done when he stepped on what he thought was solid ground only to plunge nearly to his neck in muck. It had taken Denethor and two others to pull him out of it. Luckily they had been on the outer edge of the marshes but it still took them nearly two days to find their way out, heading south before continuing west again and they all stank.

And now they were near where Bree should have been but wasn’t. Even Bree Hill was gone, replaced by a sizeable lake that the glaciers had carved out as they receded northward. The Elves had welcomed the sight for they were all determined to wash away the grime of travel and the stink of the marshes that lingered about them. Denethor had declared that they would remain there for several days before they attempted to cross the river that had once bordered the Shire.

“What if the ford no longer exists?” Damrod asked, looking tired and worried.

Maglor forced himself to smile. “We’ll find a way or the Belain will find it for us.”

When Damrod gave him a disbelieving look he chuckled. “After all, why go to the bother of having you all save my sorry hraw just to see us all stymied because of a river?”

Damrod had given Maglor a sour grin. “I’m beginning to wonder,” he said and even Maglor had chuckled along with the others at that.

“Well, while we’re resting here for a few days, why don’t we scout the area and see how hard it will be to cross?” Denethor suggested. “If necessary, we’ll send some south and even north to see if there’s a suitable crossing place. The geography has no doubt changed considerably and that river might not even be as deep or as wide as I believe the Baranduin was before the ice came.”

Maglor nodded. “There used to be a large island to the north that took up much of the river, somewhat like Cair Andros. Perhaps we can see if it still exists and cross that way.”

Denethor agreed. “But first, let us clean ourselves up and rest for a day or two before we do.”

To that, none of them had any objections and soon the camp was set up beside the lake. The ellith then wandered a little way to the east along the shore beyond where a fold of the land hid them so they could bathe in private, though two of the ellyn went with them as guards, keeping their backs to the swimmers. The other ellyn busied themselves with checking over their weapons, making minor repairs as necessary before heading off to hunt. The ellyn had decided not to bathe until later, for the stink of the marshes would hide their own scent.

Maglor, however, elected not to go with the hunters this time, but remained in the camp, keeping an eye on the fire, sipping tea. Denethor sat with him in companionable silence but after several minutes gave him a shrewd look.

“What are your thoughts, Maglor?” he asked. It had taken them all some time to get used to not addressing the son of Fëanor as ‘Lord’, but Maglor had insisted, saying he was lord of nothing and wished to be considered simply as one more ellon in their midst. They had been reluctant at first, but when Maglor had retaliated by addressing them as ‘Lord’ or ‘Lady’, they had finally relented and now they all called him ‘Maglor’ without stumbling over the name.

Maglor shrugged. “I am thinking I should have refused your offer to join you.”

“Do you weary of our company so soon?” Denethor retorted, and while his tone had been light, his eyes had filled with hurt and Maglor sighed.

“No, my friend, but I weary of leading you. You should be leading. To you came the dream. To you the Belain spoke, not to me or any of the others.”

“But you know the way. I have never traveled through Eriador.”

Maglor gave him a jaundiced look. “Denethor, west is that way.” He pointed with his left hand. “What other direction is there? You do not need a map, you do not even need me. Hell, I led you into the marshes!”

“Not your fault,” Denethor insisted with a wave of a hand. “We’re just glad we were able to pull you out in time.”

“Well, regardless, the point is, all you have to do is go directly west. Eventually you’ll reach the Sea. I doubt if Mithlond exists, perhaps not even the Gulf of Lhûn but the Sea will still be there. After that….” He shrugged.

Denethor remained silent for a few minutes, staring into the fire. “All you say is true, but you are missing the point.”

“And what point is that?”

“After we left Imladris, you were with us but not with us.”

Maglor furrowed his brow. “Excuse me? What nonsense are you spouting?”

“No nonsense, just an observation. You were with us physically, but your fae was elsewhere. You barely spoke two words to anyone, including me.”

“Sorry. I guess I had much to think about.”

Denethor nodded. “No doubt, but after that incident at the Bruinen, it was as if you suddenly woke up.”

“I did,” Maglor retorted with a grin.

“No, not in that way,” Denethor insisted. “I mean, you woke up inside, in here.” He tapped his own chest. “Once you revived and had recovered from the ordeal you were different inside, more alert, more alive. I am not sure if that was because you had truly come close to dying or if it was something else, but that’s when I asked you to lead us.”

“And so?”

“What you say is true: we simply have to travel straight west. There’s no mystery there, but I feared you would eventually retreat into yourself again and I did not wish that, hence I asked you to take the lead and in spite of the marshes you have led us well, cajoling those who complained, joking with those whose spirits were beginning to flag. You are a natural leader, Maglor. I am one only by default and I do not like it very much. I have wondered time and again what insanity struck the Belain that they would choose me as their emissary.”

Maglor laughed. “Insanity is right. This whole venture is insane. And the most insane part of it is that I feel more alive than I have in a long time and I find I hate it.”

“Hate it? Would you rather be dead, your fae in Lord Bannoth’s keeping, or worse, wandering houseless for all time?”

“Death, or rather, the thought of death had held me in its grip for so long, I had forgotten what it meant to be alive and living hurts.” His right hand spasmed and he grimaced at the pain that was always there just below the surface.

“Yes it does,” Denethor agreed. “But, frankly, the alternative does not bear thinking about. You know, I could never figure out why you traveled so far just to die when you could have done it at any point along the way. Indeed, you needn’t have left the South to do it.”

“You would think,” Maglor retorted with a sour grin, “but every time I attempted to end my life, something or someone always intervened. It got to the point where I decided I needed to be somewhere where I could be totally alone. Traveling north seemed the best option. As to why I waited until I reached Imladris….” He shrugged. “Let’s just say I had some issues to deal with before I could die with a clean conscience and journeying as long as I did gave me the time to do so.”

“And now?”

“And now I am just weary of travel. This whole venture is hopeless. There are no guarantees that we’ll ever reach Dor Rodyn alive and if we die along the way, what would be the point?”

“The point is that we will have died attempting a great venture rather than sitting around moping, feeling sorry for ourselves and just waiting for death to find us. As I once told you, Lord Bannoth is not fond of quitters and truly, can you say that you are one? Otherwise, you would have allowed yourself to die a long time ago. No, my friend, you are no quitter and that, I deem, has been your saving grace.”

He stood, giving Maglor a fond smile. “I see the ellith are returning. Why don’t we avail ourselves of the opportunity to wash the muck off us?”

Maglor nodded, standing as well. “Sounds like a good idea.”

****

Maglor volunteered to go north to see if the island he had mentioned still existed, taking two others with him, while Denethor sent three south. Maglor had described to them the geography around what had been Sarn Ford so they could easily find it, assuming it still existed.

“And it’s unlikely that it does,” he pointed out. “So much has changed here.”

“We’ll deal with it as we find it,” Denethor said philosophically.

Maglor had no reply to that, so he simply nodded to Gilgaran and Saelmir to follow him and the three loped away, moving along the shore of the lake westward. Damrod, Voronwë and Neldorion joined them, for they were heading south and would separate from Maglor’s group once they reached the river.

The morning was fair with ice blue skies and patchy clouds. The sun had yet to rise above the horizon but her light was enough for them to see the lie of the land clearly. Scrub brush and lichen covered the land where the snow did not rule and Maglor wished for the sight of flowers or even a single tree. He wondered how long it would take for trees to take root in these lands once the ice left entirely, and he had no doubt that it would, for already they were seeing evidence of it and the temperatures were definitely warming.

They had gone only about five or six miles when Maglor slowed his pace, coming to a stop and looking to the southwest, his view unobstructed and grieved at the sight: the Old Forest was gone and he wondered what had happened to old Tom Bombadil and his Lady Goldberry. Had they gone West with the last Ships to sail the Straight Road or had they traveled south with those who refused to leave or had they simply waited for the ice to claim them as surely as it had claimed the Old Forest. That last thought saddened him greatly.

“Is there something wrong, Maglor?” Saelmir asked anxiously.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” Maglor replied distantly, his gaze still to the southwest. Then he gave himself a mental shake. “Come. We still have a way to go.” He picked up his pace again and the rest followed.

They made good time, reaching the river late in the afternoon, just before sunset. The distance between Bree and the Stone Bridge was approximately sixty miles, Maglor knew, and even without a road to guide them they were confident of their way. The river, where they came to it, proved very deep, deeper than the Bruinen, and, of course, there was no longer a bridge, not even any evidence of one.

“Well, we obviously can’t cross here,” Damrod observed. “We’ll camp for the night and set off tomorrow.” And that is what they did. The next morning, they parted, promising to see each other back at the lake. 

“Good luck,” Maglor said to Damrod. “Hopefully one of us will have good news.”

With that, the three heading south loped away. Maglor watched them go and then nodded to his two companions. “Well, let’s see if the island still exists. It’s only eight or ten miles from here. With any luck, we’ll be back at camp before dinner.”

Saelmir and Gilgaran grinned.

As they headed northward, Maglor kept an eye on the river. He did not like what he saw, for the further north they went the more evidence of rapids there was and he knew that was wrong. The water around the island had been deep enough that its flow had been calm, but now he was seeing whitewater and wondered what that meant. Beyond that, the land, which should have been flat was rising on either side of the river so that they had to climb up to the top of the ridge when the riverbank narrowed too far to walk along. And then there was the rushing sound that they all knew too well.

“Is that your island?” Gilgaran asked, pointing.

Maglor sighed and nodded. It was not an island, not any more. The intervening ages had dramatically changed the landscape here. Where the island used to be was now a series of rapids, plunging into a crevasse, thus forming a waterfall, no doubt carved out by the river, aided and abetted by the glaciers. It would be too dangerous to cross here, he knew, even though it was relatively shallow, and going further north another mile or so he could see that the river was again as deep as it was further south, if not deeper.

He grimaced at his companions. “Let us hope Damrod has better luck.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Saelmir asked.

Maglor shrugged. “To the north should be Lake Nenuial out of which the Baranduin flows. If we need to we can follow the river to the lake. We may find a way to cross over or we may just have to go around the lake before heading west again. We’ll reach the Lhûn either way and can just follow it until we get to the Gulf.”

“It will make the journey that much longer,” Gilgaran pointed out.

Maglor nodded. “But as Denethor pointed out, it’s not as if we are expected to tea with the Belain on a particular day.”

The other two chuckled. “Shall we return to camp then?” Saelmir asked.

“Yes. We’ll head back across the fields and see if we can scare up some game along the way,” Maglor said and they did just that.

****

Hraw: Body.

Fae: Soul, spirit.

6: The Journey North

They returned to the camp with their report. Denethor sighed. “Well, we can only hope that Damrod brings us better news,” he said after Maglor had finished. “If we do end up following the Baranduin north, how far is Lake Nenuial?”

Maglor shrugged. “I think about forty leagues, maybe closer to forty-five, and that’s as the craban flies. If we cut straight across going northwest we can save some time before we have to follow the river to its source.”

There were more sighs and looks of dismay from the listeners.

“It may not be as bad as that,” Maglor insisted. “The Baranduin is not as wide or as deep further north. We may be able to cross it before we ever reach the lake.”

“That is assuming, of course, that in the intervening ages, the river has not changed overmuch,” Denethor pointed out. “Your island, for instance, is now a series of rapids. Who knows what we will find along the way? Well, we will wait to hear what Damrod has to say.”

“I’m sorry,” Maglor said, almost sounding contrite. “I wish I could have brought better news.”

Denethor gave him a surprised look. “I am not blaming you, Maglor. It will be what it will be.”

Maglor nodded but he still felt as if he had failed them in some manner and his mood remained dark for the rest of the day. The others wisely left him to himself.

Damrod, Voronwë and Neldorion returned with the sun the next morning. “We decided we could sleep when we got back,” Damrod said with a grin when he explained how they had walked through the night.

“So what did you find?” Denethor asked as he handed Damrod a mug of tea, which the ellon gratefully accepted.

Damrod took a couple of sips of the hot liquid and sighed in contentment before answering. “We looked for the signs that Maglor told us about, but I think the geography has changed dramatically since he was last here. If anything, the river simply got deeper and wider the further south we went and we never found any shallows. What about the island you told us about?” This last was directed at Maglor who scowled.

“It has disappeared and there is nothing but rapids. We went a bit further north but the river is still too deep and wide to cross, and now you say Sarn Ford no longer exists. We will have to go further north then and hope that the river shallows out the closer we get to Lake Nenuial, which is its source.”

“And how far will that take us out of our way?” Voronwë asked. “This journey seems to be getting longer by the minute.”

“And unlike our ancestors who crossed Ennorath from Echuinen, we don’t have a Balan urging us on,” an elleth named Gwilwileth said with a huff of discontent.

“No, we simply have ourselves,” Denethor said. “No one said this journey would be easy, but we will prevail, whatever the obstacles, for are we not the Harthadrim?" He gave them a bright smile and several people nodded in agreement. “Then we will go north, as Maglor suggested. We may be able to cross the river at some point along the way or we may have to go around the lake itself before we can continue our journey west, but either way, we will continue and we will do so with a good will and high spirits.”

Maglor cast an amused look at Damrod. “Is he always this dictatorial?”

“Only when he hasn’t had breakfast,” the ellon quipped and the others laughed while Denethor actually blushed and tried to apologize.

Maglor waved a hand in dismissal. “No, my friend, do not apologize. You have the right of it. By my counsel, though, let us remain here for a few days more than we had planned and replenish all our supplies. The game is plentiful here but that may not be the case further north.”

Denethor nodded. “We will remain here for a week or so, then, but I would not linger long, for summer, such as it is, is waning and the days are getting shorter and colder. I do not wish to be here in the midst of winter.”

To that, everyone agreed and so they remained by the lake where once Bree Hill had stood for another ten days before moving on.

****

They took a diagonal route to the northwest with the river in the middle distance as their goal. “Just north of what had been the bounds of the Shire, the river was not so wide or so deep,” Maglor said to Denethor as they led the group. “I’m hoping it is still that way and perhaps there is more ice on the river further north and we can cross in relative safety.”

“Frankly, I wouldn’t mind going all the way to the lake and having to go around it myself,” Denethor replied.

Maglor gave him a surprised look. “Whyever for? The lake is or was nestled within the Emyn Uial. Assuming they still exist we will have to make our way through them.”

Denethor glanced briefly behind him and Maglor did as well. Damrod and Eirien were walking together and he could see Ragnor’s second son, Duilinn, walking with Gwilwileth, one of the younger ellith. He saw Duilinn shyly take the elleth’s hand and she did not reject his advance. Others were also walking in pairs, many of them animatedly conversing with one another and even those without partners were striding with lively steps. Voronwë , one of only two Noldor among them other than Maglor, was walking together with Gilgaran, the two of them quietly singing a song Maglor recognized as one that had been popular among the Exiles when Beleriand had still existed. Denethor gave Maglor a significant look as they both turned back to face the front.

“As we have been traveling, friendships have been formed where before we were merely acquaintances,” Denethor said quietly.

“I’m not sure I understand you,” Maglor rejoined. “Did you not all live together in community, else how did you know them to ask them to join you in this venture?”

“It is true that we lived together, but in some ways we did not. We shared a physical space, a range of mountains where we lived in caves overlooking the river valley where the Mortals were congregated, but many of us went our own way, coming together only when there was a need to hunt and that was rarely.” He gave Maglor a wry look. “I, for instance, preferred sitting in a cedar tree watching the world go by to interacting with my fellow Elves.”

“Alone in a crowd,” Maglor muttered.

Denethor nodded. “I see you understand.”

“Better than you know,” Maglor replied. He glanced back in time to see Voronwë laughing at something Gilgaran had said, putting his arm around the ellon’s shoulders as the two walked together. He gave Denethor a shrewd look. “You wish for the journey to take a little longer than necessary so that certain bonds will form, bonds that will not lessen once we reach Dor Rodyn.”

“It is my hope,” Denethor said with a nod. “At the moment, these bonds are still too new, too fragile. A venture shared will only strengthen them. Perhaps there may even be a wedding or two along the way.” He flashed a knowing smile at Maglor who returned it.

“To that, I would have no objections,” he said.

****

They came to the river the next day when Anor was halfway up the eastern sky.

“We should be only about thirty leagues or so from the lake,” Maglor said to them. The river here was still fairly wide though perhaps not as deep as it was further south.

“Well, standing here won’t get us where we’re going,” Denethor said. “Let us see how far we can get today.”

The others nodded and they set off after a brief rest, following the riverbank. Maglor paid little attention to their route, being more interested in the land about them. To the east he could see a series of ridges that ran northeast to southwest marking what had been the North Downs, though they did not seem quite as high as he remembered them. Somewhere in the downlands lay what had once been Fornost. Looking straight north all he saw was a wide, flat land with little to commend itself. There had never been any substantial settlements north of Fornost, for the land was not very arable and the growing season was short. The Ice Bay of Forochel lay only about seventy-five leagues northwest of Fornost and even now he felt a brumal wind sweeping down from the far north.

As the Baranduin curved to the northwest, Maglor could see on the horizon a line of dark blue that marked the Emyn Uial and hoped that they would not have to travel through them. As he recalled from the one and only time he had visited Annúminas, the hills surrounded the lake on three sides, leaving the eastern shore open so one could look directly across to the distant land of Angmar, where once the Witch-King had ruled. The hills were steep and on the north side came right down to the lake, leaving little in the way of shoreline. They would have to climb the hills or make their way through whatever valleys they might find. If they could cross the river before they reached the lake then they would be able to skirt the hills. He had a vague thought of seeking out where Annúminas had once stood, but decided it was not worth it. If even Minas Anor had not survived — and that great city lay much further south — why would he think Annúminas would?

The wind picked up as they continued traveling and, even though they were Elves and did not feel the weather as Mortals would, most of them, Maglor included, huddled in their cloaks a bit more.

“This land leaves little in the way of shelter,” Denethor observed. “Our camps will be uncomfortable.”

Maglor shrugged. “The northern bounds of Beleriand where we held the Leaguer against Angband were colder than this. My brother’s fortress at Himring wasn’t named so because he liked the sound of it.” He chuckled as if at a memory and Denethor gave him a wan smile.

So they continued on through the shortening day, stopping several hours before the sun would set to camp where the land narrowed between the river on the west and the western edge of the downs some thirty miles or so to the east. It was not very sheltered for the wind funneled down from the north but around sunset it died down completely and they were all grateful for that.

It took them another two days to reach the vicinity of the lake. All the while, Maglor kept an eye on the river, and while it did indeed narrow and shallow out somewhat, the swiftness of the current gave them pause and no one really wanted to try it. Indeed, Gilgaran, remembering the last river he had tried to cross, looked ill at the thought and Maglor sympathized. So, they continued on, the lake becoming visible to them as a darker smudge of blue against that of the Emyn Uial.

Maglor and Damrod ranged ahead of the others to find a suitable camp, coming upon a sheltered cove not far from where the river flowed out of the lake and were glad of it, for the wind was more brutal as it swept around the hills. Here, there was an actual shoreline. Across the river were the southern reaches of the Emyn Uial, not as high nor as steep as those to the north or west.

“If we can cross here, we could follow the shoreline to Annúminas,” Maglor told the other Elf as they examined the land around them, “or where it once stood,” he amended, “and then take the cut that leads down into the Shire — there once was a road that led from Annúminas to Long Cleeve — or we could skirt the hills altogether to the south. The shore route might be the better option, in my opinion, because it will be more sheltered and we can fish along the way.”

“Assuming any fish live in these frigid waters,” Damrod retorted.

“Ah, they may be frigid to us, but I doubt the fish know or care,” Maglor responded with a grin.

“So how did anyone reach Annúminas from Fornost?” Damrod asked. “Was there a bridge here spanning the river?” He gave Maglor a doubtful look.

“There once was a road from Fornost to this very cove, I think,” Maglor answered. “I only visited Annúminas once. It was during the war with Angmar when King Arvedui was lost and his son, Aranarth took the title of Chieftain of the Dúnedain. Anyway, I had come from Lindon, joining with some of Círdan’s people who went in aid of the Dúnedain. We came to Annúminas to find that Arvedui was already in the field with his sons further north, attempting to meet Angmar’s army before it came to Fornost.

“But to answer your question, there used to be a ferry here that brought people over and then the road simply continued along the shoreline to the citadel. It overlooked the lake about halfway along.”

Damrod nodded. “Too bad there’s no ferry now,” he said with a wry grin.

Maglor grunted in agreement. “Still, we might be able to cross here. See, it’s not as wide and it looks fairly shallow nor is the current all that swift here. We’ll have to wait for the others and decide. In the meantime, why don’t you go back and bring them here and I’ll start making a fire,” he suggested, “and maybe I can even catch a fish or two.”

“Only one or two fish?” Damrod couldn’t help asking with a grin.

“Hey! If you want fish, get your own,” Maglor retorted with a sniff.

Damrod laughed as he set off, leaving Maglor to himself. As he began making the fire pit, pulling out bits of dried dung from the sack used for that purpose, he mentally reviewed his list of those whom he had yet to ask for forgiveness, figuring he had at least an hour of privacy to enact his litany. His speaking of Arvedui and Aranarth had reminded him that there were many more people to get to.

As he sat tending the fire, he began: “Arvedui, forgive me….”

When the others arrived it was nearly sunset and they were all pleasantly surprised to see several fish baking on heated stones. Damrod gave his friend a wry look, which Maglor patently ignored.

“The fish are jumping,” was all he said, and it was true. While there was little in the way of life in the tundra that was not to say there wasn’t any. Small insects still survived in the short summer season and it was on these the fish dined. Several of the Elves quickly grabbed spears and headed for the shore.

While there was still some light, Maglor, Denethor and Damrod examined the area where the river ran out of the lake to determine if it was safe to cross. Denethor nodded in satisfaction. “I think it is doable,” he finally said. “It looks fairly shallow, certainly shallower than the Mitheithel. We’ll take a closer look tomorrow.”

Maglor and Damrod agreed and the three returned to the camp where dinner awaited them.

****

The next morning, they congregated at the river. Maglor volunteered to go first to determine how deep it was and how swift the current might be and if there were any hidden obstacles. As he was the tallest of the Elves, that only made sense. He stripped down to his small clothes and waded in, giving a grimace.

“What’s the matter?” Denethor called out in worry at the ellon’s expression.

“Nothing,” Maglor replied. “The river bottom is… mucky.” He gave them a look of distaste and they all laughed. “The current doesn’t seem too swift,” he continued as he reached the center of the river which came to about his waist, “and the bottom appears to be mostly mud with no rocks.” He came back to the shore rather than crossing all the way knowing he would need to help ferry supplies over.

Denethor nodded as he gave Maglor a hand, pulling him out of the river. “We’ll go in pairs,” he said, “with ellyn paired with ellith where possible.”

Everyone nodded and the ellyn began stripping down to small clothes while the ellith simply doffed their cloaks and boots, for they had not bothered to dress in other than their shifts that morning. Soon, everything was packed and people paired off. Maglor noticed Gilgaran was the last to strip, and he held back from the others, eyeing the river with trepidation. He went over and gave the ellon a hug.

“Denethor and I will cross with you,” he said softly. “We’ll go last.”

Gilgaran started to protest but Maglor shook his head. “I know what you are feeling, friend, and there is no shame in that. You had a frightening experience and it is still raw in your memory. Come, we will stand over here and watch the ellith cross with their shifts floating about them like sails.” He gave Gilgaran a suggestive look and the ellon snorted in good humor.

It took them half an hour to get everyone across. As promised, Maglor and Denethor crossed with Gilgaran between them. Gilgaran looked white as he allowed himself to be led into the water and Maglor kept up a running monologue of nonsense describing an imaginary meeting between himself and the Lord of Waters in which Maglor had challenged Lord Ulmo to a swimming contest that had everyone, including Gilgaran, laughing. Once on the other side, everyone quickly dressed with the ellyn facing one direction and the ellith facing the other.

“So which way should we go?” Voronwë asked, once they were all dressed and their supplies sorted out.

“The shoreline is more protected and we can fish along the way,” Maglor pointed out. “If we go south around these hills we won’t have any ready water source until we reach the moors that border the northwest of the Shire, hard against these hills. When we reach where Annúminas once stood, we can follow the cut that leads from there into the Shire and then we’ll only be about twenty-five or so leagues from the Lhûn.”

“Yet another river to cross,” someone said with a sigh.

Maglor shook his head. “We can follow the river south to Mithlond or even to Harlond. That will bring us to the Sea without having to cross any river.”

“Then, let us take the shore road,” Denethor said. “I find I rather like the fish here.”

Everyone chuckled at that and they set off with Maglor and Denethor in the lead as usual. Maglor casually put an arm around Gilgaran’s shoulders, bringing him along while everyone else followed. Young Duilinn and his brother, Haldir, began singing a fishing song and soon everyone was joining in.

****

Craban: A type of crow; the plural is crebain.

Echuinen: Water of Awakening, the Sindarin equivalent of Cuiviénen.

Balan: Vala.

Emyn Uial: The Hills of Evendim or the Twilight Hills. Nenuial means ‘Lake Evendim’.

Himring: ‘Ever-cold’, the Hill of Himring was the site of Maedhros’citadel.

Note: The war with Angmar began in Second Age 1974, 1045 years before the Ring War, and lasted two years.

7: Along Lake Nenuial

Maglor estimated they had about twenty-five or thirty miles before they reached Annúminas.

“Or where it once stood,” he amended. “I doubt if anything of it exists now, but the main citadel stood on an escarpment overlooking the lake and that will be hard to miss. The land between the hills and the lake opens up and it was heavily cultivated with orchards and grain fields. Elendil even had the hills terraced on the north side and many of the residences of the nobles were built along them. The cut through the hills to the south began directly behind the citadel itself.”

“Where did the common people live?” Rían asked.

“Oh, their homes were scattered about the hills and along the lake shore,” Maglor answered. “Though, in truth, I barely saw any of the place. We did not linger once we learned that Arvedui was not there. Indeed, when we arrived, the city was nearly empty, for the king had sent most of the populace west for safety. It was never repopulated after the war and fell into ruin until after the Ring War and then Elessar rebuilt it.”

They were silent for a time as they continued walking. Maglor eyed the hills to their left. They were barren of trees, which saddened him. Now they were mostly covered with lichen and moss and a few hardy shrubs that had somehow survived the brutal conditions this far north. He thought perhaps the glaciers were retreating and they were entering a warm period, but he could not be sure. Even if they were, it would be years, if not centuries, before there was any noticeable difference in the temperatures and he did not think the land would allow for trees until much later. Perhaps Mortals migrating northward would bring seedlings with them to plant. He had seen it done in earlier times: nomadic tribes planting beneficial trees near their temporary camps, taking seeds with them so that eventually such trees were populated in parts of the world where they normally would never be found. And, of course, some seeds, being airborne, would perhaps find root in non-native soil, pioneering the area on their own.

They stopped around noon to rest and Maglor estimated they had come nearly halfway. Denethor thought it might be wise to spend the rest of the day there. “I do not like the idea of reaching Annúminas just as the sun is setting,” he confided to Maglor and Damrod as the three of them wandered along the shore while waiting for the fish stew that was being put together. “I do not know why, for we have not encountered any life larger than deer, but my heart warns me that it would be better to approach Annúminas in full daylight.”

Both Maglor and Damrod frowned. “Do you sense any danger, Maglor?” Damrod asked.

Maglor shook his head. “No, but that does not mean that Denethor’s concerns are not valid. You are our leader, for all that you insist that I do the leading, and I have no objections to staying here through the night and continuing again in the morning. It’s pleasant here along the lake and I’m in no particular hurry to get to anywhere.”

The other two chuckled at that and Denethor thanked him. Maglor gave him a surprised look. “Why do you thank me? Were you seeking my permission? I meant what I said, Denethor. You and only you are our leader and I will abide by your decisions just as the others will unless we honestly believe your decision is not beneficial. If you feel uneasy in your mind about coming to Annúminas in the dark, then do not look to me for approval. Follow your own instincts. That the rest of us do not so feel as you do is neither here nor there. The Belain chose you to lead these people, and me, and I think you need to trust yourself more.”

“Yet, you outrank us all…” Denethor started to protest but Maglor waved a hand in dismissal.

“I gave up all of that a long time ago, my friend. I am just another Elf, nothing more, nothing less and nothing else. What titles were mine have no relevance in the here and now. The Belain did not choose me to be the leader of the Harthadrim, and rightly so. Now, enough. I can smell the stew and I am hungry. Let us go and tell the others what you have decided will be our course.”

Denethor sighed and Damrod grinned while Maglor simply walked purposefully back to the camp, accepting a bowl of the stew from Finduilas with a smile.

The others, when Denethor told them of his decision as they were all enjoying the stew, were somewhat dubious and not a few questioned him as to his decision.

“I can only tell you that my heart warns me against going on until the morning,” Denethor said in answer to their questions. “I cannot explain it any better than that.”

“Nor should you have to,” Maglor spoke up sharply and many there gave him surprised looks. “The interesting thing about being the leader is that you don’t actually have to explain anything.” He gave them a wry smile. “Used to drive me crazy when my daeradar or even when my adar made certain pronouncements and refused to explain why, stating it was not mine to understand, only to obey. When I finally took command of my own forces in Beleriand, I realized that sometimes there was no explanation that could be given for any decision I made because I was acting purely on instinct. Something within me warned me against a particular action, or even inspired me toward an action I had not considered, and I had no ready answer as to why. If Denethor, who is our leader, feels we should remain here for the rest of the day, then I, for one, will not gainsay him.”

He gave them all a significant look before returning to his stew, patently ignoring everyone around him. There were some uneasy murmurings among the others and then Gilgaran, who happened to be sitting next to Maglor, stood up and went over to the pot. “Well, in that case, I think I’ll have seconds,” he said as he began ladling the stew into his bowl and several people chuckled at that. When he resumed his seat, Maglor gave him a wink and the ellon blushed.

Thus, they spent the rest of the day in idle pursuits. Maglor wandered away from the camp to walk along the shore, softly singing to himself, remembering other shores and other times. He stopped at one point and sat on a spur of rock that jutted out into the lake, which at its widest point was about twenty miles. On the far side, the Emyn Uial rose into the northwest, their slopes steep and forbidding, and he was glad that they had been able to avoid traversing them. As he gazed across the waters, he began his litany, deciding it was a good place to enact it without others around him.

Even as he was calling up a name and a face, he wondered if he would ever get through the list before they reached Valinor, if they ever did. He felt a fleeting sense of despair that he would not but then pushed it aside. It did not matter if he completed the list, only that he make the effort, and in truth, he suspected that for most of the people on his list it was not necessary to ask for forgiveness, that his offenses against them were solely in his own mind. Yet, it was best to err on the side of generosity and believe that he needed their forgiveness and let the Belain worry about the rest.

He had gotten through several people on his list before Saelmir came looking for him. By now the sun had set behind the hills and the stars were peeping out, though their light was being occluded by clouds piling up on the horizon. Maglor suspected that they might get snow or perhaps rain by morning.

“Maglor,” Saelmir said softly, standing at the base of the rock fall, looking up, “supper is on. Will you come and eat?”

Maglor surreptitiously wiped away the tears that had flowed freely, glad that the encroaching darkness hid them from Saelmir’s sight, and nodded, thanking the ellon, but he did not immediately join him, remaining where he was as he gazed across the dark waters.

“Well, come when you’re ready,” Saelmir said after a moment or two and he moved off to join the others.

Maglor resisted his own sigh and after several minutes, climbed down from his perch and went back to the camp. No one said anything, though one or two gave him quiet greetings, which he returned. Denethor silently handed him a bowl and he sat beside him and ate, though in truth he had no appetite. One of the ellith began quietly singing and a few others joined her. Other songs were sung as the night deepened, but Maglor remained silent, content to listen for a time. Eventually, though, he felt weary and he decided he needed to be alone again. Shrugging his bear cloak closer around him as he stood, quietly excusing himself, he trudged back to the rock fall and spent the rest of the night huddled against it, falling into a restless sleep filled with dark dreams in which, for some reason, his brother Maedhros figured prominently.

****

By dawn the predicted snowfall came. Maglor muttered a curse as he stumbled back to the camp, pulling his bear cloak more firmly around him, returning in time to hear more than one person wishing they had just stayed in the south where it was nice and warm. He grinned humorlessly at that and added that if he had known the Belain meant for him to return to the Blessed Realm he would’ve just stayed in the south as well and hired a boat to take him there.

“But then, if you had done that, you wouldn’t have had the pleasure of our company,” Denethor retorted with a grin.

Maglor’s response was both succinct and very rude, which set them all laughing so that they broke camp and set off in a better frame of mind in spite of the snow.

At first, their pace was slow, for the snow fell heavily and they could not see that far, but as the day progressed the snow ceased to fall and the clouds began to shred, revealing a cerulean sky. The sun remained stubbornly behind the clouds, though, showing herself fitfully throughout the morning. It was nearly noon before conditions improved enough for them to move at a faster pace. Denethor would not let them linger for too long when they stopped to rest, stating that he wanted to reach Annúminas while Anor was still high in the sky. No one actually complained but more than one person gave him a look of concern which he ignored.

About an hour or so later, Maglor pointed to his left. “Look.”

They all stopped to do just that and saw the first signs that once people had actually lived here, for there was evidence that the hills had been cut back and terraced, and though they were heavily eroded, it was clear that no force of nature had carved out those straight rows or had leveled the hilltops where the houses of nobles had once stood. They also saw the land between the lake and the hills was wider here and Maglor told them that at its widest there was perhaps a half a mile separating the lake from the hills.

“I understand that Dwarves helped with cutting back the hills so that there would be space for orchards, grain fields and homes along the shore,” Maglor said.

“It must have been a monumental engineering feat,” Haldir said in awe.

Maglor simply nodded. “This is the outer edge of the city. The citadel is only a few miles away as I recall.”

So they went on but as they continued, now following the curve of the hills and leaving the shore, Maglor began to feel uneasy and lifted his head to sniff the air. There was some scent, faint and elusive, that reminded him of something long ago, but he couldn’t quite place it and that increased his unease. The further they went the more evidence they saw that this land had once been inhabited. Now, here or there, they came upon the ruins of retaining walls along the terraces and several tumbled stones that might have once been the walls of some noble’s residence. There might not be more than a handful of stones left standing but it was clear that they had been shaped by the hands of Men (or perhaps Dwarves) and carefully placed so that no mortar was needed to cement them. Only the ravages of time and the encroaching ice had destroyed them, yet not completely, not yet.

“What is the matter?” Denethor asked Maglor in a whisper when he noticed the ellon frowning. “Do you sense anything?”

“More like smell,” Maglor replied just as softly. “It is a familiar scent, yet I am not sure…”

Before he could analyze his feelings, he was pulling his sword free of its scabbard, which surprised them all. Without even looking behind him, he began issuing orders, quite forgetting that Denethor was their leader. “Damrod, you and Voronwë scout ahead with me. I’ll take the second terrace, Damrod take the first and Voronwë follow us along the shore. The rest of you, bow and arrows at the ready and swords out. Stay close together and move away from the hills so you have a good view of them.”

Then he was climbing the lowest terrace and after a moment’s hesitation, Damrod followed while Voronwë loped ahead. Denethor drew his own sword out and began leading everyone back toward the lake until they were perhaps a quarter of a mile away from the hills and could see Damrod and Maglor moving along the terraces.

“I thought you were our leader,” Ragnor said to Denethor, giving a huff of disgust.

Denethor gave the ellon a thin smile. “Well, do you want to go remind Maglor of that?”

Ragnor shook his head, even as he tested the string of his bow and reached for an arrow. “Do you take me to be a fool?” he asked rhetorically.

Denethor chuckled, but even as he was issuing his own orders, there was a yell that had come from no elven throat and suddenly dark figures came boiling down the hills where they had hidden at the top behind tumbled rocks. Denethor looked to see Maglor leaping down to the first terrace, yelling and gesturing. Damrod was already back on the strand and running toward them, while Voronwë was also running back. Maglor waited for the ellon to catch up before they continued on together.

“Yrch!” they heard Damrod scream as he raced toward them.

“Form a circle with ellith in the center,” Denethor cried as he pulled off the haversack he’d been carrying and dropped it along with his cloak. Others were doing the same with their own burdens.

“Archers at the ready,” Denethor ordered and several ellith as well as ellyn began nocking their first arrows. “Wait for my signal.”

By now Damrod was with them but Maglor and Voronwë were still running and the front line of Orcs was right behind. Denethor thought there must be close to fifty of the creatures, perhaps more.

“Shoot! Shoot!” they heard Maglor scream but Denethor raised a hand.

“Wait for it,” he said calmly, though he was feeling anything but calm, yet, this scenario was nothing new for him or the others. He well remembered the innumerable battles he had fought in ages past against Orcs and other foul creatures of the Dark.

Maglor and Voronwë were now only a few hundred yards away. “Shoot, damn you! What are you waiting for?” Maglor screamed.

“Maglor, Voronwë, drop!” Denethor yelled back. “Archers fire at will.”

Denethor wasn’t sure if the two ellyn would actually obey him, but he had no choice but to order the archers to fire, for the Orcs were closing in and soon arrows would be useless and it would be sword work instead. But, even as the archers were loosing their first arrows, Maglor grabbed Voronwë and pulled him to the ground, the two of them tumbling forward, neatly avoiding the Orcs that fell to the arrows.

There were horrid, gurgling screams and the advancing Orcs hesitated at the sight of their fallen comrades. That gave Maglor and Voronwë time to reach the rest of the group, joining in the circle around the ellith, the archers already loosing their third round of arrows. Several more Orcs fell and that seemed to spur them into action, for instead of retreating, they screamed defiance and advanced.

“Megil!” Maglor yelled, drawing out his own sword. “Maethathanc!”

With battle cries of their own, the Elves advanced, rushing the enemy, most of them carrying crude clubs and spears with others wielding bone knives. A few of the spears had been thrown but they never reached the Elves and now they were practically useless against the swords that flashed with unerring accuracy, cutting off limbs and heads. Yet, in spite of their superior weapons, the Elves did not escape unscathed. Here or there one of the Orcs managed to get inside someone’s sword reach to bring them down, though the Orcs were quickly dispatched by others.

The ellith had remained with the baggage, their bows at the ready in case any of the Orcs managed to elude the swords. A few tried to circumvent the fighting to come at the ellith from the left, but they were quickly cut down with arrows.

And then the last Orc was tumbling to the ground at Maglor’s feet and Denethor began issuing orders to determine if anyone was injured. Damrod was sporting a wicked gash on his shoulder and a couple of others were also suffering from gashes. Saelmir’s right leg was broken where an Orc had managed to bash him with a club. The rest of the fighters had scrapes and bruises but otherwise were unharmed.

Denethor quickly ordered the ellith to head for the lake away from the carnage. “Get fires going,” he said, “and see to the wounded. Sador, Neldorion, help Saelmir.” Then he joined Maglor who was busy examining the dead.

“They were too eager,” Maglor commented. “If they had waited, we might not have had sufficient warning.”

“Then we can thank the Belain for small favors,” Denethor responded.

“These are no ordinary Orcs,” Maglor pointed out. “They did not shun the day.”

“Uruks?” Ragnor asked as he joined them.

“No. Not Uruks, at least not entirely,” Maglor replied. “Look.” He turned over one of the corpses and the other two gasped.

“That’s no Orc!” Ragnor exclaimed in disgust. “That’s… that’s a Man!”

Or so it seemed at first glance. Denethor knelt to take a closer look. The creature’s features were more regular than those of Orcs, yet it did not look anything like the Men from the south, being shorter and more barrel-chested. Its forehead sloped back and the skull appeared somewhat larger than those of Elves. There was a prominent brow ridge and its facial features seemed flatter with hardly any chin. And, unlike any Orc he had ever known, this one sported a scrape of beard. He glanced around at the other bodies nearby and realized that nearly all the creatures were bearded.

He looked at Maglor. “A new breed of Orc, like the Uruk?”

“You mean a blending of Orc and Man?” Maglor retorted shaking his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps. We need to get to Annúminas and see. This many creatures means there must be a sizeable colony living in these hills.”

Denethor and Ragnor grimaced at that thought.

“If that is so, then we may have a problem getting through,” Ragnor opined. “If this was just a small hunting party….”

He left that thought dangling before them. “Annúminas is not far,” Maglor said after a moment. He glanced at the sky. “I can easily scout the area and return with a report before sunset. I don’t think we should go any further until we know for sure what we are facing. With luck, all that remains of the colony are women and children and perhaps oldsters who can no longer join in the hunt.”

“Even if that is true, what do we do about them?” Ragnor asked.

“Avoid them if possible,” Denethor answered, standing up. “I am tempted to have these bodies burned, but the smoke will alert whoever may still skulk these hills. This was too large of a group to be a normal hunting party. They must have had scouts who saw us coming and raised the alarm.”

“So I think as well,” Maglor said. He stared about him. “There is precious little in the way to defend ourselves against another concerted attack,” he said. “You are correct that we should leave the bodies where they lie. By my counsel, I suggest we get everyone up to the top of the hill. It will be harder for any more of these creatures to come to us unawares, and, we would have to climb anyway to reach the citadel.”

Denethor nodded. “I agree. Take Ragnor with you when you scout. We’ll make our way to that hill there.” He pointed to one of the nearby hills on which there appeared to be part of a structure still standing. It was, in fact, the very hill from which the creatures had attacked.

Maglor nodded and then he and Ragnor were loping off while Denethor went back to the camp to see how things were there. “As soon as the wounded are seen to, we will move,” he said and told them about what had been decided. Sador and Neldorion agreed to help Saelmir, his leg neatly splinted with slats of wood that had been brought from the south for that very purpose, for there was no knowing what kinds of danger they would face and injuries, including broken bones, were inevitable. The others were able to make the climb on their own. Gilgaran and Voronwë went first to scout the area and discovered that there were breaks along the terraces that allowed one to reach the various terraces easily, so their climb was less arduous than they had anticipated.

When they reached their destination they could see that what remained of the structure consisted of one long wall that faced the lake and part of another wall on the east side. Stones of various sizes and shapes were tumbled all around. On the south side the hill sloped down into a narrow gully that ran east and west and separated them from the range of the hills that fell toward the moors bordering the Shire. These hills were lower than the one they were on. To the east and west the hills formed a ridge with shallow slopes and Gilgaran opined that there must have been bridges or walkways spanning the space between hilltops.

The ellith set about putting a meal together but Denethor refused to let any fire be built, fearing that from this height, the smoke would be more readily seen from a distance, so they ate their meal cold. No one complained. Once he had eaten and had seen to everyone else’s comfort, Denethor settled himself on a slab of stone from where he could see the gully to his left and the terraces to his right and waited for Maglor and Ragnor to return, wondering what they might have found in the ruins of Annúminas.

****

Yrch!: Orcs!

Megil!: Swords!

Maethathanc! ‘Attack!’, literally, ‘Let us fight’.

8: Annúminas

Maglor did not take the most direct route to Annúminas, which, he explained to Ragnor as they climbed the hills, would be along the shore. “There was an actual road that led up the escarpment where the citadel stood,” he told the other Elf, “but I wish to avoid that. We can reach it by going into the hills and come to it from a less direct route.”

Ragnor merely nodded as they topped one of the hills and looked about. Maglor pointed down to his left. “That gully goes behind the citadel, if I’m not mistaken. I suspect that’s how our friends traveled so they could not be seen, otherwise, we would have noticed movement on these bare slopes.”

“It bothers me that we never saw the scouts,” Ragnor said with a frown. “Surely that large a group wouldn’t have been out hunting. They would have broken up into smaller groups, each going in a different direction.”

Maglor nodded. “I agree that it is troubling. Perhaps we did not sense them because we were not expecting to find them and so took no precautions ourselves. It was only because I felt a troubling in my mind that sent me and the others to scout ahead and have the rest of you move away from the hills. That saved us all, I think, otherwise you would not have been able to reach a position where you could use arrows effectively, evening the odds.”

“I once helped guard the borders of Lórien with Captain Haldir,” Ragnor said with a rueful look. “I should have been more alert.”

“We all should have,” Maglor responded, clapping the ellon on the shoulder. “I fear we have been too complacent, believing these lands empty of enemies or possible enemies. I, for one, will not make that mistake again.”

Ragnor gave him a nod and a grim smile in agreement. “These creatures… if they are not Orcs, then what are they?”

“I think they are merely a brutish form of Man,” Maglor replied. “Perhaps there was some mingling of Men and Orcs in the past but over time the more Orkish traits may have disappeared, save for their aggressiveness. These creatures could have left us alone. We were not threatening them, but I fear they may have seen us as a possible food source, not recognizing us as people.”

Ragnor shivered at that thought. Maglor gave him a wry look. “Let’s head down to the gully and follow it,” he suggested and the two set off, lightly running down the hill slope until they reached the floor of the gully and headed west, keeping a wary eye out. They encountered no sign of life and after a couple of miles they came to where the gully, only about six or eight feet wide, suddenly opened up into an actual valley. It was narrow, perhaps only a hundred feet at its widest but it looked as if it had once known the hand of Men, for there were several large standing stones, many of them fallen, though a few were still upright, rising some twenty feet with capstones connecting them. There were two rows forming an avenue that ran the length of the valley, disappearing from view as the land curved southward. To their right was a series of stone steps that wound their way upward to where they could see part of a wall.

“This is the road that leads down into the moorland overlooking the Shire,” Maglor explained in a soft voice. “These steps lead to the citadel.”

“Do we climb them?” Ragnor enquired.

Maglor shook his head. “We would have to climb one at a time and who can say what we would find at the top? No. There’s another way up.” Without further explanation he loped between the standing stones with Ragnor following. They did not go far, only a few hundred yards, before Maglor veered to his right, neatly jumping over a fallen monolith and Ragnor could see that the southwestern slope of the hill had been terraced where it came down into the valley. He gave Maglor a puzzled look which Maglor returned with a grin.

“This was the royal vineyard,” he said.

“This far north?” Ragnor exclaimed in surprise.

Maglor shrugged. “It is well protected with excellent drainage and adequate sunlight. I’m sure the grapes were far inferior to what was produced in the south, but they served their purpose. As you can see, it was not very large. But come. We can reach the citadel from this side easily enough. If I recall correctly, there was a wide courtyard on this side with stables and a smithy and barracks. Some of the structures may well be standing even after all this time, affording us some cover.”

As they started climbing, Maglor sniffed the air. “I smell smoke,” he whispered and Ragnor nodded. The terraces made the climb easier, but before they reached the top they were crawling up the slope. Maglor waved Ragnor to stay where he was while he inched forward, raising his head just enough to see over the lip of the hill. He did not stay long but slithered down to where Ragnor waited, leaning to whisper into his ear.

“There is the ruin of a wall that blocks our view but will give us cover. The bulk of the wall lies to our right.” With those words he actually climbed over Ragnor and began crawling up at an angle with the other ellon at his heels. Again, Maglor held out a hand to warn his companion before inching up to take a quick look before climbing all the way, waving for Ragnor to join him.

Ragnor found himself leaning against a wall that at its highest was only about six feet tall, most of it crumbled and fallen. “Stay here,” Maglor whispered and then, keeping low, he headed for the closest gap and carefully peeked around it. He was still for so long Ragnor wondered somewhat irreverently if the ellon had somehow fallen asleep. He was tempted to leave his post and shake him when Maglor began crawling backwards before turning around to face him, gesturing him to come forward.

“Carefully,” he whispered in Ragnor’s ear and then nodded toward the gap, letting him know that he could see for himself. Ragnor inched his way forward and peeked around the stones making sure that he did not lean too far forward. His view was very limited, but what he saw amazed him. He was looking at a wide courtyard with the ruins of several buildings on the other side and suspected that he was seeing the western face of the citadel. The courtyard itself was not occupied, but he could see people further along in the ruins themselves moving about. He spied two females hunched around a fire, tending it while younglings played nearby. An older male child stood nearby holding a crude spear and Ragnor assumed the youngster was acting as a guard. The females and the older boy were all crudely dressed in half-cured animal skins, the females bare-breasted, while the younger children were naked. Their bodies were hairier than the Men who abode in the south, which made sense considering the climate.

Ragnor felt a tap on his ankle and inched backward until he was not in danger of being seen, then turned to face Maglor who gestured downward. In seconds they were back in the avenue of standing stones.

“I want you to go back to the others and bring them along,” Maglor directed the other ellon. “We’ll take the avenue of stones into the Shire. Warn Denethor to come with all stealth. I do not want to confront these creatures if at all possible.”

“I saw only females and younglings,” Ragnor said.

“And perhaps that is all that is left, but I wish to take no chances. Go. The day is waning and I want to be well away from here before these creatures discover that their menfolk lie dead on the lake shore and come hunting for us.”

Ragnor nodded and without another word, loped away. Maglor reclimbed the hill, deciding to keep an eye on those above while he waited.

****

Denethor was about to leave his post and check to see how the others were faring when he saw Ragnor running along the gully and then starting to climb the hill.

“What did you find?” Denethor asked, reaching down to help pull the ellon up.

“Annúminas, or at least its ruins, is occupied,” Ragnor answered. “Maglor wants you to bring everyone along the gully as quietly as you can. There’s a valley just below the citadel that Maglor says leads into the moorlands overlooking the Shire. He wants us far away from here.”

“The sun is nearly setting,” Denethor protested, “and our wounded are resting. Saelmir, especially will find the going difficult with his broken leg.”

Ragnor pointed toward the lake and Denethor saw that scavenger birds had arrived to feast on the corpses. “And in the meantime, the creatures at Annúminas will be wondering what has chanced with their menfolk. Someone is bound to notice all the birds flocking and will come to investigate. Maglor doesn’t want us here when they do and I agree with him. Come. Let’s get everyone going. We do not have to travel far. It’s only a couple of miles to the citadel.”

Denethor nodded and the two went back to the camp where Ragnor accepted some venison jerky while Denethor told them the news. “We need to leave as quickly as possible. Voronwë, can you and Gilgaran help Saelmir down to the gully? Don’t wait for us. Just go. We’ll be right behind.”

The two ellyn nodded. Voronwë picked a protesting Saelmir up and started down the hill with Gilgaran lending a hand to steady him. “Hush now,” Voronwë said. “You can walk on your one foot once we get to the gully.”

“More like hop,” Gilgaran said with a grin. “Too bad we have nothing with which to make a staff for you to use, Saelmir.”

“I keep wondering where those creatures found wood to make their spears and clubs,” Voronwë said as he set Saelmir on his feet. He and Gilgaran stood on either side of the ellon who had his arms around their shoulders and together they made their slow way to the west.

“Hmm… you’re right. I never thought of that,” Gilgaran said. “Do you suppose there are trees here somewhere? I didn’t think the climate was conducive enough for them. We’ve seen nothing larger than hardy bushes. They couldn’t have used those for making spear shafts.”

“These hills are sheltered,” Saelmir replied with a grunt of effort as he tried walking only on one foot, using his friends as crutches. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a few hidden dells where the conditions are right for tree growth. Many trees have airborne seeds and they could have come floating on the wind from the deep south.”

“Well, we may never know,” Voronwë said. “I do not know if these creatures are a type of Orc or some primitive form of Man, but I, for one, have no desire to meet any more of them, so I am disinclined to go searching for the source of their wood.”

Both Gilgaran and Saelmir agreed and then they fell silent, concentrating on making their way along. The gully was in complete shadow now that the sun had slipped behind the hills. Only starlight illuminated their way. Behind them came the others, silent as ghosts.

****

Maglor was asking himself the same questions as Voronwë had asked, wondering just where these creatures — he was loath to call them ‘Men’ — had gotten wood. He realized that in the heat of battle and afterwards he had shunted that disturbing question from his mind. But now, lying here, keeping an eye on the activities of the creatures in the ruins, he had plenty of time to think and his thoughts were not pleasant. The more he watched these creatures the more convinced he was that they must have some Orkish blood in them, for they were very aggressive toward one another. At one point the young male apparently tired of standing guard and approached the females still tending the fire, grabbing one of them, who appeared somewhat younger than the other, and pulling her away, throwing her to the ground before mounting her. No one protested, not even the female, and the others simply ignored the grunts and screams of the two in the throes of animal passion. Maglor found he had to look away, feeling disgusted. He slithered down the hill to wait for the others, willing himself not to hear anything other than his own breathing.

It was close to two hours before he saw Voronwë, Gilgaran and Saelmir approaching with the others right behind. He ran to them, giving them soft greetings. “No questions,” he admonished them in quiet tones before any of them could utter a word. “Follow the standing stones. Ragnor, you and I will be the rearguard.”

Denethor gave him a sour look. “Who is leading these people?” he whispered harshly while everyone else stood by.

“You are,” Maglor replied.

“I am beginning to have my doubts,” Denethor retorted.

“We’re wasting time,” Maglor said impatiently. “Take the lead, Denethor. The way is clear.” Then he turned his back on him, quietly addressing Ragnor. “We’ll let them get ahead about half a mile before we follow.”

Denethor hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Voronwë, how are you and Gilgaran holding up?” he asked.

“We’re fine for now,” Voronwë answered, “but we could probably do with some relief in a bit. Saelmir is heavier than he looks.”

Saelmir responded to that with a muttered curse that had everyone else grinning.

“Neldorion, you and Duilinn take over for Voronwë and Gilgaran. We’ll take turns every couple of miles so no one is overly tired. Saelmir, I know this is difficult for you, but try to move as quickly as you can without making too much noise.”

“I’ll try, Denethor,” the ellon said with a grunt. “I wish we had horses. It would be much easier to get around.”

“Well, if I had known you were going to get your leg broken, I would have at least brought a mule along,” Denethor retorted with a grin and the others chuckled.

Maglor stood impatiently, wishing they would all just shut up and go, but realized that he really had no authority over these people. Denethor was their appointed leader and he was the interloper. That was nothing new; he’d always been the outsider, even among his own brothers, his temperament somewhat different from theirs. Caranthir, he recalled, used to call him soft-hearted and Maedhros had called him foolish, especially when he adopted Eärendil’s sons. He resisted a sigh when Denethor finally gestured for everyone to move, ordering Neldorion and Duilinn to set the pace, since they were burdened with Saelmir. Voronwë offered to scout ahead and Gilgaran joined him.

By now, it was full dark and the sky was clear of clouds. Maglor glanced up and saw the Coll Elbereth spanning the sky in all its glory. The sight of it was as a balm to his soul and he felt some of the tension he’d been feeling easing, though he never relaxed his guard. When he could no longer see any of the Elves with Denethor, he started off with Ragnor with him.

“Do you seriously think these creatures will follow us?” Ragnor asked in a whisper.

“No, but I don’t wish to take any chances. We could’ve been discovered at any time while everyone was standing around talking. We have no idea how large this colony of creatures is and we are too few with several of us injured to risk another encounter.”

“Denethor didn’t seem all that pleased with your ordering us about,” Ragnor said. “He was reluctant to even move the camp so close to sunset and with people recovering from the battle.”

“I’m sure he’ll get over being miffed,” Maglor replied. “Denethor is an estimable Elf and he is a natural leader, though I don’t think he realizes that, but he can’t have it both ways. He can’t insist that I take the lead and then resent it when I do.”

“I think most of the resentment lies with the others,” Ragnor said, speaking carefully. “They see Denethor as having been chosen by the Belain themselves to lead us, for to him came the dream or vision or whatever it was that sent us hurrying northward to your rescue.”

Maglor snorted. “I wasn’t aware that I needed rescuing.”

“Well, that’s how most of us see it,” Ragnor retorted, flashing a wide grin that was visible even in starlight. “We were unaware of the fact that you had come here to die, only that the Belain wished for us to find you and convince you to come with us to seek the Straight Road to Dor Rodyn.”

Maglor shrugged, not having any response to that.

“Did you truly mean to die?” Ragnor asked after an awkward moment or two of silence.

Maglor sighed. “In truth, I don’t know anymore. I had become so tired of my life. There was no hope or joy in it. I wasn’t even really living, just existing, wandering from one place to another with no actual goal or purpose. I just wanted it to stop.”

“And now?”

“Now, I’m beginning to think that traveling with you lot is a greater punishment than being exiled from my family for all the ages of Arda.”

“Hmph… and here I thought we were the ones being punished,” Ragnor said with a sniff.

Maglor grinned and clapped him on the shoulder and Ragnor grinned back. Then Maglor slowed to a halt, his attitude one of wariness. “Someone’s coming,” he whispered, drawing his sword, and Ragnor drew his as well, staring into the darkness. He saw a dark figure running toward them.

“That’s Haldir,” Ragnor said, identifying his firstborn. “What is amiss, iôn nîn?” he called out, though not too loudly.

“We may have a problem,” the young ellon said as he came abreast of them. “Denethor sent me back to get you.”

“What sort of problem?”Maglor asked.

Haldir shook his head. “Come and see for yourself.”

Maglor nodded, sheathing his sword and Ragnor did the same and the three loped away. They traveled about a mile or so by Maglor’s estimation before they found the group huddled together. Maglor saw Denethor and went to him.

“What is wrong? Why are you not moving?”

“Come and I’ll show you,” Denethor said and he led him further along the avenue, but they had only gone about five hundred yards when they stopped. Maglor just stared, trying to grasp what he was seeing. The avenue of standing stones simply stopped and the way before them was blocked, for, some time in the past, there had been a quake or a landslide and the hills here were shattered and tumbled, the land folded and contorted with sharp-angled ridges that rose precipitously before them.

“We’ll have to climb over that or find another way around,” Maglor finally said with a huff of exasperation.

“But not in the dark,” Denethor stated unequivocally and Maglor did not argue, for in truth, he was in complete agreement.

“I little like the idea of remaining here, though,” he said. “We’re too exposed.”

“I already have a couple of people scouting about to see if we can find a more secluded place to camp,” Denethor explained.

“Good,” Maglor said. “Ragnor and I will head back down the avenue a little way just to keep an eye out. Let us know if your scouts find anything. I would caution against building a fire, though.”

“I agree,” Denethor said. “I’ll send Haldir back to get you as soon as I have everyone else settled.”

Maglor nodded to Ragnor and they moved back down the avenue, going about a quarter of a mile before stopping. Maglor took a seat on one of the fallen monoliths while Ragnor sat opposite to him on another fallen slab.

“Well, that’s just great,” the ellon complained. “As if we don’t have enough problems. I doubt we’ll be able to climb that.”

“I doubt it, too,” Maglor replied with a sigh. “Certainly Saelmir wouldn’t be able to even with help. Well, hopefully daylight will show us a way around it. I just hope we’re far away from here before those creatures show up.”

“Do you think they will?”

Maglor shrugged. “Who can say? Eventually someone will go looking for their men and find their corpses. They will wonder how they met their deaths. Had we continued along the shore route, they would have seen us long before we saw them, so they will know we didn’t come that way. It’s possible they will be able to track us.”

“How? We left no trace,” Ragnor protested.

“They may be able to sniff us out,” Maglor said. “Orcs always could and these primitives may have that ability as well. All I’m saying is that I don’t want to hang about to find out.”

Ragnor gave a grunt of agreement and silence fell between them. Nearly an hour passed before they saw movement from the west and then Haldir was there to lead them back, veering to the left over a small rise and then into a narrow bowl-shaped valley that could not have been more than a hundred feet at its widest. They found the rest of the party already there and settling down to wait for the dawn. Maglor slowed, letting Ragnor and Haldir go on, settling himself halfway down the slope so he could oversee the encampment, wrapping his cloak more tightly around him.

Several minutes later, someone began climbing toward him and Maglor saw it was Denethor, who silently handed him some jerky, which he accepted with a soft word of thanks. Denethor sat beside him, while Maglor chewed on the dried meat. A strained silence fell between them. After a few minutes, Maglor stopped eating and gave Denethor a rueful look.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he said. “I should have consulted with you rather than issuing orders on my own.”

“I asked you to lead us and you have, however reluctantly,” Denethor replied, sighing. “It is I who should apologize.”

Maglor gave him a slight grin. “Well, we can spend the night arguing over who should be apologizing to whom or we can just let it go and I promise to consult you in the future if you promise to accept my… um… suggestions in the spirit in which they are offered.”

Denethor grinned back. “Agreed,” he said and held out his hand and Maglor took it. A more companionable silence settled over them as they sat watching over the encampment as the night advanced inexorably toward dawn.

****

Coll Elbereth: Elbereth’s Cloak, what we would call the Milky Way. The term is non-canonical.

9: Tûm Ivon

When dawn came, Maglor joined Ragnor and his two sons in scouting out the area. Haldir and Duilinn were instructed to go back toward Annúminas and stand guard.

“If you see any of those creatures heading this way, Duilinn, you are to come and tell Denethor,” Ragnor instructed his younger son. “Haldir, keep an eye on them and don’t let them see you. I know there is little in the way of cover here, but I trust you to not make yourself noticeable.” Haldir visibly straightened at his adar’s words and both ellyn set off in high spirits. Ragnor cast an amused look at Maglor and Denethor standing nearby. “If we’re lucky, those creatures will never show and my sons will have a boring time.”

Denethor grinned and Maglor gave a chuckle. “Come, let us see if we can find a way out of here.” He gave Denethor a nod and set off with Ragnor. The valley where they had spent the night was about a half mile from the blockage. In daylight it was even more impressive and daunting. The land was twisted and tortured and the wall of earth that rose before them was nearly sheer. Maglor eyed it in dismay.

“I do not think any of us can climb that,” he said. “Certainly Saelmir would never make it even if all of us were helping.”

Ragnor nodded in agreement and pointed to his right. “Why don’t you head that way and I’ll go left and maybe one of us will find a way around this. It’s odd that little else in this area was disturbed. It almost seems as if someone had deliberately placed this wall here to either keep something in or something out.”

Maglor gave him a surprised look. “Do you truly think that?”

Ragnor just shook his head. “No, but it’s hard not to wonder.”

Maglor clapped the ellon on the shoulder and then, without another word, headed north while Ragnor went in the opposite direction. Maglor carefully maneuvered his way past what was left of the avenue of stones, for here they were all fallen in a haphazard manner, tumbled about or leaning against one another. One or two were actually broken in large chunks and Maglor wondered at the force of nature that had been able to do that to these mammoth stones. Beyond the avenue he could see where the hills had melted into one another. There was evidence of lava underneath the scrub grass and lichen that covered the ground. He knelt to feel the ashy soil. Obviously some cataclysm had struck here a very long time ago.

He looked about him, trying to see if there was a way to climb that would not tax Saelmir’s strength. Here, the hills were lower than further east and he began climbing, taking a random route as he examined the landscape. He climbed to the top of one hill and stared in dismay at what he saw as he looked west and south. From here it was clear that whatever cataclysm had struck had done considerable damage to the land. The wall that blocked them was only the outer edge of what appeared to be a high massif that easily spanned several leagues. It was as if something had lifted the land up in one area, for he could see in the far distance the plains that ran from the Emyn Uial to the Lhûn.

Looking north, he could see the lake on his right and the northern section of the Emyn Uial rising beyond it. He carefully examined the lie of the land in that direction, thinking that perhaps they could head back toward the lake and then make their way through the hills skirting the massif on that side, but he could see no easy way down, for the northern slopes of the southern hills were steep. Even if they somehow managed to get back down and reach the lake, he could see that the hills to the north were higher and more precipitous. It would be a struggle and with wounded….

He sighed and looked south again, trying to determine if there was a way to climb the massif but realized that even if they were able to, eventually they would need to climb back down into the plains beyond and there was no guarantee that they would be able to find a way down. Their best option, as far as he could see, was to climb through the southern hills down into the moorland. The hills on this side were lower than their northern cousins and he suspected that valleys linked most of them. The small valley where they had spent the night had no outlet, but that could not be true for all of them.

Deciding it was useless to stand where he was he climbed back down the hill and made his way back to the avenue of stones. Ragnor was waiting for him.

“Any luck?” Ragnor asked.

Maglor shook his head. “The land rises directly behind this wall of earth into a wide, flat massif that stretches for several leagues in all directions and there is no easy way down to the lake if we wished to try to go in that direction. We would have to return to Annúminas and come down from there and that option is not available to us. What did you find?”

“Little enough, but there is an old stream bed running more or less southward that we might be able to follow. The only problem is, we would need to use ropes to reach it, for just beyond here the land ends in a cliff.”

“Show me,” Maglor ordered and Ragnor led the way up the hill, which flattened on the top and went several hundred paces until they were looking down a sheer cliff. Below, Maglor could see a stony course, the bed of a long-ago stream. He glanced around. To the right the hill met the outer edge of the massif, which, from this angle, did not appear that high, but Maglor knew that distance deceived and he thought the massif rose a good quarter of a mile above the plains. To the left, the hill sloped downward. He walked in that direction and saw that, steep though the way was, it could be climbed with care. There was a narrow defile running north and south that cut between the hill they were on and the one further east.

“Can you get down there and see how far that defile goes?” he asked Ragnor.

The ellon said no word, merely grunting in agreement before heading down, picking his way carefully to keep his balance. At one point though, he simply stopped and glanced back at Maglor, giving him a sour look before he sat and slithered down on his backside. Maglor had to force himself not to laugh and struggled to keep his expression blank of any emotion but mild interest.

“Well at least we know how Saelmir can get down if we have to come this way,” he called out as Ragnor reached the bottom.

“He and everyone else, including you,” Ragnor shouted up, brushing the earth from his clothes. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said and Maglor simply nodded, standing at ease as the other ellon picked his way through the narrow cut. Indeed, so narrow it was that he could touch the wall on either side. Maglor idly wondered how the defile had come to be created and thought perhaps it had once been a tributary of the other stream.

He wandered about while waiting for Ragnor to return, checking to see if there was any other way down from here, but it appeared that the eastern slope was their best option, if no other way could be found. Nearly an hour passed and there was still no sign of Ragnor. Maglor began to worry, wondering if he should go down and look for the ellon, but just as he was deciding to do so, he saw Ragnor heading back.

“What happened?” Maglor shouted down. “Why were you gone so long? Did you find a way for us to go?”

Ragnor stood looking up, not attempting to climb. His expression was one of wonder. “I found something you need to see.”

“What?” Maglor exclaimed impatiently.

Ragnor shook his head. “It’s better to show you. I’m coming up. I think there’s a way to reach here from the other side. I left landmarks to guide us.” He began climbing, grunting with the effort, for the way was steep and there was little purchase. Maglor knelt down and reached out to give the ellon a lift up.

“What exactly did you find?” he asked.

“Treasure,” came the surprising answer, “and answers to several questions concerning those manlike creatures. Come. Let us get back to the camp. The sooner we are on our way, the better.”

To that Maglor had no objections and he forced himself to curb his curiosity and not pester the other ellon with questions he was obviously not ready to answer. They made their way back to the avenue and Ragnor indicated that he would go fetch his sons while Maglor headed back to the valley where the others waited for them. As he began climbing down the slope into the valley he saw Denethor come to meet him.

“What did you find and where is Ragnor?” Denethor asked softly.

“Ragnor has gone to fetch his sons,” Maglor replied. “We will have to wait for his return, for it was his discovery and I do not know what it is. I see you’ve decided to risk a fire.”

“We needed the fire so we could have hot water to reclean Damrod’s wound. It seemed to be festering and he was feeling feverish.”

“Is he well?” Maglor asked worriedly. He liked Damrod and knew how much Denethor relied on him as his lieutenant.

“He is better,” Denethor replied. “It appears that a piece of the bone point broke off and lodged itself in the muscle around the wound. We were able to remove it and he is no longer feverish. I don’t think he can be moved too soon, though.”

“I think we can risk another night here, but I would not stretch our luck any further,” Maglor said as they headed to the camp.

Everyone looked up in expectation. “Where’s Ragnor?” Finduilas asked, looking tense.

“He’s gone to fetch your sons,” Maglor replied. “As soon as they are back he will give you the news, for it is his to give. In the meantime, is there anything hot to eat?”

The others chuckled and Finduilas grabbed a bowl and ladled a thin soup from a pot, handing it to Maglor with an apology. “It’s not much, but we are running low on supplies and our water is limited.”

“It is fine,” Maglor assured her. “I saw no trace of wildlife but that does not mean there isn’t any. I think once we are clear of these wretched hills we’ll be better off.”

To that they all agreed. Maglor asked after Damrod and was assured that the ellon was doing well. Voronwë, who was the closest thing to a healer that they had, had put him into healing sleep. “I think another night’s rest would not be amiss for him or for us and Saelmir also needs more time to recover. Last night’s trek was an ordeal for him,” Voronwë said.

Maglor nodded, remembering how pale the ellon had looked even this morning.

It was not long before Ragnor returned with Haldir and Duilinn, all three treated to the watery soup, downing the hot liquid gratefully while everyone else tried to curb their impatience. While they were eating, Maglor told everyone what he had found to the north and described the massif that stretched behind the wall.

“There is no going that way,” he said, “but we may have better luck to the south. We found a dry streambed that appears to be heading south. It must lead into the Shire but further east than the avenue would have taken us. Even so, the way to it will be difficult,” he concluded and went on to describe the cliff and the defile. At that point, Ragnor took up the narrative.

“There is a way that may not be as taxing as the way Maglor has described. However, it will mean climbing through these hills and there is something you all must see before we leave the Emyn Uial.” But what that was, he refused to say, stating he did not wish to spoil the surprise. He was somewhat impatient to learn that they would not leave immediately, but recognized the need for Damrod and Saelmir to rest.

“I will see if there is a way for us to go in the meantime,” he offered and refused to take anyone else with him when Maglor and others volunteered to accompany him. “I will not go far,” he promised. “I just want to check something out.”

Maglor gave him a shrewd look and Denethor appeared worried, but in the end, he let Ragnor go. “If you are not back within two hours, we’ll come hunting for you,” he admonished him and Ragnor promised that he would return within the hour. With that he headed for the southwestern side of the valley, which appeared somewhat lower and less steep than the other sides and climbed out, disappearing from view. More than one person sighed. Maglor decided to do sentry duty, settling himself along a ridge looking down into the avenue of stones while waiting for Ragnor’s return.

The two hours were almost up when Ragnor finally returned. Maglor joined the others to hear what the ellon had to say. “Sorry,” Ragnor started to apologize. “The way was more convoluted than I anticipated, but I did find a path through these hills that can be assayed if we take our time. I suggest we start as soon after dawn as possible. I’ll help with Saelmir and lead the way.”

“And you still won’t say what it is you found, will you?” Maglor couldn’t help asking.

Ragnor grinned. “What’s the fun of that? I want to see your expressions when I take you to there.”

“We will leave at dawn then,” Denethor announced. “In the meantime, I suggest we all rest and gather our strength. I wish we had a water source. We’re running low.”

“It’s one reason I took longer than I thought to scout out our path,” Ragnor said. “I was hoping to find some evidence of water. That dry streambed means that water once flowed in this area. I think we’ll find water when we need to.” He refused to say anything more and Maglor accused him of being mysterious on purpose, to which Ragnor simply laughed and announced he was going to sleep, which he did, settling down beside his wife.

Maglor turned to Denethor with a huff of annoyance. “I hate people who are smug,” he said before heading away to take up his sentry post once again so he did not see Ragnor smirking even as his eyes unfocused and he was slipping onto the Path of Dreams.

****

The night proved colder than usual and by morning a thick fog blanketed the valley. Maglor joined Ragnor in helping Saelmir to climb the slope, taking their time, for the ground was slick with moisture. Finduilas, walking behind her husband, actually had to keep a hand on Saelmir’s back while Maglor and Ragnor pulled him up the hill. Once at the top they had to then go down and that was trickier, especially in the fog. Still, it was not an onerous task and soon they and everyone else were down on the floor of yet another valley, this one much wider and longer than the other. Ragnor pointed to his right though there was little to see.

“This valley winds west and south around these hills then narrows into a defile that links it with another valley beyond,” he explained to them, then he pointed in the opposite direction. “In scouting this area I discovered that it actually goes back to connect with the gully east of Annúminas. We passed its entrance in the dark.”

“So those creatures would know of this valley,” Denethor said with a worried look.

“Presumably,” Ragnor responded. “At any rate, once I show you what I wish to show you, it will explain much about these creatures that has puzzled us. Come. It’s really not that far. I think we can make it to the streambed by midafternoon.”

With that, he and Maglor set off with Saelmir between them and the others followed, walking carefully in the dim light, the fog wreathing about them, making it hard to see more than a foot or two before them. Denethor ordered a couple of the ellyn to keep a rearguard just in case. The valley wound around the hills and narrowed after about a mile as Ragnor had promised. The defile was actually wide enough so that they could walk three abreast, though Ragnor warned Saelmir that the defile leading to the dry streambed was too narrow and he would have to be carried. Saelmir grimaced at that but said nothing.

By mutual consent, they stopped for a while to give Ragnor and Maglor a break. Duilinn and Haldir offered to help Saelmir for this next leg of the journey and neither Maglor nor Ragnor objected. Once rested, they set off. This valley was not as wide as the last and headed almost due south. The hills here were even lower than those behind them and their slopes were less steep.

“How close are we to what you wished to show us?” Maglor asked Ragnor.

“Very close,” came the reply. “We just have to traverse this valley and we will be there.”

By now the sun had topped the hills and the fog had burned off, showing a brilliant blue sky with fluffy white clouds. The air was cold and crisp and they knew that the brief warm spell they had experienced as they came up the Baranduin was probably now over. Soon, the incessant snow would start falling again. They hoped to reach the Sea before that.

At the other end of the valley they saw yet another cut between the hills. This one was not as wide as the last one and it was strewn with boulders, forcing them to take a serpentine route through. Haldir walked with Saelmir with Duilinn behind them to give what aid he could as they made their way through the cut. Ragnor, with Maglor and Denethor right behind him, continued to lead the way. The cut was not straight but wound its way between the hills on either side, narrowing as it went along until it was barely six feet wide and the exit was practically plugged by a tall boulder that was almost half that in width. The Elves were forced to wiggle their way past it on either side, removing their haversacks to give themselves more space. Saelmir used the boulder as a back support while he hopped on one foot around it where Haldir was waiting for him.

Once they were all on the other side, Ragnor gave them a smile. “I’d love to tell you to close your eyes and don’t open them until I tell you, but that’s very impractical so if everyone’s ready, let’s go.”

“Yes, let us see what this mysterious surprise is,” Denethor said.

Past the boulder the cut narrowed even further as the hills on either side encroached, so that they needed to go single file with Saelmir clinging to Duilinn’s back. The cut curved westward and then opened up into another valley. When Maglor came through he stopped in shock and heard Denethor, who was right behind him, gasp.

“Hey, you’re blocking the way,” Haldir complained and then gave a gurgled exclamation as he looked past the other ellyn, stopping as well, thereby effectively blocking everyone else’s view.

“What is it?” Saelmir demanded from where he was still clinging to Duilinn’s back. “Move, will you, so we can see, too.”

Ragnor, watching in amusement, gently pulled Maglor and Denethor to one side, neither ellyn protesting, then did the same with Haldir. “Come along, Duilinn, but do not stop else it will take forever for everyone to come through,” he admonished his younger son.

Duilinn nodded but even as he entered the valley he nearly stumbled in shock, eliciting a gasp of pain from Saelmir.

“Easy now,” Ragnor cautioned his son. “Let’s get him over here out of the way.” The two of them helped Saelmir over to where Maglor and Denethor still stood, rooted to the spot.

And all this time, as people came into the valley, there were gasps of shock and wonder.

Maglor paid no attention, his entire being focused on what lay before him, his mind trying to assimilate what he was seeing: trees.

The valley was covered with trees. Around them were several thýn clinging precariously to the rocky slopes of the hills that formed the valley walls. They were not very tall and were rather scraggly looking, but their piney scent filled the air, acting as a balm to his soul. Casting his gaze further afield, he spied brethil and tylys and he thought he even recognized tethair and lelvin. None of the trees were tall, perhaps only about twelve feet at the most, and he could tell that they were young.

“How?” Denethor whispered, his eyes never leaving the sight before him. “How is this possible?”

“Have you noticed how much warmer the air here is?” Maglor answered with his own question. “It feels almost as warm as it would be in the south.”

“It… it’s a nursery,” Ragnor’s daughter Aerin said in delight, a smile wreathing her face. “Many of these trees would not be found together like this.”

Maglor started at that revelation and realized as he looked about the valley that the elleth was correct.

“Well, now we know where those creatures found wood,” Saelmir said, sitting on the ground at Maglor’s feet, pointing to a spot just before him and they could see the stump of what had once been a pine tree.

Maglor nodded. “Yes. Somehow they discovered this valley and have been harvesting the wood.”

Several of the Elves grimaced at that, the thought of those brutish creatures, whom they refused to dignify with the title ‘Men’, coming here and destroying the trees for their own use was repugnant to them.

“Come,” Ragnor said, gesturing for them to follow him. “You have not seen the best part.”

Intrigued, the others gathered their belongings and set off, wending their way between the trees, many of them stopping to place a hand on a trunk, closing their eyes and communing with the tree before moving on, so their progress was somewhat slow, but no one, not even Ragnor, minded. Thus, it was nearly an hour before they came to the center of the valley and there they all stopped, gaping in disbelief at the single mallorn rising majestically before them.

Like the other trees, it was young, not yet topping twelve feet, so it had not been visible through the forest of lesser trees, but there was no mistaking it.

“By all that’s holy!” Neldorion exclaimed. “A mallorn! But how? Lothlórien was destroyed ages ago. The mellyrn all died after the Galadhrim abandoned it when Lord Celeborn removed himself to Imladris.”

“The Party Tree,” Maglor said.

“What?!” more than one person exclaimed.

Maglor nodded. “I heard about it. My cousin Galadriel gifted one of the Periain who fought in the Ring War with a mallorn seed which he planted in the Shire. It was called the Party Tree. I have no idea why.”

They stared at the tree in wonder. “So you think a seed of that tree somehow made its way here?”

Maglor shrugged. “Apparently.”

“All these other trees… their seeds are generally airborne, but that’s not true of the mallorn. Someone or something had to plant it here,” Damrod said.

“Someone, indeed,” Maglor responded. “None of these trees just happened. Aerin is correct. This is a nursery. These trees have been planted here deliberately.”

“By whom?” someone asked.

Maglor gave them a wry look. “I suspect the Belain have something to do with this, they or their Maiar servants. And don’t forget Tom Bombadil. We’re near the northern border of the Shire and his demesne was not all that far away.”

“Can we stay here for a while?” Eirien asked. “Do we have to move on?”

“We need water,” Denethor pointed out, “and our supplies are running dangerously low. We cannot afford to linger too long.”

“I found a small spring not far from here,” Ragnor told them. “I think we should stay for a day or two. We can go hunting. I found deer tracks as well. This valley is actually fairly large, though with all these trees blocking our view, it’s hard to tell.”

Denethor thought about it for a moment or two before nodding. “Very well. Take us to the spring and then we’ll see.”

There were glad cries and smiles all around and someone started singing a spritely tune about trees and others soon joined in.

Maglor gave Denethor a wry look as they followed Ragnor. “I wonder if whoever planted these trees left an Ent or two to watch over them.”

“But none of the Ents survived,” Denethor pointed out, “though I rather like the idea that perhaps the Earth Queen did just that.”

They both chuckled as they joined the others in following Ragnor further down the valley to the spring.

****

Tûm Ivon: The Valley of Yavanna. Tûm is a deep valley under or among hills.

Thýn: Plural of thôn: pine-tree.

Brethil: (singular and plural) birch.

Tylys: Plural of tulus: poplar.

Tethair: Plural of tathar: white willow.

Lelvin: Plural of lalven: elm.

Periain: Plural of Perian: Hobbit.

10: Moving On

They ended up remaining in the valley of trees, which Aerin named Tûm Ivon in honor of Yavanna, for nearly two weeks. None of them, even Maglor, were eager to leave and all of them spent hours walking through the valley communing with the trees, singing songs of growth and well-being to them, encouraging them to respond, for they realized that these trees were sleeping, their thoughts dormant.

“As if they are waiting for a time of awakening,” Eirien commented at one point. Many nodded, understanding what she meant.

Several of the ellyn scoured the area for game and chanced upon a herd of small deer, which allowed them to replenish their supplies to some extent though the ellith mourned that they were nearly out of the millet that they had brought with them, carefully stored in waterproof containers. “And we are nearly out of salt as well,” Finduilas informed Denethor.

“We may come upon salt licks along the way,” he pointed out. “At any rate, if the lack of salt and no more flatbread is all we have to worry about, then I say we are doing well enough and can endure without them.”

Finduilas merely huffed in disgust as she walked away, leaving Denethor grinning at Maglor and Damrod who happened to be there when the elleth was giving her report.

“Those deer we found need salt,” Maglor pointed out. “There has to be a salt lick somewhere around here.”

“Unfortunately, we have neither the time nor the resources to stop and look for it,” Denethor said. “We’ve lingered here longer than we should have. Have you noticed how much colder it is getting? This valley is much warmer than it should be thanks to the hot springs that we found, but beyond here, winter encroaches and I fear it will be brutal.”

Both Damrod and Maglor nodded. “It will be hard to leave, though,” Damrod said. In the days since coming to the valley his condition had improved dramatically and his wounds, indeed the wounds of all, were healed completely. Saelmir’s leg was also mended and the ellon spent much of his time strengthening the muscles, determined not to be a burden, though no one thought of him as such.

“Yet leave we must,” Denethor said. “We do have an appointment for tea with the Belain, after all.” He gave them a sly grin and they laughed. It had become something of a running joke between them and that was often the excuse made for going on. “If you two are willing, I would have you check out the defile and the streambed and see what the conditions are like outside this valley,” Denethor continued.

Maglor raised an eyebrow. “If we are willing?” he repeated. “Denethor, you are our leader. It is for you to issue orders and for us to obey them, whether we are willing or not. Come along, Damrod. Grab your bow and let us be away. As much as I am enjoying our little reprieve, I am beginning to feel curious about what is happening in the outside world.” Maglor set off, muttering to himself and shaking his head. “If we are willing. Honestly, I sometimes wonder about you, Denethor.”

Damrod looked at Denethor, grinning at the nonplused expression on their leader’s face. Then he followed after the son of Fëanor, grabbing his bow and a quiver of arrows. Maglor never slowed, but headed toward the southeast corner of the valley where the defile leading out to the dry streambed was situated. They made quick time and soon were looking out onto a barren landscape. Damrod shivered, though not from the cold.

“I’d forgotten how bleak and uninviting it all is,” he whispered to Maglor as the two stared out upon the white-shrouded land. It was snowing and the wind was brutal enough that even they felt it. “Leaving Tûm Ivon is going to be hard.”

Maglor nodded. “I know, but there is no way we can remain here during the winter until what passes as spring around here comes. We need to move. Right now, we are at winter’s edge so it isn’t too bad, but we’ll still be many leagues shy of the Sea before winter sets in completely. I suspect we’ll need to hole up somewhere for at least a month before we continue on. I hope we reach the Ered Luin by then. They should afford us some shelter.”

“How far are they?” Damrod asked.

“From here? Hmm… I would guess close on forty leagues to the Emyn Beraid and then another fifteen leagues or so to the foot of the southern spur of the Ered Luin. It makes no sense for us to try to cross the Lhûn to reach Lindon. We are better off staying to the south and either making for East Mithlond or further down the coast to Harlond. Well, let’s see what lies ahead, shall we?”

Damrod nodded and they set off, following the streambed. For a time they were sheltered by ever lowering hills on either side of them, but about a mile or so further on the last of the hills gave way to open land that stretched before them as far as they could see. The streambed now had a thick blanket of snow covering it, though its course was still visible. Maglor pointed to where stones were tumbled about in a haphazard manner. “I think there was a village just here. Look! Some of those stones appear to have been dressed.”

A closer examination proved him correct. “It is amazing that there is even any evidence that people lived here after all this time,” Damrod commented.

“This must be the River, as the Periain called it,” Maglor said, pointing to the streambed. “It flows through the Shire until it reaches the Baranduin.”

“Well there’s no point following it beyond this point as it’s heading in the wrong direction,” Damrod said, looking west and southwest, though there was little to see with the snow falling. “Hmm… it looks as if those are downs way in the distance.”

Maglor nodded. “Yes. The Far Downs I think they called them. They represented the westernmost border of the Shire until the Emyn Beraid were seded to it.”

Damrod gave him a considering look. “You seem to know quite a bit about the Periain for all that it was said that you wandered up and down the coasts of Ennorath.”

Maglor just shrugged. “I often came this way whenever I desired to look upon Imladris. Gildor Inglorion and his people had a hall within the woods in the southeast corner of the Shire and I would sometimes stop there. If Gildor was there, we traded what news we had between us and he told me much about the comings and goings of the Periain. We’d best get back to the others.”

With that, he turned back and headed up the streambed. Damrod hesitated for a second or two, before following. Once back at the camp, they apprised everyone of what they had found. “Winter is already upon us, I fear,” Maglor concluded, “for it was snowing rather heavily, but it might only be a minor squall. I would not linger here much longer. We still have almost sixty leagues to cover before we reach the Ered Luin.”

“Mithlond would be closer,” Saelmir pointed out.

“It is unlikely that anything of Mithlond still stands,” Damrod said before Maglor could comment.

“Still, it is where the grey ships sailed to Dor Rodyn,” Gilgaran said. “It seems logical that our journey to the Straight Road would begin there.”

“But not when winter is upon us,” Maglor countered. “By my counsel, we should head southwest to the Emyn Beraid. From there we can send scouts to where Mithlond once stood to see what, if anything, still remains while another group continues to the Ered Luin to see if there are caves or a valley where we may take shelter.”

“That does make sense, Denethor,” Voronwë said. “We have no idea what lies ahead of us. There may be more of the creatures like the ones inhabiting Annúminas out there. Some parts of the Ered Luin were infested with orcs. There may be remnants of them skulking the mountains as well.”

Many nodded, a few of the ellith looking concerned. Denethor glanced at Maglor who simply raised an eyebrow, as if to say ‘Why are you looking at me? You’re the leader’. Resisting a sigh, he nodded. “We make for the Emyn Beraid,” he said. “We will remain here one more day to give the storm that is brewing beyond this valley time to move on.”

With that, everyone set about packing their meager supplies. Conversations centered around what they might encounter on this leg of their journey. “Do you think the Sea is frozen as it is said to have been way to the north?” Rían asked at one point.

“Who can say?” Haldir replied with a shrug. “It seems unlikely.”

“How then will we reach Dor Rodyn?” the elleth insisted.

But neither Haldir nor anyone else had a ready answer except ‘We’ll have to wait and see’, which had become the stock answer to that particular question. Maglor kept his own counsel and did not contribute to the speculations which the others made concerning the question of how they would reach the Blessed Realm with no ship (apparently). He was more familiar with the Belain than any of the others, knew well their powers and had no doubt that a way would be found.

And knowing the Powers as he did, he reflected with sour humor, their solution would probably prove… inventive.

There was a discussion about harvesting some of the wood and taking it with them. The stumps that had been left behind by the creatures when they had cut down some of the trees for their own use were not so thick or deeply rooted that they could not be removed and after some rather heated discussion everyone agreed to it. Most of the stumps were chopped up into faggots and carefully bundled together. Maglor claimed one slender stump for himself with the intention of carving a harp from it. He had saved the strings of his old harp. If they ended up waiting out the winter, carving the wood would occupy his time well enough.

Finally dawn came and they moved out, all of them taking the time as they headed for the defile to stop and speak to the trees on the way, wishing them well. Maglor took it upon himself to be the last to leave the valley, making sure that none lingered. As the others made their way single-file out of the valley he turned, taking one last long look upon the trees, then bowed low before following the others, never looking back.

The storm of the day before had petered out and the sky was clear of clouds. Not a few of the Elves shivered though as they left the warmth of Tûm Ivon behind and they gathered their warm cloaks, which they had not worn while in the valley, around them. Maglor wended his way to the front where Denethor was holding counsel with Damrod, Ragnor and a few others.

“This was moor land once,” Maglor said without preamble. “We need to take care crossing it. Luckily, we can skirt most of it by following the line of hills westward, but at some point we need to head directly southwest to reach the Emyn Beraid.”

“Those Downs are not far away,” Ragnor said, nodding southwestward. “Once we reach them I suspect the going will be easier.”

“We could even follow them southward until we are closer to the Emyn Beraid,” Damrod suggested.

Maglor nodded. “The Emyn Beraid are directly west of the Shire. The Great East Road cut through the Downs at Greenholm, if I remember correctly, and from there it was but fifty miles to Undertowers and the Elostirion. Of course, I doubt the road exists but there should be some evidence of the cut.”

“Then we will do as Damrod suggested and walk along the Downs,” Denethor said and without another word, he climbed out of the streambed and began walking, skirting the lower slopes of the hills that bordered the moors where the ground was firmer. The others followed, everyone gazing about with interest.

“I had heard of the Shire,” Neldorion said to Maglor as they walked side-by-side, “and I had always wished to visit, but I never did, though the sons of Elrond often traveled this way, especially after the Ring War.”

In the weeks of traveling with these people, Maglor had not bothered to ask any of them about their former lives, for he feared he would be obligated to reciprocate, but his curiosity got the better of him and he was interested in hearing what Neldorion had to say. “Did you reside in Imladris, then?”

“Yes,” the ellon said. “I was part of the army Lord Elrond led against Sauron when Ost-in-Edhil was destroyed. I was a scout, actually, along with Lord Erestor. We were the ones who found the hidden valley that eventually became Imladris.” There was a note of pride in the ellon’s voice.

“I am surprised that not all the Noldor Sailed once Elrond and Galadriel left,” Maglor said.

“The sons of Elrond were not ready to do so and Lord Glorfindel refused to leave without them and a few of us were willing to remain for a while longer. In my case, as with Voronwë, we simply had no reason to return to the West. I’m not even sure why I agreed to follow Denethor, but I’ve come to realize over the last several months since we began our journey that I, and I suspect everyone else, was slowly fading. We were not living so much as we were just existing. I’d forgotten what it was like to actually feel alive, to feel curious about what might lie over the next hill, to feel the blood rushing in the excitement of a battle.” He paused and shook his head, looking somewhat rueful. “Sorry, I sound like a wet-behind-the ears elfling on his first outing.”

Maglor laughed. “Don’t worry. I think we all feel the same way. So, you were one of my foster son’s scouts, were you? I assume you were part of the Last Alliance?”

Neldorion grimaced. “Unfortunately. A sorry affair and in the end it proved fruitless.”

“Not entirely,” Maglor countered. “It gave the West time to recover and when the Ring was found once again and passed into the hands of an unassuming Perian, it gave us the one hope we had of finally seeing It and Its Master destroyed. Isildur could not do it and none of the Elves would touch it.”

“Were you there?” Saelmir asked. He was walking behind them and had overheard their conversation.

Maglor turned to look at the ellon, shaking his head. “No. It was too dangerous for me.”

Saelmir and Neldorion were not the only ones to give him looks of surprise, for most of the others had been listening to their conversation as well, and he shrugged. “Or so I thought at the time. Too many Elves who knew who I was and I was not ready to meet with any of them. No, like a coward, I haunted the hills above Imladris, keeping watch over the valley and its inhabitants while its lord was away.”

“Seven years,” Neldorion said. “You stayed in the vicinity of Imladris for seven years?”

“Longer,” Maglor replied. “Don’t forget, Elrond did not return immediately. As Gil-galad’s unofficial heir, he and Círdan met with Celeborn and Thranduil in council in Lothlórien to discuss the ramifications of Isildur keeping the Ring. That is where Elrond met Celebrían and their courtship began.”

“A courtship that lasted over a hundred years,” Neldorion said with a wicked grin. “We were all taking bets after the first fifty as to when our beloved lord would find the courage to ask for the fair elleth’s hand. I think Lord Erestor came the closest in guessing correctly but none of us expected it to last as long as it did.”

There was laughter all around and the conversation drifted to other topics of interest.

They reached the northern edge of the Downs sometime around noon, climbing the steep slope until they were atop the ridge and were able to look across the flat lands that ran westward, though a few of them looked east and south into what had once been the Shire. Maglor stared out upon a land he had not visited in millennia, mentally cataloguing the changes he noticed from what he remembered.

North was the escarpment that had blocked their way and he could see that the southern face was nearly sheer and they would have found it almost impossible to climb down it. Directly west the land was flat, as was expected, but he could see where glaciers, as they advanced and receded over the long ages, had apparently gouged out the land in places, leaving behind deep holes that had filled with melt water now beginning to freeze over with the coming winter, forming small lakes. There were two that he could see in the middle distance. To the southwest the land was also flat and he knew they were too far away to spy the Emyn Beraid, which lay behind the horizon.

Turning eastward, he saw what had been moorland a long time ago, dotted here or there with clumps of lichen clinging precariously to rocks, but little else. After a moment, he examined the ridge on which they stood. It was flat and wider than he was expecting, allowing them to stand two abreast without fear of tumbling down one side or the other. The western slope was gentler, which made sense since it would bear the brunt of the weather coming from the west. Here, the wind, which had been minimal in the valley below, was more evident and he did not like the look of the sky to the northwest. Clouds were gathering on the horizon and he thought perhaps they would see another storm before nightfall.

“We should get moving,” he said quietly as he continued to scan the skies.

Denethor, glancing at the sky as well, nodded. “Saelmir, you and Gilgaran go ahead of us and scout the area. I hope we can reach the cut before we get snow.”

“We may have to run all the way, then,” Maglor said with a twist of his lips. “We still have nearly thirty leagues to traverse by my reckoning.”

“Well, we’ll just have to walk very fast and not stop to admire the view,” Denethor retorted, lifting an eyebrow and several people, including Maglor, chuckled as they set off.

They did indeed walk fast, or as fast as they were able. The ridge sometimes narrowed and they were forced to go single-file and there were the occasional dips where the ground had subsided, forcing them to scramble down almost to the valley floor and then back up. Gilgaran acted as a go-between, occasionally coming back to let them know what the terrain was like further on.

Thus the afternoon progressed and darkness encroached. It came sooner than they had hoped, for the dark clouds to the northwest had traveled swiftly in their direction obscuring much of the sky even as the sun was setting. The wind, which had been buffeting them from the west, trying to push them off the ridge, now shifted to the south so now they were battling it, slowing them down even more. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Gilgaran came loping toward them and they all stopped to hear what the ellon had to tell them.

“There’s another subsidence about a mile further on,” he told them. “It might afford us with some shelter, though it will be very tight.”

“We won’t make the cut tonight,” Maglor commented. “By my estimate, we’ve only come about halfway and that storm is fast approaching. Look! You can already see the snow falling.”

Denethor grimaced. “Let us go on and see what shelter we can find for ourselves.”

No one argued and in a matter of minutes they had traversed the mile or so to the subsidence where Saelmir was waiting for them. Maglor looked down, trying to gauge the size of the dip in the gathering gloom of twilight where the final rays of the sun still lingered. It was somewhat larger and not as steep as some of the others they had encountered but to fit all thirty of them would be problematic. They would be better off going all the way down to the valley floor. It was possible that being on the eastern side would afford them more protection from the wind if not from the snow and snow would not bother them. He said as much and everyone agreed.

“We might be able to form a screen here and get a fire going,” Ragnor commented, pointing to the western side of the dip, which was somewhat higher than the eastern side. “I, for one, would enjoy a hot meal before we get inundated with snow.”

“We can but try,” Denethor said and in minutes they were all busy setting up a camp. Maglor helped Ragnor to pile some rocks to provide them with a screen against the wind that found its way through the dip while a couple of the others built a fire pit and soon had a good fire going, which cheered them all. Full dark was upon them before they were sipping on a hot meat broth and munching on jerky. It wasn’t much but it was enough to satisfy them.

By now full darkness was upon them and so was the snow. They took turns huddling around the fire, for only four or five could do so comfortably; the others simply stood, huddled in their cloaks. There was no singing or tale-telling as there had been in the valley of the trees; they simply stood or crouched in stoical silence, enduring the night.

Sometime in the middle watches of the night, the snow stopped and the sky began to clear so that stars shone through the rents. Maglor, whose turn it was to crouch by the fire along with Denethor, Damrod and Eirien, looked up and felt a tightness in his throat at the beauty of the stars, wishing he could sing, but he had never done so while traveling with the Harthadrim, though he was willing enough to tell them tales of his life in Valinor and later in Beleriand. The others had respected his right not to join them in song, but tonight, for some reason, he ached to sing. He felt tears coming and there was an overpowering sense of loss and even nostalgia for what he did not know.

“Are you well?” Eirien, sitting closest to him, asked in a low voice.

Maglor nodded. “Yes,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes and taking a deep breath, staring at the fire and trying to get his emotions under control. And then, he jerked, his expression one of surprise. “What was that?” he whispered and the others all looked around anxiously.

“Shh…” Denethor commanded, for several people were talking all at once. “Listen!”

Maglor strained his ears, wondering if he had simply imagined the sound, but the intense looks on the faces of his companions convinced him that that was not so.

“There it is again, and it’s closer,” Haldir exclaimed. “Can’t be the wind, though.”

“It wasn’t the wind,” Ragnor stated categorically, looking grim and reaching for his bow. “There’s something out there and it’s heading our way.”

****

Ered Luin: The Blue Mountains.

Emyn Beraid: The Tower Hills.

Elostirion: The White Towers built by Gil-galad for Elendil and where one of the palantíri, the one that looked ever to Elvenhome, was placed.

Notes:

1. According to the Atlas of Middle-earth, Mithlond straddles the River Lhûn where it opens up into the Gulf of Lune. Harlond ‘South Haven’ is a harborage lying approximately 125 miles further down the coast.

2. According to the Tale of Years, Elrond wed Celebrían in S.A. 109.

11: Race to the Emyn Beraid

“Quickly! Everyone up on the ridge,” Denethor ordered, “and douse the fire.”

“No!” Maglor commanded even as people were scrambling up the slope to the top. “Build up the fire. These creatures, whatever they are, may be deterred by it. This dip is our weakest point of defense and they might be able to climb it.”

Denethor just nodded, leaving the fire to Maglor as he urged his people to greater speed. The creatures, whatever they were, were coming at them at a loping speed that would bring them to their camp in minutes. Maglor busied himself with the fire, throwing more dried dung on it rather than the wood which was too precious to waste.

“Come, friend,” Denethor said, gesturing for Maglor to join him and the others on the ridge top but Maglor shook his head. “Someone has to stay here and keep the fire going.”

“And you’ve decided that someone should be you?” Denethor demanded.

“Yes,” Maglor said shortly, taking a rag and wrapping it around one of his arrows. “Here they come.” He calmly nocked the arrow then dipped it into the fire long enough for the rag to catch fire before taking aim and shooting. The fiery arrow hit its mark and an unearthly howl issued from the throat of what appeared to be a large cat-like creature with curved fangs. Its fur caught fire and it became a living torch, giving the Elves enough light to see by. Arrows flew from the others, most of them hitting their marks. Maglor was taking a count of the numbers even as he nocked a second arrow and let it loose. There must have been nigh on twenty or thirty of the creatures and their eyes seemed to glow with an evil intelligence, for those in the back of the pack stumbled to a halt as those at the front were felled by the arrows. He watched as one of them snarled something to his packmates. One or two snarled back and it almost seemed to Maglor as if they were conversing with one another. Then, incredibly, the survivors split into three groups and Maglor had the distinct feeling that the creatures were attempting to flank them.

“These are not entirely unintelligent creatures,” he said in a conversational tone even as he let loose another arrow, but this one missed its mark when the creature he was aiming at slipped neatly out of the arrow’s path. “No, not entirely unintelligent,” he said again, more to himself than to anyone else. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see what these creatures were up to. One group was heading north, the other south, while the third remained where they were, neither advancing nor retreating.

“What are they doing?” Denethor hissed. “They are all still in range of our arrows. Should we not simply shoot them down?”

“You’re our leader, Denethor,” Maglor said somewhat shortly, never taking his eyes off the creatures. “You decide. My guess is that the group heading north plans to climb the ridge at that last dip we encountered a couple miles back while the group heading south plans to do the same. Did you see if there were other areas of the ridge that were lower than here, Saelmir?”

“No. I went no further than here,” came the answer.

“So what do we do?” Ragnor asked. “Do we shoot these creatures down or wait for them to attack again?”

“We do the unexpected,” Maglor said.

“Yes, but what exactly would that be?” Denethor exclaimed in obvious frustration. “I have no idea what we should do, do you?”

“Are you asking me to take over the leadership, Denethor?” Maglor responded with a frown, still keeping his eyes on the creatures waiting patiently in front of them. “I keep telling you that the Belain made you our leader, not me.”

“I’m sorry, Maglor, but I’m just not… not devious-minded enough to come up with a plan.”

Maglor cast the ellon an amused look. “Are you insulting me or complimenting me, Denethor? Never mind,” he said when Denethor looked to protest. “We’re probably half-way to the cut that was once the Great East Road, which means that we are sufficiently south enough that if we were to head straight across country at this point, we will come upon the northern flanks of the Emyn Beraid.”

There was a moment of surprised silence, broken only by the soft snarls of the creatures. Finally, Denethor spoke, his tone one of complete disbelief. “You want us to run through the dark over unfamiliar terrain with these creatures right behind us?”

“Something like that,” Maglor answered. “At the moment, the creatures have split their forces, and it will take time for the two groups to reach their goals and then return here, so we only have to face a few of them at this time. If we wait for the other two groups to join us, then we will be fighting on three fronts instead of one. Before that happens, I would rather be well away. This group in front of us may well attack us as we flee but we can eliminate them and by the time the other two groups return, we should have a far enough head start that they will not be able to catch up with us.”

There was another, longer moment of silence. “I didn’t say it was a great plan,” Maglor said somewhat peevishly, “but no one else seems capable of coming up with one.”

“Then we will follow it,” Denethor said, sounding more decisive. “Ragnor, Saelmir, stay with Maglor and keep these creatures occupied while the rest of us make our way down. Give us as much of a lead time as you can, but do not linger any longer than necessary. The rest of you, take whatever route seems best to you but meet directly below this dip.” With that, he followed words with action and picked up his own satchel, flinging it over his shoulder before heading down the western slope. Everyone else did the same, except Saelmir who was standing to the south of the dip and Ragnor who was to the north with Maglor between them.

“I think our friends suspect something,” Maglor said softly, even as he lifted his bow and took aim, though he did not immediately shoot. “Let us wait until everyone is down before we do anything that might upset these creatures,” he said and both Saelmir and Ragnor chuckled, though there was no mirth in it.

It was Saelmir who informed Maglor that everyone was down and that Denethor was leading them as quickly as possible away. “How soon will the other creatures reach us, do you think?”

“Soon enough,” Ragnor answered. “They appear to be able to run swiftly. The only good thing is that the ones coming along the ridge can at best come at us only one or two at a time, but there are enough of them that none of us would be able to shoot them all before they overwhelmed us.”

“So, when do we join our friends?” Saelmir asked, sounding a little anxious.

“Now,” Maglor said and he let loose his arrow and the others were only seconds behind him. Without waiting to see what effect his arrow had, he scrambled up the wall they had built and leaped off to land as softly as possible, the snow cushioning him somewhat. Saelmir and Ragnor simply ran down the slope and joined him. Shrieks of rage rent the night and without bothering to comment, the three quickly ran over the snow. They could see well enough by the light of the stars the others who were ahead of them, perhaps a good mile away.

Maglor looked back long enough to see dark figures far to the north running along the ridge, though southward there was no sign of the creatures as yet, nor had any attempted to brave the fire that guarded the dip itself. “Faster!” he shouted and the three ran more quickly.

“What are they doing?” Ragnor exclaimed, pointing ahead where several Elves were turning around and heading their way. “Are they insane?”

“We’re all insane for even attempting this,” Maglor said grimly. “Are you insane?” he demanded as he saw Gilgaran, Neldorion, Voronwë and Sador coming toward them. Maglor did not slow down but continued running with Saelmir and Ragnor flanking him. The other four ellyn split into two groups and came behind them, keeping up with the pace Maglor was setting.

“We’re the rearguard,” Gilgaran answered. “We’ll help you to teach these creatures the error of their ways.”

“Fine,” Maglor said with a huff, “but it was foolish for you to come back. We three would have caught up with you eventually. Now our own forces are split and that could prove dangerous.”

“We’re the best of the archers,” Voronwë said without any false modesty or boastfulness. “Denethor wants us to slow these creatures down if we cannot destroy them altogether. How far do you think we have to run?”

“I have no idea,” Maglor replied, casting a quick glance behind. He could see a few of the creatures climbing down the slope as the Elves had but they had a good three-mile head start on the creatures by now, so they were safe for the moment. Yet Maglor knew that the hills were still a good distance away and as far as he knew there was nowhere along the way where they would be able to take a stand. It was going to be a race to see who had the better stamina. His one real hope was that the creatures would actually tire of the chase.

They continued running in silence, occasionally stealing looks back to gauge how much distance there was between them and the creatures. Within an hour Maglor’s group had caught up with the rest of the Elves but they continued to act as the rearguard. None of them were flagging as yet and Maglor did not think any would. What surprised him was how determined the creatures were in their pursuit. It made no real sense, yet the Elves had run close to four leagues and still they followed. He stole another glance behind and muttered a vicious curse in Quenya. The creatures had narrowed the gap between them and the leading front was only about a half a mile behind them and closing fast.

“We may have to take a stand before we reach the hills,” he said.

“But only if they get into arrow range,” Gilgaran said.

“What if we stop here and wait for them while everyone else keeps on?” Neldorion suggested. “It might buy our friends time.”

Maglor thought for a moment and then made a decision, pointing to the northwest. “The land seems to rise slightly in that direction. Let us see if we can divert these creatures’ attention from our friends and lead them in a different direction. We’ll take a stand at that rise. It looks to be about a mile away.”

The others nodded and without another word veered away from the main group and raced to the northwest. By now, the sky was beginning to grey with the coming dawn and they could see their route more clearly. The land did rise slightly in a gentle slope and looking westward they could see the shadow of hills rising above the plain and knew that these were the Emyn Beraid.

“Are they following us?” Sador asked, glancing behind.

“Some of them seem to have,” Ragnor said, “but I don’t think all.”

“We’ll deal with those that are following us,” Maglor said as they reached their goal. “Denethor and the others will have to do what they can against any following them. At least this way neither they nor we are facing the entire pack at once. Spread out,” he ordered as they took their stand and waited for death on four feet to reach them.

Maglor counted about ten or twelve of the creatures heading for them and readied his arrow. The creatures appeared to slow their pursuit and then they came to a halt, staying a fair distance from them, snarling in frustration.

“They know we have claws,” Neldorion said with some satisfaction.

“But they don’t know how long our claws can be extended,” Saelmir rejoined. “If they would come just a few feet closer, I would be sure to hit them.”

“Here, kitty, kitty,” Voronwë muttered and there was some soft chuckling among them and even Maglor smiled grimly. He stole a glance to his right where he could see the other Elves still racing for the hills with some of the pack closing in.

“We don’t have much time,” he said. He took careful aim and let loose his arrow. It flew straight and sure and landed about two feet from the nearest cat. “Damn!” he muttered. “The sun will be above the horizon soon and in our eyes. We need to eliminate these creatures and help our friends.”

“At the moment it appears to be a stalemate,” Ragnor said. “They know just how far our arrows can reach. Unless we do something unexpect—”

Maglor suddenly dropped his bow, pulled out his sword and yelled, “Utúlie’n Aurë!” even as he was rushing at the creatures.

“Like that,” Ragnor concluded, dropping his own bow and pulling out his sword. “Gurth an gyth!” he screamed even as he ran after Maglor and the others followed immediately.

The unexpectedness of the attack confused the creatures for a few precious seconds and they did not react immediately, not until Maglor neatly swiped his sword and decapitated one of them. Then there was howling and snarling rage and the creatures came at them with furious intent. Maglor did not pause, but ran to the next nearest cat and plunged his sword into its face. The other Elves were doing their level best to kill the creatures as well. Three were attacking Ragnor at the same time, but his sword had a longer reach than their claws and he was able to wound two of them and kill the third. In minutes all the cats were either dead or dying and the Elves went among them and dispatched them with a minimum of effort.

Before any of them could catch their breaths, though, Maglor was already racing to where Denethor’s group had come to a halt, forming a circle of defense while the creatures surrounded them. “Come,” he cried. “Let us end this.” Leaving their bows, they ran swiftly to the aid of their friends and loved ones.

As with the ones who had come after them, Maglor saw that most of the cats surrounding Denethor’s group were staying just outside of arrow range and the few who attempted to come closer were able to evade the arrows that were flown. Eventually, all the arrows would be spent and the cats would attack in force.

“Denethor! Swords, not arrows!” Maglor shouted and followed words with actions by attacking the nearest cat. Ragnor and Saelmir were on either side of him and the others had spread out to attack from other directions, thus sowing confusion among the creatures. Then there was yelling and Maglor took a precious second to look up to see Denethor and Damrod drawing swords and racing at the cats with the other ellyn, while the ellith had their bows at the ready, shooting whenever a cat came near.

It was a bloody battle. The cats did not die easily and their numbers were greater than those of the Elves, but their claws were no match for the swords and finally the last of the cats lay dead though a few that were wounded were slinking away. Denethor gave the order not to go after them.

“They cannot do us any harm now,” he said, cleaning his sword with untrampled snow.

“We’ll go retrieve our bows and catch up with you,” Maglor said. “I think we’re only about ten miles or so from the hills.” He nodded toward where the Emyn Beraid rose in purple shadows, for the sun was only just breaching the eastern horizon.

“Do not linger,” Denethor said.

“Oh, believe me, I have no plan to do so,” Maglor retorted and then he and the others were loping away. They quickly retrieved their bows, ignoring the carcasses of the cats and soon were back with the others who were now examining the creatures and commenting on them.

“Have you ever known their like?” Denethor asked Maglor.

“No,” he replied. “I sensed an evil intelligence about them, though. They were not ordinary creatures. I wish my brother Celegorm were here. He might know. He often joined Lord Araw on his Hunts against the evil creatures spawned by Morgoth in the days before Days, but I don’t recall him ever speaking of creatures such as these.”

“Well, should we stop long enough to take some of their meat?” Eirien asked but Maglor cautioned them against it.

“I do not think that wise,” he said, “and we should not linger here.”

“I agree,” Denethor said. “Let us away before the carrion eaters come.” He pointed to the north where they could see a flock of birds heading their way and there were no objections. They set off, walking now rather than running, yet their pace was still swift. No one spoke and there was an air of weariness about them. Maglor knew that his own reserve of strength was fast ebbing and he wished to do nothing more than to lie down and sleep, but that particular luxury was hours away. They had to reach the Emyn Beraid first and set up a defensive camp.

The sun was halfway up the eastern sky before they reached the hills rising precipitously, their eastern slopes steep and forbidding.

“If we follow the hills south we’ll come to where the Great East Road ended at Undertowers,” Maglor stated. “We may find it easier to climb there.”

Denethor agreed and they set off again after taking a short rest, skirting the hills that lay barren and snow-covered. Maglor told them something of what the area had been like before the ice as they walked.

“Elessar granted the land between the Far Downs and the Emyn Beraid to the Periain and they called it the Westmarch. The soil was fertile and many farms were built, but it was never heavily populated. The largest town was Undertowers.”

“Did you ever visit the Towers?” someone asked.

“No,” Maglor replied with a shake of his head. “Gil-galad had them guarded and Círdan continued the practice after the king’s death. No one would have allowed me access. When the Periain settled at Undertowers, the guard was withdrawn, but I never bothered to stop here on my way to Imladris. The palantír was gone by then, taken by Elrond when he Sailed, so there was no point.”

“I wonder if anything of the towers survived,” another mused and several people nodded.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Denethor said.

It took most of the day to cover the twenty or thirty miles that Maglor thought separated them from the Towers, for they were beginning to weary and the going was neither smooth nor straight. By midafternoon, with no sign of the Towers, several people were suggesting that they find someplace to camp and rest, complaining that they could not go another step. Denethor chivvied them, saying that there was still a few hours of daylight left and so they should go on.

“I am sure we are not far,” he concluded.

Yet, even as he was speaking, they rounded a shoulder of one of the hills and all of them stopped in amazement. They were now facing southwest where the hills curved inward and there rising above them were three white towers, or rather the remains of them. Two were closer and stood shoulder to shoulder while the third, which had been the tallest and where the palantír had been housed, stood further west by itself. The two closer towers were missing their roofs and the one to the north was in a greater state of disrepair than the one to the south. The western-most tower, amazingly enough, was still mostly intact. The ages had not diminished the whiteness of the stone from which they had been built, though they were presently stained red with the light of the now setting sun.

“Do we climb up?” Finduilas asked.

“Not by my counsel,” Maglor said. “The area below the towers is well sheltered and defensible, but someone should climb and check to see that the Towers have no residents.”

Denethor nodded. “That sounds reasonable. Maglor, you, Ragnor, Sador and Voronwë check the Towers while the rest of us set up camp.”

“Be iest lîn,” Maglor said with a grin and he and the other three ellyn set off to climb the hills while Denethor directed everyone else to begin setting up camp.

****

Utúlie’n Aurë!: (Quenya) ‘The day has come!’; part of the battle-cry of the Elves at the Nirnaeth Arnediad.

Gurth an gyth!: ‘Death to the enemy!’

Be iest lîn: ‘According to your wish’.

12: The White Towers

The way up proved steep and all four Elves were panting by the time they reached the top. Maglor took several minutes to calm his breathing, taking advantage of the view. He could see quite far. To the east the Far Downs rose like a blue smudge against the horizon, while closer he saw carrion birds feasting on the carcasses of the cat-like creatures. Looking north and south he saw only the hills which blocked his view of the land in those directions. Westward was much the same except the hill slopes were lower and there was a glimpse of flat land beyond. But it was the three towers that caught his attention the most. He headed for the nearest one, which stood to the south.

“Sador, you’re with me,” he said. “Ragnor and Voronwë can check the other tower. We’ll save the third one for last.”

The southern tower stood roofless, much like the northern tower, but it was less ruined looking. Maglor circled it, looking for an entrance and found it on the western side. It was a gaping hole where a door had once been and standing at the threshold he detected a fetid smell coming from within. The light was rapidly fading and it was difficult to see what might be inside. Drawing his sword, he entered the tower, standing just inside and to the right of the entrance, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. He noted with approval Sador doing the same as he moved to the left of the entrance, his own sword drawn.

“Something lives here,” Sador said.

“Or did,” Maglor rejoined. “The smell is not very fresh, nor do I sense anything here but us. Go left and I will meet you on the other side where the stairs are.” Without waiting to see if Sador complied, he made his cautious way to the right. The fetid smell was worse the further in from the entrance he went but there was no sign of any creature. He felt something crunch under his feet and bending down, saw that it was a skull, but of what creature, he could not say. Walking on he encountered other dried bones scattered about. Apparently, whatever had once inhabited the tower had feasted. He had to wonder where it might have gone.

He came to where the stairs climbed in a spiral and was tempted to climb them but even as Sador reached him, the doorway darkened.

“The other tower is empty, though there is some evidence that something once lived there,” Ragnor said. “Find anything?”

“Just some old bones,” Maglor replied as he crossed the floor with Sador following. Ragnor stepped aside to let them out and Maglor took a deep, cleansing breath. “Let’s take a look at the last tower while there is still enough light.”

“We should have waited to bring a torch,” Voronwë said as he joined them.

Maglor just shrugged, not having anything to say about that. The third and tallest tower was more complete with much of its roof still intact. As with the other towers, the entrance faced west. The sun was now nearly down at the horizon and its light filtered into the tower, for again there was no door, the wood having rotted away. Maglor stepped inside and moved to his right to allow the others entrance. As his eyes adjusted, he could see that it was as empty as the other towers but there was no fetid smell that indicated the presence of an animal. Indeed, there was a wholesome feel to the place which had been missing from the other tower.

“This tower seems… untouched,” Voronwë said somewhat hesitantly, as if unsure of what he was attempting to say.

Maglor nodded. “The stones remember their builders,” he said, running a hand over the wall.

“The other towers were inhabited by creatures at some time in the past, and based on the smell, not that long ago, but there is no hint that any creature came into this tower,” Sador observed. “I wonder why?”

The others shrugged, having no answer. “Let’s go,” Maglor said. “We’ll explore more fully tomorrow.”

They left the tower and made their way cautiously down the steep slope of the hill to the camp, letting the others know that the towers were empty. Even so, Denethor decided that sentries would be posted all around rather than just to the east. Maglor silently approved that decision. He had drawn the first watch and took the western-most post. The night proved quiet and after two hours he was relieved by one of the ellith, for they all took turns at sentry-go, even Denethor.

Morning dawned bright and clear and once all had broken their fast, Denethor organized them into three groups. One would check out the towers more thoroughly while another would go hunting for game. The last group was to maintain the camp. “We’ll give everyone a chance to explore the towers later,” he told them. “I’m sure we all want to climb to the top of the third tower.”

Denethor led the way up the hill with Maglor at his side. With them came Damrod, his wife Eirien, Voronwë, and Gwilwileth, along with a few others. Denethor directed them to spread out and explore the other two towers as thoroughly as possible for clues as to what creatures might have lived here while he and Maglor checked out the third tower. They had brought torches this time and when Maglor entered the third tower he was glad for them, for the light that filtered from above was not sufficient to see by.

“I do not understand why this tower remains so intact while the other two are completely ruined,” he remarked as he and Denethor made their way up the winding stairs.

“I have no idea,” Denethor replied. “It is indeed a mystery. One we are unlikely to solve.”

“I should have had you check out the other towers first so you could feel the difference. There is a wholesomeness to the air in this tower that does not exist in the others, or at least in the one I explored. Why was this tower avoided by the creatures?”

“Again, I have no answer for you, my friend,” Denethor said. “Perhaps, if we ever do make it to the Blessed Realm, you could ask one of the Belain.”

Maglor chuckled at that and then fell silent. The stairs wound upward but did not reach all the way to the top. There was evidence that once there had been a wooden floor, possibly with a trap door, for they could see the metal struts to which the beams, long since decayed, had been attached. Maglor sighed in frustration as he swept his torch about.

“There appears to be no way to reach the top,” he said to Denethor.

“There is a ledge of stone that juts out all around,” the other pointed out. “Can you climb to it?”

Maglor grunted and handed him his torch. The ledge was about a foot-and-a-half wide and perhaps a third of that thick and the stairs were underneath it, so he would have to reach up blindly to find purchase. He faced the wall and gingerly stepped to the edge of the wide step, painfully aware of the long drop behind him as he reached up to the ledge. The trick would be to pull himself up high enough to be able to swing around and sit on it.

“Steady,” Denethor cautioned him, placing a hand on his lower back. “If you do not think you can do this, then don’t. It’s not worth your life.”

“Make up your mind, Denethor,” Maglor said between gritted teeth, then, taking a deep breath, pushed himself up until he was above the ledge. In one swift movement, he turned his body around and sat, leaning back against the wall and grabbing the edge to steady himself. When his heart had slowed along with his breathing, he looked down at an anxious Denethor and smiled.

“How fare you?” the Sinda asked.

“Well enough,” Maglor replied, then he looked about. There was plenty of light to see by for arches of stone formed embrasures open to the elements, though he suspected they had once been covered with glass. There was still a roof of stone, though some few were missing, leaving gaps. “We could tie some hithlain here,” he said, pointing to one of the arches, “then people could pull themselves up. The ledge is just wide enough to walk on if one takes extreme care.”

Denethor grunted in agreement. “Stay where you are while I go get some,” he said.

“Don’t worry. I have no intention of moving,” Maglor assured him.

“Do you want one of the torches?”

Maglor shook his head. “I’m fine.”

So, while Denethor made his way back down the stairs Maglor took the time to examine the area where he was sitting more closely and saw that the stones were fitted so perfectly to one another that no mortar had been necessary. He nodded in approval. He carefully climbed to his feet, wrapping an arm around the nearest arch. He looked out and gasped in surprise.

He was facing southwest and what had once been the Gulf of Lune spread out before him some forty or so miles distant. With the coming of the ice, the sea level had dropped and the River Lhûn flowed into a narrow channel with much of the Gulf now dry land. He only knew where the original coast had once been by the fact that the land on either side of the Gulf sloped into a valley. Far to the northwest rose the northern spur of the Ered Luin.

Looking directly south, he saw the southern spur of the mountains, their most northern flank perhaps seventy or so miles away as the craban flew. They were not as tall or as sheer as the Misty Mountains for their peaks appeared to be eroded. What interested him the most was the Gulf and he returned his attention to it. Leaning out and looking northwestward, he tried to remember the geography and realized that he must be staring at the ruins of Mithlond, for he thought he saw jumbles of heaped up stones in random piles, but all around the land was flat. Looking down the Gulf he tried to see how far the Sea had receded, but highlands blocked his view. He suspected that the new coast was well past the straits which had once marked the entrance to the Gulf.

He shivered at that thought for some reason, but his ruminations were interrupted by Denethor returning with those who had been exploring the other towers.

“Here is the hithlain,” Denethor said as he reached the top step and held up the rope. Maglor carefully knelt to receive it.

“What does the view look like?” Damrod asked curiously.

“You’ll see momentarily,” Maglor replied. He quickly knotted the rope around the arch, testing to make sure it was secure. Then he began wrapping the rope to form knots down its length to make it easier for people to climb. “When you get up here move to your right,” he advised Denethor. “I recommend that no more than three people come up here at a time. You can walk all the way around before climbing back down. Just don’t knock anyone off the stairs while doing so.”

There were snorts of disbelief that any of them would be that clumsy even as Denethor climbed up, followed by Damrod and then Eirien. Maglor remained where he was, determined to be the last one down even as he had been the first one up. The three Elves gasped in amazement at what they saw.

“You can see for miles,” Eirien exclaimed. “I do not think I have ever been so high before.” Denethor and Damrod nodded in agreement.

Maglor kept his expression neutral, remembering climbing the Mindon Eldaliéva in Tirion when he was young and that lofty tower had been perhaps a third taller than this one. Denethor was arching his neck, trying to look southward, and Maglor suggested he move all the way around to get a better view, which he did, now coming around to stand on Maglor’s left.

“If we come down this way to the plains below rather than continue to skirt the Emyn Beraid, we’ll make better time in reaching the mountains,” Denethor observed, pointing toward the Ered Luin. “We can also send scouts to Mithlond easily enough.”

Maglor nodded, but Eirien spoke up. “Why do we need to go to the mountains?  Why not continue to the coast?”

“Winter is almost nigh,” Denethor replied. “None of us have experienced winter in these northern climes. We came north at the beginning of spring and the weather has been relatively mild all through the summer. I don’t wish to take any chances.”

“That means we will be idle for several months,” Eirien protested. “I would much rather continue on.”

“Continue how?” Maglor asked. “Do you think a ship is waiting for us at Mithlond to take us to Dor Rodyn? You can see that the Gulf as a gulf no longer exists. There is no wood to build a ship, assuming the Seas are not frozen. I do not know how we will find the Straight Road, but we may well have to abide in these lands for some time while the ice recedes, the Sea unfreezes and the land is seeded with trees, for I do not see how we can continue on otherwise.”

“A way will be found,” Denethor said, sounding confident. “I cannot believe that the Belain would inspire us to search for the Straight Road without providing us with a means of finding it. But you are correct that they may simply have arranged for us to get this far so that we would be in a position to build our own ship. “

“Do you suppose that there could be other tree nurseries scattered about?” Voronwë asked from where he was standing on the stairs waiting for his turn to climb up. “Perhaps there is another such valley as we found somewhere in the mountains and we can utilize the wood there for building a ship.”

“Do any of you know how to build one?” Maglor asked with a faint smile. “I will admit that I never learned the craft myself.”

There was an awkward silence for a moment and then they all sighed at the realization that none of them were knowledgeable about shipbuilding.

“So I thought,” Maglor said. “Well, I agree with Denethor. The Belain were instrumental in inspiring all of you to come here in search of the Straight Road.”

“We came in search of you,” Damrod said. “We came to rescue you from yourself.”

“I deem I was merely the excuse the Belain needed to get you lot off your lazy behinds and moving,” Maglor retorted with a disdainful sniff.

“Too bad you couldn’t see fit to try to die near a port where we could have gotten a ship,” Damrod rejoined with a wicked grin. “It would’ve saved us no end of trouble.”

“Sorry,” Maglor said, and meaning it, realizing that he might well be the cause of all their deaths in this mad venture.

Damrod’s expression became more sober. “Do not apologize. You are not responsible for our fates. We all had the opportunity to refuse joining Denethor and many did not. They, I deem, are the unfortunate ones, not us. If anything, we should be thanking you for being the excuse we needed to get off our lazy backsides.” Here he flashed him an impish grin and Maglor smiled back.

“Well, you’ve all had plenty of time to look about,” Voronwë said somewhat peevishly. “It’s our turn now.”

There was a great deal of playful bantering between them as Damrod and Eirien climbed down, though Denethor remained beside Maglor. Eventually, everyone in their group had a chance to get a view of the surroundings.

“We’ll give everyone else a chance to get a view later,” Denethor said as they began descending the stairs. “Right now, I think we should move the camp up here. We can use this tower for shelter and if we clear out the other two towers they will serve in a pinch.”

“Do you plan to send scouts to Mithlond in the meantime?” Maglor asked.

“Are you volunteering?” Denethor retorted.

“No. I am merely asking. How long do you plan for us to stay here?”

Denethor shrugged. “That depends on whether our hunters found any game and what we find at Mithlond.”

“And we will need to learn if there is anywhere better than here to hole up for the winter if need be,” Damrod said from further down the stairs. “It seems to me that if there is enough game in this area, we could do a lot worse than stay here for the winter. These towers will give us shelter. In fact, we could use the stones from the northern tower to fortify the southern one. It is less open to the elements and we won’t all have to huddle inside the western tower.”

“There are many factors to take into account before we determine our course,” Denethor said. “Let us gather everyone up here and hold a council and make some decisions.”

The others agreed and they were soon down in the valley helping to break camp. The hunters had returned in the meantime with a prize. “I do not know how they live in this wasteland,” one of the hunters exclaimed, “but there’s an entire herd of them. We discovered them in a valley about an hour’s walk from here.”

Maglor stared down at the dead goats in wonder. How anything survived in this frozen hell was beyond him, and yet, the evidence was before him and certainly the creatures inhabiting the ruins of Annúminas were proof that not only was there life here in the north but that it thrived after a fashion. It was the one sure sign that the ice was finally receding. It might take many years, centuries even, before the glaciers were entirely gone, but eventually the land would be ice free and fertile once again. That thought brought him great comfort for some reason.

“It seems the Belain are looking after us,” Aerin said with no little satisfaction and there were nods all around.

Beside the goats, the hunters returned with some tubers which they had discovered were growing in the valley as well. “We could certainly stock up on our supplies,” another hunter said.

“Do you think we could survive the winter here?” Denethor asked and the hunters gave one another shrugs.

“Perhaps,” one of them said. “We only found the one valley but there might be others. It would take us time to search all these hills.”

Denethor nodded. “Well, let us move the camp up by the towers and while we are feasting on these goats we will have a council and make some decisions.”

No one argued with that and the rest of the day was spent in setting up the new camp, cleaning out the two ruined towers so they could be used and roasting the goats. People took turns climbing the west tower to gaze out, most of them looking thoughtful as they came back down.

****

Hithlain: Elvish rope.

Craban: Crow-like bird, the plural is crebain.

Mindon Eldaliéva: (Quenya) The tower of Ingwë in the city of Tirion.

13: Mithlond

The discussion as to what to do next went on for several days while they settled in. Everyone had an opinion with most wishing to stay where they were. The southern tower was cleared of all debris and stone from the northern tower, which was in a more ruinous state than the others, was used to shore up the southern tower and fill in the chinks, making it more weather-proof. They were even able to construct a roof by converting a few of their tents into a single large tarp, the ellith sewing the individual tents together. The tarp was stretched across and held down with stones with a hole in the center to allow the smoke of their fire to rise. It wasn’t perfect, but it would keep most of the snow off them.

“You would think we’ve decided to move in permanently,” Denethor commented to Maglor and Damrod somewhat sourly as they watched the roof being constructed.

“We might as well, at least through the winter, Denethor,” Damrod retorted. “We have ready-made shelter, the hunters have discovered more valleys with goats and deer and there’s even a water source, though admittedly I would prefer it to be closer than it is, but you can’t have everything.”

The water source was a spring situated about a half mile south of the Towers gushing out of the ground and rushing through the hills to the west. It was an inconvenient location, for they had to climb along a ridge that was fairly steep in places before they reached the spring. Someone had suggested constructing a stone trough that would connect the spring to their camp, thus diverting the flow of water, but such an engineering feat would take time to implement and if they chose not to remain by the towers for the winter there would be no point, so for now they made a twice daily trip to fill up their water bottles, everyone taking turns with that onerous task.

“Whatever decision we make needs to be made soon,” Maglor pointed out. “Winter is upon us and we must either move on soon or resign ourselves to remaining here through the next several months.” He cast them a wry grin. “I hate to say this, but I think I will be heartily sick of goat before spring.”

The other two laughed in agreement. “I still would like to send scouts to Mithlond and perhaps to the mountains before the weather makes travel impossible,” Denethor stated.

“The mountains can wait, I think,” Maglor said with a frown. “As Damrod has pointed out, we could do much worse than what we have here. If we can bring the water source closer to us it would make things even better. But I agree that we should check out Mithlond sooner rather than later. We might find it a better place to hole up for the winter.”

“And ruin all the ellith’s hard work in making the towers so nice and cozy?” Damrod said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Perish the thought!”

They laughed at that. “We’ll hold a council tonight and decide who will go to Mithlond,” Denethor said when they had calmed down.

A large fire pit had been constructed between the three Towers where the meals were cooked and where everyone gathered, though those who desired it would be retiring to the towers later to sleep. As they ate, they discussed their options. Most agreed that they preferred to remain where they were for the winter, unless a better place could be found. Sador pointed out that they would need to bring the water closer to them if at all possible before it got too cold and Denethor assigned him and a few others to design a way to do just that.

“We are fairly close to Mithlond,” he added. “I would like for some of us to check it out and find out how far down the gulf we must go before we reach the Sea.”

“How many should go?” Haldir asked.

“No more than four,” Denethor answered. “We need everyone else here to secure the camp. Those who have already been assigned to hunt should continue doing so.”

There were a few groans from Haldir and his brother and one or two others, all of them considered youngsters by Elvish standards, and it was obvious that they had thought to volunteer to join the scouting party. Maglor grinned in sympathy.

“You are doing more than hunting,” he said to them. “You are also mapping this area for us, scouting for threats that are hidden and have not yet revealed themselves to us. While we have encountered no predators that is not to say they do not exist. You are our first line of defense. Your knowledge of these hills and what lives here is crucial in keeping us safe.”

The young hunters had more thoughtful looks on their faces. Both Ragnor and Denethor gave Maglor approving looks. In the end, Maglor, Ragnor, Voronwë and an ellon named Celepharn, were sent out as scouts. Celepharn had once been a marchwarden of Doriath and then later Lothlórien and had lived in Lindon for several centuries before following Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel east.

“Though I spent most of my time on patrol through the Ered Luin,” he admitted.

“Which is more than the rest of us can say,” Voronwë said with a grin. “I spent my time in Lindon making and selling hats.”

“Hats?” more than one person asked in disbelief.

“Of course,” Voronwë said with a sniff. “Everyone needs a hat or a hood. You don’t think they just grow on trees, do you?” They all chuckled.

“So how did you end up in Imladris?” someone asked.

“Well, when Gil-galad issued a call to arms when Eregion was threatened by Sauron, I naturally put aside my needles and took up my sword once again. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“Well, at any rate, you should leave tomorrow at first light,” Denethor said. The four scouts nodded and with that decided the rest of the evening was devoted to singing and storytelling.

****

The next morning dawned fair and the scouts were deep into the hills heading west before the sun was completely above the horizon. They estimated that it would take them most of the first day to reach the plains that separated the Emyn Beraid from Mithlond and then it would take them another day to reach the Havens. They wended their way through narrow valleys and clambered up steep rises, their route going more north than west, following the line of hills. For most of the morning the western tower was visible to them whenever they looked back, rising like a slim finger of white in the distance. Then, they came to a fold of the hills that fell to the northwest and the tower was lost to their sight as they traveled down into the plain below.

Maglor shaded his eyes against the sunglare as he surveyed the land before him. The ruins of Mithlond now lay southwest of them and perhaps no more than ten leagues. They could easily reach it sometime the next day. And though it was early yet, they decided to make camp, moving back into the hills where they were more protected from the wind now coming off the snowfields before them. As they sat around the fire munching on goat meat, they discussed their plans for scouting.

“I think only two of us need to check out Mithlond itself,” Maglor said, “while the other two head down the gulf and see how far the Sea has receded.”

“If it has receded beyond the straits, it would take us over a week just to get that far,” Celepharn protested. “The Gulf of Lhûn is a good ninety leagues in length if it’s an inch.”

“I do not think you need go all the way down,” Maglor replied, “just to the headland that marks the eastern edge of Harlond.”

“That’s still nearly halfway down the gulf, though,” Celepharn retorted. “Is it really that important to know how far the Sea has receded? It has receded and what was once under water is now dry land and the Sea will just be that much further west than before. So what? We cannot cross it, for we have no ship, and last time I looked no one has yet figured out how to walk on it unless it’s frozen solid.”

The others chuckled. “Perhaps you’re right,” Maglor allowed. “Why don’t we withhold judgment until we get there?”

The others agreed and once they had determined the order of their watches, they settled down for the night. Maglor took the third watch and spent the time pacing the camp in a slow circle just beyond the firelight, quietly going through the ritual of his litany of apology. It had been some time, actually, since he had done it. In the valley of the trees, he had not bothered after a day or two, for there was a wholesomeness in the air of that valley and he had felt a lifting of his spirit that had made his ritual seem unnecessary. But once beyond that valley, his spirit had grown heavy once again and the attack of the cat-like creatures had reminded him that he could well die long before they ever reached the Blessed Realm. And so, tonight he had decided to resume his ritual.

“Maglor.”

He started at the soft sound of his name and turned to see Celepharn, a concerned look on his face. He felt tears rolling down his cheeks and hastily brushed them away, hoping the other had not seen them.

“Art thou well?” Celepharn asked, speaking somewhat formally, as some of them still tended to do with him even now. “Thou shouldst have wakened me an hour ago.”

Maglor stared at the ellon somewhat stupidly, trying to understand what he was saying, then, looked about and realized that the sky was lighter than it should have been, the stars already fading. How long had he stood there, lost in memory? What kind of guard was he that he never even heard the ellon’s approach? He wiped at his face again, feeling suddenly defeated.

“Maglor, what ails thee, mellon nîn?” Celepharn asked softly, placing a hand on the other’s shoulder.

“I am sorry,” he said in a whisper, not looking at the other. “I guess I….” But he had no words to explain and he simply stood there staring at the ground while the sky brightened around them. Somewhere far to the east the sun was rising though it would be another hour or so before she breached the hills and flooded the western plains with her light.

“Who is Herion?” Celepharn asked suddenly. Maglor stared at him blankly. “Thou wert speaking his name when I came upon thee,” the ellon went on to explain. “Thou wert speaking as if he were standing before thee, and thou wert asking him for thy forgiveness. Was he a friend?”

Maglor shook his head. “Friend? No. he was no friend of mine, though I think he would have liked to have been, but I….” He sighed, not sure how to explain. “He died a long time ago. It matters little now.”

“I think it matters much, to you, at least,” Celepharn retorted gently. “Would you like to speak of it?”

Maglor raised an eyebrow. It was the first time the ellon had ever addressed him familiarly. The sincerity of his expression told him that Celepharn was not seeking to relieve his own curiosity at Maglor’s expense, but truly wished to help him. Slowly, hesitantly, almost feeling ashamed of his admission, he explained the ritual and what it meant to him. Celepharn never moved or attempted to interrupt. His expression remained impassive, yet his eyes were warm with sympathy and there was no sense of judgment in them.

“A worthy endeavor,” he said when Maglor ceased to speak. “The Woman who taught you this ritual was indeed wise. I might begin my own such ritual. The Belain know I’ve insulted enough people in my day to warrant asking them for forgiveness, though it comes too late for them.”

“She said it was never too late,” Maglor told him, feeling suddenly lighter in spirit, as if some burden had been lifted from him. “Even for Mortals who have gone beyond the Circles of Arda, it is never too late to ask them for forgiveness.”

“But why would you seek forgiveness from any Mortal?” Celepharn asked in genuine surprise.

Maglor did not blame him for his attitude for it was one he had encountered among many of the Firstborn and knew that it wasn’t so much dislike as it was indifference which tempered their feelings toward the Secondborn. “I was told that I should not be… um… selective in whom I asked for forgiveness. I have wronged Mortals no less than I have wronged Elves and in truth, I find asking them for forgiveness harder than I find asking it from my own people. Herion was one of the Ruling Stewards of Gondor. He was a good Man, well loved by his people. He was also somewhat naïve. I took advantage of that naiveté when I happened to meet him in Pelargir where he was consulting with the captains of his navy.”

“What did you do?” Celepharn asked.

Maglor gave him a thin smile. “And now you are merely being prurient.”

Celepharn blushed and began stammering an apology. Maglor raised a hand to still him. “Suffice to say that whatever I did, I regret having done it. Herion deserved better from me. If you would engage in this ritual for yourself, you must be brutally honest and not seek to hide behind such thoughts as ‘that person was merely a Mortal and so their forgiveness does not matter’. Do you understand what I say, Celepharn?”

For a moment they locked gazes and then Celepharn slowly nodded. “That is well,” Maglor said with a satisfied nod. Then he gave him a grin. “Now, your watch is almost over,” and Celepharn snorted in wry amusement, “so why don’t we make breakfast for our two sleepyheads?”

“You make breakfast,” Celepharn said, “I’m going to go relieve myself and then I’ll stand guard for what remains of the night.” With that, he headed away from the camp, disappearing around some boulders. Maglor chuckled and went to build up the fire.

An hour later, they were on their way again.

****

They reached the outskirts of the Havens an hour or so after noon. The land had begun as a series of gentle swells that eventually flattened the closer they came to what had once been the Gulf of Lune. Mithlond had been built where the River Lhûn had widened and deepened enough for ships to sail. Further north the river narrowed and became too shallow, though smaller boats could continue upriver for another fifty miles or so. A bridge had once spanned the river between the two sections of the city with the western part overlooking the eastern, for the land rose toward the Ered Luin which acted as a backdrop to the city. It was on the western shore that Gil-galad had built his palace on the highest precipice which was visible from almost anywhere in the city.

Surprisingly, much of the city was still intact, a monument to the skills of the Noldorin masons who had imbued the stones with spells of endurance against the elements. Yet, even the ancient magic was no barrier to the crushing force of the ice and what buildings and towers still stood were in an even more ruinous state than the towers of the Emyn Beraid. Gazing about them, the Elves had no doubt that, given time, no trace of this city would remain unless someone came and rebuilt, which, Maglor reflected, was not likely to happen.

“Spread out, but stay within sight of one another,” Maglor ordered as the Elves warily entered the city, for there was no telling if any of the ruins were inhabited by wild animals or man-like creatures, such as those inhabiting Annúminas. Yet they encountered no evidence that the ruins had ever housed anything but the detritus of the ages.

Eventually they made their way to what had been the wharf district. All that remained of the bridge spanning the river were piles of stone on the floor of the Gulf which was now mostly dry land except where the Lhún flowed in, forming a series of channels where the water ran sluggishly toward the distant Sea. Maglor stared across the gulf at the precipice on which Gil-galad’s palace stood. In spite of its ruinous state, it was still an imposing edifice with a single tower rising above the city.

“If we can climb that tower, we might get a better view of the Gulf,” he said, pointing.

“Let’s go then,” Celepharn said and without waiting for the others, made his way down to the floor of the gulf. After a second or two, the others followed.

“Be careful!” Maglor admonished the younger ellon ranging ahead. “The ground appears to be marshy and there may be quagmires hidden under the snow.”

Even as he spoke, Celepharn, who had almost reached the river, took a step and sank nearly to his knees. He stood there staring down with a rather surprised look on his face, as if he couldn’t believe that he, an Elf, had done something so mortalish. The others actually snickered at his predicament. He ignored them as he attempted to extricate himself, but found himself sinking a little further.

“Quicksand!” he exclaimed.

“Don’t move!” Ragnor shouted as the other three ellyn stopped where they were, their merriment turning instantly to concern.

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t even breathe,” Celepharn retorted, sounding more disgusted than afraid.

“Voronwë, see how far this quicksand extends so we know where we can continue across,” Maglor ordered. Voronwë nodded and pulled out his sword and began thrusting it into the ground as he walked carefully downriver. Ragnor, meanwhile, was tossing one end of some rope to Celepharn who caught it neatly and quickly tied it around him. Maglor helped him to pull the ellon out of the quagmire.

“Ugh! I’m filthy!” Celepharn exclaimed as he undid the rope and pulled off his boots to empty them before putting them back on again and standing.

“And you stink,” Maglor said with a smile. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Just my pride is damaged along with my boots. Voronwë! Is there a way across?” Celepharn shouted.

The three of them looked to where the Noldo was several yards further downriver. “We can cross here,” he shouted back, pointing with his sword. “I’ll go across and check to see where we can safely walk.”

Maglor nodded his acceptance of the ellon’s suggestion and the three of them made their way down to where Voronwë was crossing with Celepharn muttering imprecations with every squelching step he made. Maglor and Ragnor exchanged amused grins which the other ellon did not see. The river at this point was not deep, coming only to Maglor’s waist. For Ragnor and Celepharn, being somewhat shorter, the water came a little higher. All four of them stood on the other bank wringing out their clothes which were stiffening in the cold.

“We need to keep moving,” Maglor said. “As soon as we reach the tower we’ll make camp and get into drier clothes.”

No one argued with him and, as quickly as they could, they continued across with Voronwë in the lead, checking the ground beneath them. By now the sun was sinking westward and a cold wind was rising, making them even more uncomfortable than they already were, but an hour saw them standing at the base of the tower. Ragnor found the doorway and quickly checked the interior, finding it empty. Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting around a fire, their wet clothes exchanged for dry, putting together their dinner.

14: What They Found

In the morning they climbed the tower with Maglor leading. Unlike the towers of the Emyn Beraid, the stairs here were enclosed with shallow landings marking each floor. They had to go carefully, though, for some of the steps were crumbled, nor did they stop along the way to explore. This tower was only a little less tall than the one which had once held a palantír but eventually they climbed out onto the roof and went to the parapet to look out. The Gulf lay before them and they could see several miles upriver as well as down and it was downriver that held their attention.

“That headland must mark the location of Harlond,” Maglor said, pointing further west where a precipice rose on the other side of the Gulf. It was just on the edge of their sight, nearly a hundred miles away. “There’s no sign of the Sea, though. It looks as if the entire Gulf has emptied out.”

“The question being, how far out?” Ragnor commented. “Dare we travel that far or should we return to the camp?”

“We don’t have provisions for an extended journey,” Celepharn pointed out. “And even if we did, it would take us close to two weeks to reach the Straits and then return. Don’t forget the quicksand. We’ll have to go carefully to avoid any more such traps, so it’s likely the entire journey might be even longer, and that’s assuming that the Sea lies just beyond the Straits. Who knows how far it’s actually receded.”

“Even if we did make the journey, what then?” Voronwë added. “Winter is nigh. We’ll not be wanting to travel during that time, I don’t think.”

The others nodded, even Maglor. “We should at least explore the city as fully as possible, though,” he said and the others agreed.

“Voronwë and I will go back over to the other side while you and Ragnor explore this part of the city,” Celepharn suggested.

Maglor, however, objected. “We’ll all stay on this side. It’ll be easier to keep track of everyone that way in case anyone encounters trouble. Once we’ve explored this part of the city, we’ll cross back over and do a thorough search there before heading back to camp. I told Denethor that we would not remain here long, just long enough to see what, if anything, this city has to offer us.”

“Then the sooner we get down from here, the sooner we are on our way back to the others,” Ragnor pointed out and the others chuckled as they headed back down the stairs. “We can quarter the city,” Ragnor continued as they filed down. “Maglor, why don’t you take the palace area and I’ll check out what used to be the waterfront. Celepharn, go west and Voronwë can go east. We’ll meet back here later with our reports.”

Everyone agreed with the plan and once they were down, they split up. Maglor remained where he was, taking his time exploring the ruins of Gil-galad’s palace. When the king had died, he knew, Elrond had refused to return to Lindon to take up the crown to which he was heir. That did not surprise him, knowing his foster son as he did. What had surprised him was that his cousin Galadriel had not returned to Lindon to claim the throne but had remained in Lothlórien. He suspected that Celeborn had been a deciding influence, for the Sindarin prince had not cared for living in a city of stone; Lothlórien was more to his liking. Círdan had also refused to take up residence in Gil-galad’s palace, preferring to remain in his own villa. And so the king’s apartments had been sealed, though the rest of the palace continued to be used by the various administrative offices whose heads became the Ruling Council overseeing the running of the city.

Sighing a bit at the memory, Maglor proceeded to explore what was left of the palace and the buildings surrounding it. For some reason this area seemed more ruined than the rest of the city and Maglor wondered if perhaps the glaciers had stopped their southward flow at this point. Certainly East Mithlond was in a better state of preservation. He really had no idea just how far south the glaciers had come or how many times in the interminable years they had receded and then returned. Glancing northwestward as he moved from one building to another to where the southern flank of the Ered Luin rose above the city only a scant ten miles away, he could see one such glacier hugging the mountainside. He shivered at the sight, then resolutely turned his attention to a low building that must have been the royal stables. He refused to look at the mountains after that.

It took them two full days to explore West Mithlond. Each night they gathered in the tower to share their reports, but the city, at least on this side, was eerily empty.

“There’s no sign that I could see that any wild creature ever made its den here,” Voronwë commented on the second evening as they huddled around the fire. “I find that almost disturbing.”

“And have you noticed how quiet it is here?” Celepharn added in a whisper. “Even the wind seems… muted.”

They had all noticed it and had unconsciously spoken in soft tones, as if afraid to disturb the silence that had settled over the ruins. None of them could explain it, except to point out that there was a similar sense of silence surrounding the White Towers of the Emyn Beraid. “And yet, there was evidence of habitation there,” Maglor pointed out.

“So what do we do?” Ragnor asked. “Do we continue exploring this side of the city or move back across and check out the other side?”

“We found nothing here,” Maglor said, “though certainly we could move in if we wished. There doesn’t seem to be any game around. Yet we might find some in the mountains and there might be fish in the river. I wouldn’t mind having fish every once in a while as a nice change from goat.”

“There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere,” Voronwë said with a smile.

Maglor nodded. “But, truly, where we are now is no bad place and we are assured a good supply of food through the winter however monotonous the menu. Also, I think the Emyn Beraid will give us better protection. Mithlond is too open.”

The others nodded in agreement. “Then, tomorrow, let us return to the other side,” Ragnor said. “East Mithlond is not as large as West Mithlond, so it shouldn’t take us as long to explore it thoroughly. We should plan to return to camp the day after tomorrow or the next day after at the latest.”

They settled the order of their watches and this time Maglor had the first watch. The others settled down by the fire though he noticed that Celepharn and Voronwë did not go to sleep immediately, but spoke quietly between them. Maglor stationed himself at the doorway, which looked west as nearly every door in the city did, looking out, refusing to listen to their conversation. Instead he stared up at the stars.

The sky was clear of clouds and the stars shone with unusual brightness. He saw Eärendil’s Star hanging just above the western horizon, twinkling between the buildings. The sight never failed to move him and he felt his right hand spasm involuntarily, the pain too long a part of him for him to take much notice. His mind drifted and he idly wondered if the Silmaril he had thrown into the Sea would be uncovered now that the Sea had receded. Could he find it? Would he want to? Would Lord Ulmo be that careless or uncaring? He did not know and there was a sudden, deep ache within him to look upon the Jewel he had held for a brief time.

Pure foolishness! He could not have honestly said where he’d been when he cast the Silmaril from him. The Host of the West had camped on the shore of what became known as North Lindon, but the exact location? He had no idea. And more than likely they would remain on the southern shore of the Gulf as they made their way to the Sea. There would be no real reason to come north.

He sighed and looked back to see Celepharn and Voronwë still talking. “I’m going to take a walk around the tower,” he told them and they nodded. He moved to his right and paced slowly around the tower, silently going through his ritual of forgiveness, calling to mind a certain Mortal and his family. He had met them only the one time, the father inviting him to join him and his family for an evening meal. He had repaid them with a song or two and then had left, never seeing them again. As far as he knew he had not wronged them in any way, but he was taking no chances, and so he named them, one by one, beginning with the father and ending with the babe in the mother’s arms, asking them for forgiveness for anything he may have inadvertently done or not done, said or not said, that had caused them harm. And then he mentally watched them turn away and fade into the night.

He was halfway around the tower when he came to a sudden stop. The night was silent. No sound, save the moaning of the wind off the mountains, intruded. So what had brought him to a halt in his perambulation? He glanced around, suddenly wary, feeling as if he were being watched, and yet, he could not sense anything or anyone. He drew his sword as quietly as he could, mentally gauging how far he must go to reach the tower’s doorway and alert his companions, and began walking again. He did not run, but his pace quickened and he reached the doorway without incident.

“Something’s out here,” he whispered to the others.

Celepharn and Voronwë were instantly on their feet and Ragnor, who had been sleeping, woke at the touch of Voronwë’s hand on his shoulder.

“Do you know what it is?” Celepharn asked, joining Maglor at the doorway.

Maglor shook his head. “I had a sudden feeling of being watched. I haven’t had that feeling in a long time, so I don’t think it is my imagination. Something or someone is out there.”

“Can you pinpoint the direction?”

Maglor closed his eyes, mentally reviewing his path, trying to determine where he’d been in relation to everything else when he had felt eyes upon him. “It was in the ruins of the palace itself,” he finally said, opening his eyes, giving them a puzzled look. “And now that I think about it, it seems as if whoever or whatever was watching me was doing so from above, yet that would not be possible.”

“Show us,” Ragnor said and Maglor led them back to where he’d been.

“Look!” he said in a whisper, pointing. “You can see where this part of the palace is completely ruined.”

And it was. The walls here were almost nonexistent and no tower stood at the corner as part of one did on the other side of the inner court.

“Maglor, you are sure that you are not letting your imagination rule you?” Ragnor asked gently. “I have had similar feelings of being watched while we’ve been here, but I put it down to my imagination peopling the darkness and the silence with what is not there and dismissed it.”

Maglor hesitated. He did not blame Ragnor for his skepticism; they had all found the emptiness of the city disturbing. Having even a pack of the wild cats roaming the streets would have been preferable to the emptiness around them.

“Do you still sense anything?” Celepharn asked.

Maglor shook his head. “No. Not anymore. I’m sorry. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps the city is getting to me. I will be glad when we are away from here. Too many ghosts, as a Mortal of my acquaintance once said. Never really understood what he meant by that, but I think I’m beginning to.”

Ragnor clapped him on the shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “We’ll all be glad to be rid of this place. Why don’t we go back to the fire? It’s nearly time for me to relieve you, so I’ll take the rest of your watch.”

Maglor nodded reluctantly and they went back inside the tower. Ragnor took up a position by the door while Celepharn and Voronwë settled down to sleep. Maglor, however, sat staring at the flames, feeling foolish for his recent panic, glad that the others had not laughed at him outright. It was only when Celepharn woke to relieve Ragnor that he finally crawled under his blanket and willed himself to sleep, but his dreams were troubled and after a while he simply got up again and shared the last watch with Voronwë, neither of them speaking as they watched the night slowly giving way to day.

As soon as they finished breaking their fast, they set out to cross the Gulf. They did not come down at the same place they had come up, but were led by Ragnor further north, for while he had been exploring the wharf district, he had noticed where a sandbank had built up along the river, causing it to shallow out.

“As long as it isn’t quicksand, we can cross there,” he told them as they were wending their way through the city. Celepharn volunteered to take point once they reached the floor of the valley, using his sword to test the ground, but they encountered no quicksand and the river only came to just above their ankles as they crossed. Once on the other side they quickly climbed the cliff and were soon looking upon East Mithlond. This was the newer part of the city, Voronwë told them, settled about a thousand years after the Havens were established on the west bank.

“Most of the nobles and merchant-lords had their villas on the other side,” he explained, “and originally this had been a fishing village, but when Gil-galad had his engineers build the bridge that connected both coasts, some of the nobles built summer villas on this side. Eventually, others migrated over the bridge and settled here and so the city was expanded.”

“It seems to be in a less ruinous state than West Mithlond,” Celepharn observed.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Maglor commented, “and wondering if it’s because the glacier was stopped by the Gulf and came no further south so this part of the city was entirely untouched by ice.”

“Possible,” Voronwë allowed. “I guess we’ll never know for sure. Anyway, how do we want to do this? Shall we quarter the city again? I’ll go west this time. I wish to see if the street where I once lived is still there.”

“I’ll stay here and check out the wharf district,” Maglor offered and that left Ragnor going south and Celepharn going east. There was a square that was not far from where they had come up to the city which had been the main fish market according to Voronwë and they agreed to meet there later. Maglor said he would scout out a suitable place for them to set up camp while he was exploring and to that the others agreed before they went their separate ways.

As with West Mithlond, it was the brooding silence that Maglor noticed most. There was an air of desolation all about and, in spite of the bright sun and blue skies, he felt depressed. If there had even been some gulls flying about screaming at him it would have been fine, but the utter silence unnerved him and he could not forget the feeling he had had of being watched.

Shaking his head to dispel his mood, he began systematically scouting the wharf district, but it was empty of any sign that anyone or anything had taken up residence. The warehouses were more or less intact, though most were open to the sky, their roofs having fallen in over the ages. He found a small area just off the fish market square that he thought would be suitable for a camp and marked its location before moving on.

Moving west along the quays, he came upon what had to have been one of the shipyards where the grey ships of the Falathrim had been built and he felt a twinge of excitement, half hoping that he might actually find a ship waiting for them. Even as the thought crossed his mind, though, he dismissed it. It was an absurd hope. How would they even get a ship down to the river and then to the Sea?

Still, it was a nice fantasy and he indulged in it for a few minutes as he checked out the buildings, imagining the many ways in which they would bring a ship down to the river and then launch it, sailing away to Valinor. “Maybe we could convince Lord Ulmo to come and carry it to the Sea for us,” he said aloud, chuckling to himself, and his mood brightened at the image that he had of the Lord of Waters carrying a ship on his shoulder like a bundle of wood while the Elves trailed behind him.

But there was no ship, not even a spar. Any wood would have long since rotted away, so, while he was a little disappointed that his fantasy did not come to light, he was not feeling as depressed as he had earlier. A bit of levity at a Vala’s expense was no bad thing, he decided. He vaguely recalled earlier, brighter and more innocent times of working at Lord Aulë’s forge, jesting with the Worldsmith and his Maiar as they worked, his brothers joining in. There had been much hilarity between them and he still recalled Lord Aulë’s booming laugh.

He sighed, vaguely wishing he could erase all those intervening centuries and return to that more innocent time, secure in the love of the Valar.

“Find anything?”

Maglor startled, whipping his sword out before he even turned to find Voronwë standing before him. The other ellon stared at him in surprise.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!” Maglor exclaimed angrily as he thrust his sword back into its sheath.

“Sorry,” Voronwë said. “Next time I’ll sing out.” He narrowed his eyes. “You all right? You look a bit… flustered.”

“I’m fine,” Maglor snarled and then took a deep breath to reclaim his equilibrium, realizing that Voronwë was not at fault for his own inattentiveness. “What did you find?”

“Nothing and I suspect the others will also find nothing. This city is more than empty. It’s dead. There is no life here, not anymore.”

“I think you’re right,” Maglor conceded. “I found a place for us to camp just off that fish market square. Why don’t we head back and wait for the others to return?”

Voronwë nodded and they headed back. When Ragnor and Celepharn returned about an hour or so later, they were met with a fire and the smell of a stew bubbling away. Later, as they were sitting around the fire comparing notes while eating, Celepharn turn to Maglor.

“I don’t think it was your imagination last night,” he said.

Maglor gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, all the time I was exploring, I had the distinct feeling of being watched, yet, when I turned around there was no one there and there was no trace of anyone having come through here before us.” He shrugged. “Maybe I was just allowing the place to get to me, but I’m not entirely sure.”

“Do you think it could be one of the… one of the Houseless?” Voronwë offered hesitantly, looking a bit ill as he spoke.

Maglor shuddered and the other two paled. The idea of being houseless for all the ages of Arda and perhaps even beyond was too terrible a fate for any of them to contemplate.

“It would explain why we can’t see whoever it is watching us,” Ragnor finally said.

“What should we do?” Celepharn asked somewhat worriedly.

Maglor shrugged. “Nothing, I would think, except to maintain our vigilance. Frankly, I’m ready to leave, shake the dust of this city from my boots and return to camp this very night. I doubt we’ll find anything of interest tomorrow. I say we leave at first light.”

The others nodded. “Then let us plan to do so,” Ragnor said. “Celepharn, it’s your turn to take first watch. I’ll take the last one. Maglor, you relieve Celepharn and Voronwë will follow.”

Everyone agreed to that and this time Maglor settled himself down to rest, though he doubted he would actually sleep. He would not feel completely comfortable until they were back with the others. So, it was with some surprise when he found himself being shaken and Celepharn whispering urgently in his ear. It took a few seconds for his mind to register the fact that he’d actually fallen asleep and that Celepharn was not waking him to take his watch. He was sounding too frantic for that.

“I’m not imagining it,” he heard Celepharn say. “There’s something or someone out there. I swear.”

The others were also awake. Maglor nodded and stood and went to the doorway, being sure to stay to one side so he was not immediately visible to whoever or whatever was out there. The others clustered around him and they went completely still as only Elves could do.

“There, where the shadows are deepest,” Ragnor whispered in Maglor’s ear, pointing slightly to his right. Maglor glanced in the direction Ragnor had indicated. There was a building similar to the one they were in. He’d explored it earlier and there had been no sign of anyone or anything, yet, now he could somehow sense eyes upon them from that direction. Without consciously thinking about it, he stepped out.

“Show yourself!” he called out. “Come out, for we mean you no harm.” To emphasize his point, he made a show of unbuckling his sword belt and handing it back to Ragnor who was the closest before stepping away, his hands up in a gesture of goodwill. “See you. I am without weapons. Come, show yourself and let us be friends.”

He stood still, waiting to see what would happen, but the silence lengthened and there was no movement. He vaguely heard Ragnor whisper something but kept himself focused on the dark entrance of the other building, silently willing that other to come out.

“Please. We mean you know harm,” he said again, pleadingly. “Let us be friends.”

At that moment there was a screech of fear and the sound of a struggle. “I’ve got him!” he heard Celepharn yell. “Come quickly!”

Maglor realized then that Celepharn must have made his way to the back of their building which opened up onto a narrow alley that connected the various buildings in this square, silently sneaking up on whoever was watching them.

The other three ran quickly across to the other building. All the while there was the sound of screeching and they heard Celepharn utter more than one curse at whoever he was attempting to subdue. Maglor reached the doorway first and saw two figures struggling. He joined in the fray and then Ragnor was there as well and between them they were able to subdue the stranger, who was now whimpering in defeat.

“Well, whoever he is, he’s definitely not one of the Houseless,” Maglor said with a gasp of breath as he struggled to his feet, rubbing his ribs where the stranger had kicked him. “Let’s take him back to our fire and find out who he is.” Celepharn and Ragnor lifted the person between them and in minutes they were all staring in dismay at the pitiful creature huddled in a corner still whimpering, his eyes full of terror, darting to and fro as he sought for a way out, but they surrounded him, blocking his path of escape. In the firelight they could see that he was naked, his long, dark hair matted and covering much of his body, and peeping up between the matted strands were delicately shaped ears.

It was an Elf.

****

Falathrim: ‘The Shore-people’, the name given to the Teleri whose lord was Círdan.

15: A New Companion

“Who is he?” Celepharn demanded, staring at the ellon in shock.

“No one I know,” Maglor said somewhat testily, crouching down to be eye level with the stranger. “He looks starved. Heat up the stew, will you, Voronwë? There now, you’re safe,” he continued in a soft, friendly tone, as if speaking to a frightened elfling. “Do you understand? No one will harm you. My name is Maglor. What is your name?”

The stranger did not answer, only whimpered. He tried to scamper to one side where Voronwë had left the circle to tend the fire and heat the stew, but Ragnor was quick to block him and he scuttled back into his corner, looking more terrified.

“He doesn’t seem to understand you,” Ragnor said. “By his coloring I would say he was one of the Noldor, like yourself or Voronwë, but…. Do you think he might be one of the evair?”

“A Refuser! Is it possible?” Celepharn exclaimed.

“Anything is possible,” Maglor replied. He stared at the ellon, wondering if he was indeed one who had refused the Valar’s invitation to the Elves. He knew that there were those of every clan who had remained behind, preferring the familiar starlit shores of the Sea of Helcar to the unknown dangers that faced those who joined in the Great Migration. He had listened avidly to the tales that were told of that time.

Oddly enough, he had heard those tales, not from his family in Aman, but from the Sindar and the Nandor of Beleriand. The Amaneldi seemed more reluctant to speak of their adventures. He had often wondered what had chanced with those who had stayed behind. But Cuiviénen had been lost to them a long time ago and there were only rumors offered by the Edain who spoke of their own homeland in whispers. There had been a few adventurous Elves who had decided to look for that fabled land of their Beginnings, but none had ever returned and no news had ever come out of the East to tell of their fate or the fate of their sundered kin.

“What’s he doing here, though?” Celepharn asked.

“Perhaps he decided he wanted to go to Aman after all but missed the boat,” Voronwë replied somewhat caustically, shaking his head at the inanity of Celepharn’s questions. Celepharn seemed to recognize just how stupid his questions were and blushed. “Here,” Voronwë said as he rejoined the others, carrying a wooden bowl and a spoon and handing them to Maglor, “see if he’ll eat. Poor ellon looks as if he’s not had a decent meal in ages.”

“How has he survived here, though?” Ragnor asked as Maglor offered the stew to the stranger, who stared at him uncomprehendingly. “We Elves can tolerate extreme temperatures more than the Mortals, but even we need protection from the harshness of the winters this far north and he’s not even wearing so much as a loincloth.”

“Perhaps he forgot to dress this morning in the excitement of discovering other people,” Celepharn quipped. Ragnor and Voronwë chuckled.

Maglor ignored them, concentrating on gaining the stranger’s trust. He dipped the spoon in the stew then brought it to his lips, miming sipping the broth and making a sound of satisfaction and smiling. Then he held the spoon out to the other ellon. For a long tense moment, the stranger Elf stared at Maglor. Then, he reached out and grabbed the bowl, but ignored the spoon.

At first, he did not eat, merely staring down at the bowl, sniffing. Then he put a finger into the stew, pulling it out quickly in surprise, as if he had not expected it to be hot. Hesitantly, he put the bowl to his lips and sipped, gasping as he drank the hot liquid, making untranslatable sounds of pleasure. He dipped his hand into the bowl and tentatively pulled out a hunk of goat meat, glancing at Maglor who nodded, miming putting the meat in his mouth and chewing. The other slowly copied him and they watched his eyes widen in obvious delight as he eagerly began chewing, shoveling the meat into his mouth as quickly as he could.

“Do we still have any waybread left?” Maglor asked.

“Yes,” Voronwë said, carefully moving away so as not to startle their guest. He fumbled through one of their haversacks, pulling out a bit of cloth and unwrapping it, revealing a hunk of waybread which he gave to Maglor who then offered it to the stranger. The ellon stared at the bread as if he wasn’t sure what Maglor was intending. Maglor broke off a piece and mimed dipping it into the bowl then shoving it into his mouth, again making sounds of satisfaction. He offered the bread again and this time the ellon took it and dipped it into the bowl, biting off a piece of the sopping mess. Maglor nodded and smiled as he stood to speak with his fellows.

“He’s not so wild that he can’t be taught better table manners,” he said, giving them a wry look, and the other three chuckled.

“What are we going to do with him, though?” Celepharn asked softly, frowning slightly. “Do you think there are others like him and if so, where are they?”

“I don’t think we can just abandon him,” Ragnor said, casting a sympathetic look at the ellon still eating.

“Should we look for others?” Voronwë enquired, but Maglor shook his head.

“My guess is that there are no others, else he would be more civilized. Even those creatures we encountered in Annúminas covered their bodies with animal skins and had some level of civilization. But this poor ellon doesn’t even seem to have any kind of language. He’s probably been here for so long alone he’s forgotten language.”

“So what do we do?” Celepharn insisted. “How do we convince him to come with us or do we just tie him up and drag him along?”

“Assuming we want to bring him with us,” Ragnor said.

“Perhaps we can lure him,” Voronwë said. “Food might do. It’s obvious he’s not eaten a hot meal in a very long time, if ever.”

They glanced at the ellon and smiled. He had finished eating and was now curled up, his eyes half closed, the empty bowl and a hunk of bread clutched in his hands.

“We’ll discuss this more in the morning,” Maglor said and the others agreed as he picked up his blanket and gently covered the sleeper. Ragnor and Voronwë returned to their own blankets while Maglor and Celepharn remained awake, keeping watch, promising to wake the others in a couple of hours to take the second half of the night. Maglor settled near the doorway while Celepharn decided to make some tea.

****

Morning found the four Elves sitting around the fire discussing what they should do with the stranger who still slept.

“We have to give him a name,” Celepharn insisted. “We can’t just refer to him as ‘that poor ellon we found in Mithlond’.”

“What do you suggest?” Maglor asked, but the other ellon just shrugged. “Well, we’ll worry about a name later. Right now we need to figure out how to clean him up and dress him. I will not bring him into camp the way he is. The ellith would be shocked.”

“More likely it will be the ellyn who are shocked,” Ragnor said with a grin. “The ellith will take one look at him and their maternal instincts will come rushing to the fore. They’ll end up adopting him and fighting over who gets to bathe and dress him.”

They all chuckled at that, though softly so as not to waken the sleeper.

“If we’re going to bathe him, we’ll need to lure him down to the river, or bring the river here,” Voronwë said. “A hot bath, or at least a warm one, would work better.”

“Are you volunteering to lug all that water up here?” Maglor asked with a smile. “We don’t have anything large enough to heat that much water. I’m afraid a cold bath will have to do.”

“So how do we convince him to take one?” Celepharn asked.

“By taking one ourselves,” Maglor replied. “He’s less likely to fight the idea if we are all taking a bath.”

The others sighed but did not protest Maglor’s reasoning. Voronwë was about to comment when the stranger stirred and they all turned and smiled at him as he blinked blearily. He seemed to recognize where he was and cringed slightly at the sight of them. Then he noticed the hunk of bread still clutched in his hand and began nibbling on it, all the while keeping his eyes on them.

“Good morning,” Maglor said brightly, then turned to the others. “As soon as he’s finished eating, we’ll see if we can’t get him down to the river. Celepharn, why don’t you and Voronwë head down and scout the area for us? Grab some soap and our blankets which we’ll use as towels. Ragnor, he seems to be more your size than mine, but between us we should be able to find something for him to wear.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ragnor said and stood along with Celepharn and Voronwë. The stranger stared at them as they bustled about. Maglor sipped his tea, evincing unconcern as his companions exited the building, leaving him alone with their friend.

“We really do need to come up with a name for you,” he said conversationally. “Perhaps I’ll call you Thurin considering that you remained hidden from us for quite a while before we were able to find you. What do you think?”

Thurin, as Maglor thought of him, just stared at him, obviously not understanding.

“Not very talkative in the morning, are we? Well, if you’re finished with breakfast, why don’t we go have our bath?” Maglor said as he banked the fire and stood. He went to the doorway, gesturing for the ellon to follow him. After a long moment, Thurin stood and started toward him but stopped to stare at the smoldering dung, tentatively putting out his hand. Maglor was beside him in a second, grabbing his arm and shaking his head. “No. We don’t play with fire. Come. It’s bath time.” He gently pulled the ellon away and was relieved when Thurin did not protest but followed meekly enough.

It took only a few minutes for them to reach the valley where Maglor could see the other three already divested of their clothes and frolicking in the water. Maglor glanced at Thurin, who just stared at them in surprise. “Come on,” he said, pulling the ellon along. “We don’t want to miss out on the fun.”

As they reached the river the other three greeted them joyfully. Celepharn came out of the water and took Thurin’s arm while Maglor quickly undressed. Thurin just stood there, giving them all a puzzled look.

“I decided to name him Thurin,” Maglor told them as Celepharn was attempting to lead the ellon into the water, though Thurin seemed doubtful as to his intent.

“It’ll do until we think of something better,” Ragnor said.

“Or he remembers who he is,” Voronwë added.

Maglor nodded and without even looking at Thurin and Celepharn, entered the river. “Here, hand me that soap,” he said to Ragnor and began lathering up, still ignoring Thurin who had balked at going into the river with Celepharn but now stood staring at Maglor with grave interest. Maglor watched from the corner of his eye as Celepharn began miming washing and nodding as he stepped into the water, gesturing for Thurin to follow. After a brief moment, the ellon did and Maglor smiled at him, handing him the soap, which he promptly tried to eat.

“No. Not for eating,” Maglor said with a laugh and took the soap from Thurin and showed him how to rub it on his body. It took a while for the ellon to catch on and when they attempted to wash his hair he shied away from them.

“Ragnor, wash my hair,” Maglor said.

“But we hardly know one another,” the other quipped and the others laughed, though Thurin just looked confused.

“If he sees me letting you wash my hair, he may let us wash his. For some reason, he’s willing to do anything so long as I’m doing it.”

“He trusts you, for some reason,” Ragnor said as he complied with Maglor’s wish and began washing the Noldo’s hair.

“And that can be both a burden and a joy,” Voronwë said in all seriousness. “It seems as if you’ve been adopted, Maglor.”

Thurin, in the meantime, was watching Ragnor wash Maglor’s hair, and then, Maglor in turn washed Ragnor’s. Celepharn and Voronwë took turns washing each other’s hair as well and that left Thurin. When Maglor mimed washing Thurin’s hair, the ellon actually nodded and they all smiled at that. It took longer to wash Thurin’s hair, of course, for it was badly matted but eventually they were able to get it clean and then they were drying off. Maglor had Ragnor draw a comb through his hair and then gestured for Thurin to let him comb his and the ellon allowed it, actually purring with pleasure as Maglor worked out the tangles.

“Well, that was the easy part,” Maglor said as he finished with Thurin’s hair. “We’ll try putting it into a braid later. Right now we have to convince him to wear clothes.” He began putting his own clothes on, but stopped after donning his braes, handing a pair to Thurin, miming how to put them on. Thurin, for his part, was too busy fingering the fabric to pay much attention. Finally, Maglor took the braes and mimed putting them on, pointing to his own braes and nodding.

“We all get dressed,” he said, offering the braes back to Thurin who reluctantly attempted to pull the braes on himself, but he lost his balance and fell to the ground. Maglor glared at the other three ellyn, daring them to laugh at the stunned look on Thurin’s face as he sat there with one foot in the air still trying to put on the braes. Maglor knelt beside him and helped him to slip the braes over his feet, then he and Celepharn got him back up so Maglor could secure the waist. He grabbed his undertunic and Celepharn handed Thurin another. This time Thurin carefully watched as Maglor donned the undertunic and managed to do the same without too much trouble. Soon, the overtunic was in place but they eschewed a belt and there were no extra boots.

“He’s gone barefoot for so long, I doubt he even thinks about it,” Ragnor pointed out. “When we get back to the others, we can try to outfit him with some boots, but for now, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Maglor agreed and they grabbed their wet blankets and other bathing paraphernalia and headed back to their camp with Thurin docilely following. “So, do we stay or go?” Celepharn asked.

“We go,” Maglor replied. “There seems no point in staying here any longer.”

“I wonder where Thurin’s been living, though,” Voronwë said. “We’ve found no trace that anyone has actually lived here.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t,” Celepharn replied. “Perhaps he lives in the mountains or somewhere and just happened to be visiting Mithlond at the same time as we. It could just be coincidence.”

“There is no such thing,” Maglor said categorically. “Even if what you say is true, that he was here when we were has meaning. What meaning, I don’t know. That is something we must discover, but I believe that we were meant to find Thurin. Perhaps Voronwë spoke truer than he knew. Perhaps Thurin did come here to Sail but did not come in time to take the last ship with Círdan.”

“And he’s been here all this time, haunting this empty city, slowly losing all memory of himself as an Elf?” Ragnor asked, his expression full of horror and pity at the picture Maglor’s words had painted for them. Celepharn and Voronwë were equally shocked at the idea.

Maglor just nodded, giving Thurin a sympathetic smile as he walked beside him, his expression one of puzzlement, as if he were trying to figure out what they were saying, knowing he was the topic of discussion. They had reached the top of the cliff and were wending their way back to their fire when Thurin stopped and began awkwardly fumbling with his clothes, making impatient noises. For a second or two, the other three ellyn stared at him, wondering why he was sounding frantic, then Maglor realized what was happening and rolled his eyes.

“You go on,” he said to the others as he helped Thurin to undo his braes. “We’ll be along soon.”

“Perhaps I should stay and help,” Ragnor said with a knowing smile. “At least I’ve had experience dealing with messes left by elflings.”

“I’m sure I can handle it,” Maglor said with a grin and the other three chuckled and headed off, leaving Maglor to deal with Thurin needing to relieve himself. “At least you have enough intelligence to know not to go in your clothes,” he said conversationally as he helped Thurin out of his braes. The ellyn scuttled around a bank of stones and then Maglor heard a sigh of relief. “And you also have retained a need for privacy in performing a natural function rather than doing it in front of an audience as an animal would. I don’t think you’re as far gone as I first thought and that’s a good thing. It means we can reclaim you more easily, I think. All done? Here you go then.” He handed the ellon his braes and was pleased that he was able to put them on without help.

A minute later, they went on and rejoined the others who had taken the time to strike camp, so that Maglor found that his things were packed away. Ragnor handed him his haversack. “Any problems?”

“No, we did fine,” Maglor said. “All set? Let’s get out of here. I do not wish to remain in this city of the dead any longer than I have to.”

“Násië!” Voronwë exclaimed with some feeling.

Maglor strapped his sword to his waist, shrugged the haversack onto his shoulders along with his bow and quiver and then gestured for Thurin to follow them, which he did meekly enough. They headed south, not bothering to look about them, eager to leave the city behind and within the hour they were at its outskirts once again. Thurin stopped, glancing back at the city, his expression one of distress. Maglor took him in his embrace and hugged him.

“It’s all right, mellon nîn,” he said softly. “All is well. Come.” He stepped away, a hand on Thurin’s elbow. The ellon took a last, haunted look at the city and then allowed Maglor to lead him away.

“He must think that he’s lost all chance of Sailing coming with us,” Ragnor said sympathetically, divining Thurin’s reluctance and distress. “He’s haunted this city for ages, waiting for a ship, though I suspect he’s forgotten that by now.”

“I suspect you are correct,” Maglor averred, looking sad, wondering how it must have been for the ellon, his hope of Sailing destroyed by coming too late to these shores, remaining in the city or nearby vainly waiting, losing all hope with his sense of self. He wondered that he himself had not become as Thurin was. He should have faded long ago, or died in truth. The Valar knew he had had plenty of opportunity to do so given the number of Mortal wars he had fought in. He thought about that as they made their way back toward the Emyn Beraid. He had never been obligated to fight, but had at times sought out battles and now he realized he had been seeking death and expiation for his sins. That such an easy out had eluded him time after time now made sense. If he had died before joining the Harthadrim….

He shook his head, not so much in denial as in wonder. What he would have missed! He glanced at the others walking with him: Ragnor, who was fast becoming his gwador; Voronwë, who had survived slavery in Morgoth’s mines and was a steadying influence on them all; and Celepharn, the youngest of them, his curiosity and eagerness tempered by a mature constraint rarely seen even among the oldest of their people. And then there was Thurin, their newest companion, and Maglor felt excitement rising within him as he contemplated the challenge of civilizing the ellon and helping him to find himself once again.

Once on the plain, they hastened their pace, determined to reach the Towers by nightfall rather than making camp along the way. So, they headed in a more southeasterly direction, aiming for the midpoint of the Emyn Beraid. It would mean some stiff climbing once they reached the hills, but that was of little matter.

And all the while, Thurin kept up with them.

They stopped an hour after noon to take a brief rest before going on. Thurin stayed closed to Maglor, which pleased him and he spoke softly to him, describing their route and their destination. He was unsure if Thurin even understood, but he hoped that by speaking to him as if he did, the ellon would eventually remember what language was and said as much to the others as they crouched in a circle chewing on some waybread and jerky, which apparently Thurin enjoyed, for he was making inarticulate sounds of pleasure as he sucked on the dried meat.

“Come,” Ragnor said, standing when they had finished eating, and they watched in surprise as Thurin immediately stood up, looking expectantly at Maglor.

“Well, it seems he understands that word at least,” Maglor said in satisfaction as he stood, nodding at Thurin and smiling. “Yes, by all means, let us go.”

They reached the hills late in the afternoon when the sun was nearly set and as they feared, the climbing was stiff and Celepharn wondered if they shouldn’t just make camp and wait until morning, but Maglor felt a need to continue on, though he couldn’t quite explain why. Yet none of the others had any real reason or a need to stop for the night, and Thurin voiced no objections but followed them willingly. Eventually, though, even as night enveloped them, they came to an area that was familiar to them and they hastened their pace, knowing they were not far from camp. Indeed, reaching the top of one hill, they spied the one remaining Tower rising in the distance, its white stone gleaming under starlight.

“There, Thurin,” he said, pointing. “That is our home, at least for the winter.”

Thurin merely stared at the Tower and there was a fleeting expression of puzzlement or perhaps of memory, but it was gone in an instant and then he was backing away. Maglor grabbed his arm and Voronwë blocked his backward path. “No, mellon nîn,” Maglor said gently. “There’s no going back. Come. You are with friends. No one will harm you. Come. Come.”

Thurin gave them an uncertain look but did not try to flee, allowing Maglor to lead him. Maglor kept his hand on the ellon’s arm, not willing to let him go. It was awkward going but he persisted and Voronwë helped. It took them the better part of three hours to come onto the plateau where the Towers stood. Sador and Haldir, acting as guards, challenged them and then greeted them joyfully, calling out to others who came to greet them. Thurin suddenly balked at the sight of the crowd and Maglor and Voronwë had to hold him firmly in place with Maglor softly speaking assurances to him.

“Who is he?” Haldir asked in surprise as everyone stared at the stranger.

Denethor arrived along with the others and he took in Thurin at a glance, a raised eyebrow his only response. Ragnor grinned at him and, pitching his voice to sound like an elfling, he said, “Look what followed us home, Ada. Can we keep him?”

****

Evair: Plural of Avar: Refuser, the name given to those Elves who refused to leave Cuiviénen.

Amaneldi: (Quenya) Plural (sic) of Amanelda: an Elf of Aman. This is an attested word.

Edain: Plural of Adan: a Man, specifically referring to one who came from one of the three Houses of Elf-friends in Beleriand. Other Men who came later to Beleriand or were encountered elsewhere in Middle-earth were generally referred to as Fîr ‘Mortals’ (singular Fair) by the Elves.

Thurin: Hidden.

Násië: (Quenya) Amen.

16: Discussions

“And you have no idea what he was doing there?” Denethor asked.

He, Maglor and the other three scouts, along with Damrod, Finduilas and Eirien, forming an impromptu council, were sitting around the main fire while the rest of the Harthadrim fawned over Thurin. The ellon had been initially shy and uncertain as the others surrounded them and Maglor had to caution everyone to keep their distance and not overwhelm him, all the while keeping a firm grip on Thurin’s arm to prevent him from running. It took some coaxing on the part of Maglor and Celepharn to convince Thurin that all was well and no one meant him any harm before the ellon allowed himself to be drawn into their little community.

Now, however, the ellon was happily sitting at another fire while Aerin, Gilwileth, and the other ellith plied him with stew and the ellyn stood nearby keeping watch. He still refused to use a spoon but eagerly accepted a hunk of waybread, dipping it into the broth and eating with relish.

Maglor glanced over at the ellon, smiling at him fondly, before turning back to his own meal. “No, we have no idea,” he answered as he dipped some bread into his bowl. “We’re not even sure he even lived in the city for we saw no trace of him. Yet, he was there, following us, watching us. He’s very much like a very young elfling or a mind-damaged Mortal, yet he can be taught. We’re hoping that given time he’ll regain his knowledge of language and perhaps tell us his story.”

Denethor stared at Thurin and sighed. “How did he survive? Why has he not faded? What kept him going all these long years?”

“The Belain only know,” Voronwë said. “Maglor does not think there is coincidence in our finding him.”

Denethor gave Maglor a shrewd look. “You think we were meant to find him?”

Maglor shrugged. “As to that, I cannot say, but I have learned the hard way that what we think of as coincidence isn’t. It’s simply the universe arranging things to suit itself.”

“An odd way of putting it, I suppose,” Denethor said with a nod, “but probably true. Well, putting our mystery ellon aside for the moment, what other news of Mithlond can you give us?”

“We’re better off staying here for the winter, as far as I’m concerned,” Maglor replied. “Mithlond is too open and we saw no sign of game anywhere near it, though we did not travel to the mountains where it might be hiding. Certainly there has to be some else how did Thurin survive without food? At any rate, the city is too open and too much of it is in ruins. It would be difficult to defend if we needed to. These towers are more defensible.”

“Besides, it’s cozier,” Ragnor added, putting an arm around his wife and kissing her on the cheek.

The others chuckled. “Well, it’s probably just as well,” Denethor said, “for in the time you were gone, we’ve been busy constructing an aqueduct to bring the water closer to us. It’s half finished and we hope to complete it in the next few days. The ellith have been curing the goatskins and they plan to sew them together to hang before the tower entrances to help keep the wind out. We’re also thinking of using some of the stone from the north tower to build an enclosure that will connect the other two towers and this central fire so that when the winter is in full force we won’t need to brave the elements to get about.”

“We can then turn the north tower into a privy instead of everyone going into the hills as they are doing now,” Finduilas said.

Maglor nodded approvingly. “I think that will work and it will certainly keep us busy. We don’t have much time, for already it’s beginning to snow.”

“The aqueduct project is going well and we should have it completed in a few days,” Denethor said, “so our main focus is building the enclosure as quickly as we can. The hunters have been bringing back plenty of game and the skins are curing. We hope to have enough to form a roof.”

“That’s a lot of goats…” Maglor commented.

“And deer,” Ragnor added.

“And anything else we can find, including those cat-creatures,” Denethor said. “We discovered tracks that can only be from them. There’s a colony of them somewhere in these hills or so we suspect. Our hunters are hoping to find them and eliminate them. Their pelts should come in handy.”

“That is most disturbing,” Maglor said with a frown. “Those creatures had some intelligence which makes them doubly dangerous.”

“Which is why I’ve doubled the guard at night, for I think they are nocturnal creatures for the most part,” Denethor explained and the four scouts nodded.

“So we are decided, then?” Damrod asked, speaking for the first time. “We remain here through the winter?”

“It seems the safest course,” Denethor replied.

“Mithlond is not so far away that we can’t make use of it, though,” Celepharn said. “There’s fish in the river, though we didn’t bother to try to catch any, and I noticed some succulents growing about that we can harvest.”

“We might be able to use some of the stone from the city to help augment our building projects, though transporting it might prove problematic,” Voronwë added.

“Something we can consider,” Denethor said. “So we need fishermen as well as hunters, do we? Well, I’m sure I’ll have plenty of volunteers.” He cast them a knowing grin and they chuckled.

“What about Thurin?” Eirien then asked. “What are your plans for him?”

“He seems to trust Maglor the most,” Ragnor offered, “and maybe Celepharn. Perhaps they should concentrate on… um… civilizing our newest member.”

“Are you willing, both of you, to take on such a task?” Denethor asked.

“I have no objections to doing so,” Maglor stated while Celepharn nodded. “And it might be good to have one of the ellith helping us. They seem to have a… um… civilizing effect on most ellyn.”

The ellyn chuckled rather ruefully while the two ellith smirked.

“Whom would you suggest?” Denethor asked.

Maglor shrugged, turning to Finduilas and Eirien. “Do you have any ideas? I’m sure all of the ellith would love to help, but that’s not practical.”

The two ellith glanced at one another. “Glóredhel,” Finduilas said firmly and Eirien nodded.

“Glóredhel?!” Celepharn exclaimed. “Why, she barely speaks and is so shy she stammers when she does.”

Both ellith gave him cool stares and it was Eirien who spoke. “She is shy because she feels herself unworthy of us, though I’ve tried to convince her that she is not. She is not as skilled in sewing or cooking or much of anything else of a physical nature, but she has a sharp mind and I think in earlier times she was a loremaster in her own right, though she never speaks of it. She needs to feel needed and helping you and Maglor with Thurin will give her that.”

“Which one is she?” Maglor asked before Celepharn could reply. “I confess, I haven’t bothered to learn everyone’s name and history, and I am sorry that I have not done so before now.”

“There is no need to apologize, Maglor,” Finduilas said kindly. “We know that you were in a lot of emotional pain when we found you and it’s taken you time to trust us enough to care. But in answer to your question, she’s the one sitting quietly on the other side of the fire from everyone else. It’s not that she’s unfriendly, mind you, but very shy.”

Maglor looked over to the other fire and saw the elleth in question, a slim, lithe figure sitting quietly, her face lit by the fire. She was clearly of mixed Noldorin and Sindarin blood with her honey-brown hair. There was a wistfulness to her expression as she watched the others interact with Thurin that Maglor could not interpret. He turned back to the others. “I will welcome her help, if she is willing.”

“Why don’t we call her over and ask,” Denethor suggested and Finduilas promptly rose and went to speak to the elleth. Maglor watched as Glóredhel gave Finduilas a surprised look at whatever she was saying to her, but after hesitating a second or two, she rose and joined them willingly enough.

Denethor smiled at her, patting the stone next to him. “Come sit with us, my dear. There is a thing we would ask you.”

The elleth did not speak but gave them her attention as she sat. Denethor nodded at Maglor who then spoke. “Celepharn and I have volunteered to see to Thurin and help him to… um…”

“Regain himself?” Glóredhel said.

Maglor nodded. “Yes. Exactly. At any rate, we feel that Thurin will respond better if one of the ellith was helping us. Your name was suggested.”

“Why?” she asked, giving them a frown.

“A fair enough question,” Denethor replied. “Let us just say you come highly recommended.”

Glóredhel gave Finduilas and Eirien a shrewd glance before turning back to Maglor, her expression now turning doubtful. “What would you have me do exactly?”

“Well, we’re not asking you to help bathe and dress him,” Celepharn said with a grin, “unless, of course, you want to.”

Maglor gave the younger ellon a stern look and Ragnor slapped him upside his head, saving Maglor the trouble. Voronwë and Denethor looked disgusted but all three ellith appeared more amused.

“Well, an interesting proposition, but I think I’ll pass,” Glóredhel said.

“Oh,” Maglor said, feeling a bit let down for some reason. “Well, thank you….”

Glóredhel gave him a surprised look that transmuted into something more rueful. “You misunderstand me, my lord. I only meant, I pass on Celepharn’s suggestion, but I would be happy to help you with Thurin in any way I can.”

“Oh,” Maglor said again, now feeling embarrassed. “Well… um… thank you.” He smiled. He wasn’t sure why he was feeling so happy about Glóredhel helping him and Celepharn. There were other ellith equally qualified to do so. He thought perhaps the intriguing suggestion put forth by Eirien that the elleth had once been a loremaster might have something to do with it. It had been long and long since he had had any real discussion with another loremaster. He wondered idly what her specialty might have been. Well, time enough to find out.

“So what do we need to do, besides teach him how to use eating utensils?” Glóredhel asked, sounding less shy.

“Language,” Maglor said without hesitating. “We need to teach him or rather re-teach him language. I think he understands what we are saying or at least understands the intent of our words. Surely, memory of once having spoken is beginning to surface. Right now, he’s begun imitating gestures, such as nodding or shaking his head, so we need to begin teaching him connections just as we do with elflings, pointing at things and naming them, getting them to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, that sort of thing.”

Glóredhel nodded, her silvery-grey eyes bright with excitement. “With language, everything else flows,” she said. “Do you think he is one of the Evair rather than a Noldo?”

“We have no idea,” Maglor replied. “Either way, does it matter? He’s an Elf and he’s lost and it is our duty to help him find himself again.”

“It still amazes me that he hasn’t faded,” Denethor said.

“The will to live is usually stronger than the will to die or to fade,” Voronwë commented. “I found that true even among Mortals. Something made him stay beyond all hope, for I think his present state is due to despair more than anything else.”

“And so our task is to offer him hope once again,” Maglor said, stealing a glance to where Thurin sat staring in amazement at Neldorion singing a hymn to Elbereth. He turned back to look at the others, giving them a smile. “And who better to do that than we who call ourselves Harthadrim?”

Everyone smiled at that, the significance of Maglor’s use of the pronoun not lost on any of them. They spent a few more minutes speaking of things concerning their camp and the preparations they needed to make for the coming winter and then stopped to listen to the singing. Thurin, Maglor saw, sat mesmerized by it all, his eyes wide and his expression one of wonder. Others joined in, though Maglor did not. None of them had heard him sing and though he had been invited to do so, he politely refused, saying he preferred to listen. He knew his decision not to sing had surprised and even disappointed the others, but he could not sing, not now, not yet.

He stood and went over to Thurin, sitting beside him, though the ellon was too engrossed in the music to pay him any heed. Maglor watched the almost elfling-like wonder in the ellon’s eyes and saw something else in them, something deeper struggling to reach the surface, trying to make itself known.

“You remember singing, don’t you?” he said softly, not really expecting Thurin to answer so he was surprised when the ellon turned to him and he could see in his eyes the confusion of memories struggling to make themselves known. For a long moment Thurin sat there, his mouth moving but making no sound. Maglor put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said soothingly. “Do not fret. Just enjoy the music.”

But Thurin was still looking confused and desperate, his mouth working to get something out. The others seemed to take note of what was happening and the singing stopped. “No!” Maglor hissed, never taking his eyes off Thurin. “Don’t stop. Keep singing. Neldorian, sing the hymn to Elbereth again. Everyone sing and do not stop.”

Neldorion complied, lifting his voice to the stars above them. “A Elbereth Gilthoniel, silivren penna míriel, o menel aglar elenath….” And the others joined in.

Thurin stopped his struggles and now sat with his eyes closed. Maglor watched in wonder as he saw tears leaking from the closed lids and instinctively held the ellon closer to give him comfort. Thurin opened his eyes and there was a brightness to them that had not been there before. His mouth moved again and now he was making inarticulate sounds and Maglor was sure the ellon was struggling to form words. The others continued singing but he could tell that all their focus was on Thurin.

“What is it, Thurin?” Maglor asked quietly. “What are you trying to say?”

“Eh… eh… eh… ehl… bri… ehlbrith… ehlbrith….”

The singing came to a halt again. “Elbereth,” Maglor heard Rían whisper. “He’s trying to say ‘Elbereth’.”

“Ehl…brith,” Thurin repeated, the tears running down his cheeks.

“Yes,” Maglor whispered. “Elbereth. Do you remember Elbereth?”

But Thurin did not or could not answer, for he was weeping in earnest now and Maglor gathered him into his arms and rocked him, crooning something soft. It was a lullaby, one he’d sung to Elrond and Elros when they had first come into his life. It was a simple melody and his singing voice was a bit rough at first but by the second verse it was quite beautiful to hear. Everyone around him just sat in awe, but Maglor paid them little heed as he continued singing Thurin to sleep.

17: Taming

If any of them thought that the previous evening’s breakthrough with Thurin would continue unimpeded, they were quickly disabused of that idea the next morning.

The ellon slept beside the fire, wrapped in a blanket, while Maglor, excused from sentry duty, sat beside him, keeping watch. Glóredhel sat with him and together they quietly discussed how to go about teaching, or re-teaching, Thurin language.

“Tonight was a good start,” Maglor said at one point.

“But only a start,” Glóredhel said and Maglor nodded.

However, next morning when he awoke, Thurin proved unresponsive to those around him, refusing food and simply staring at the fire. Only the need to relieve himself caused him to pull himself out of his apathy, but once he was back by the fire, a pall of indifference settled over him again and he refused to accept any overtures by Maglor or others to engage him in the life of the community.

“I thought for sure that after last night he would be eager to regain speech,” Glóredhel said as she and Maglor sat on either side of Thurin, who ignored them both, content to stare into the fire.

“I think he is afraid,” Maglor replied.

“Afraid? Afraid of what?”

Maglor shrugged. “Afraid of where his memories might take him. Afraid of what it might mean to return to himself. He’s been alone for so long and has forgotten so much. It has to be frightening to suddenly remember something that should never have been forgotten. He needs time to accept that and I’m willing to give it to him. After all, we’re not going anywhere, are we?”

Glóredhel actually laughed and Thurin jerked his head in her direction, his eyes wide, though Maglor was not sure if it was in wonder or terror at the sound. He decided to take advantage of Thurin’s interest, tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention.

“Glóredhel,” he said, pointing to the elleth, then pointed at himself. “Maglor.” Pointing back at Glóredhel, he repeated her name and then did the same for himself. He did this a few more times then pointed at Thurin, saying his name. Then he pointed at the fire and named it, moving on to the benches on which they were sitting that had been constructed from the stones lying about. All the while, Thurin sat watching Maglor’s every move, but did not otherwise respond.

“Fire. Stone. Snow. Sky.” Maglor repeated those words, pointing appropriately. Thurin stared at him but Maglor could not tell if he was even getting through. He was not sure what he was expecting, though in the back of his mind he supposed he was hoping that the ellon would begin repeating the words after him, but he did not and when Maglor stopped naming things, Thurin returned to staring at the fire, ignoring everyone and everything around him.

Maglor resisted a sigh, giving Glóredhel, who had remained silent all this time, a rueful look. “I think it’s going to take some time to get through to him.”

“And we have plenty of that,” the elleth said with a nod. “Do not despair. I did not think he would immediately start orating, let alone repeat after you. He may not yet see a connection between the sounds you are making and the object to which you are pointing, but I think if we persevere he eventually will make those connections. Once he does, all else will flow. In the meantime, we just have to be patient.”

“You are correct,” Maglor said. “And patience is something I learned when I was raising Elrond and Elros. It took a long time for them to trust me enough not to try to kill me.” He chuckled at a particular memory of the twins at age fourteen rigging their bedroom with what they thought was a clever trap that they were sure would bring about his demise. It had not worked quite the way they had planned. He gave Thurin a fond smile as he thought of his foster sons, reaching down to stroke the ellon’s hair. Thurin did not respond to his ministrations, but Maglor thought he felt a lessening of tension in the ellon’s posture. Glóredhel remained silent, for which he was grateful.

“How is he doing?”

Maglor looked up to see Denethor standing there, a look of concern on his face.

“He won’t eat,” Maglor said, still stroking Thurin’s hair. “He seems to have retreated into himself. Last night might have been emotionally overwhelming for him and he just needs time to get used to things and us.”

Denethor nodded. “I came to tell you that Ragnor wishes to return to Mithlond with the purpose of finding where our friend hid out all this time. He thinks Thurin may have holed up in the foothills to the north of the city.”

“A logical conclusion seeing as how we never saw any evidence of him living in the city,” Maglor said. “I would go with him but I am needed here to work with Thurin.”

“And we all realize that,” Denethor said. “I merely came to let you know. Celepharn wishes to go with Ragnor, as does Voronwë.”

“And I understand why they want to, for I would love to go back with them. I suppose Glóredhel and I can deal with Thurin if Celepharn wishes to go with Ragnor. I would not like to see just those three going alone. I would recommend at least one or two others accompany them.”

“I agree. Sador has said he would go and I’ll see about sending one or two others with them. Not all can go, though I know that even the ellith are curious to see the city, but that will leave us defenseless and we still have to finish that aqueduct if we don’t want to spend the winter hauling water from the spring.”

“There’s no reason why we can’t send groups to the city though,” Glóredhel said, joining the conversation. “I think we need to have some people fishing or gathering the succulents that grow by the river before the weather turns against us.”

“Those who go with Ragnor could do that on their way back,” Denethor said, “but I agree that others should be permitted to go as well. Very well. I will think about it and let everyone know tonight. Perhaps two groups can go together. While Ragnor seeks to find Thurin’s home, others can be fishing and gathering. Those of us who remain here will continue working on the aqueduct and the other projects we discussed.”

“And I will certainly be happy to help in any way I can,” Maglor said. “Thurin should not have to take up all of my time though I accept him as my primary responsibility.”

“And mine,” Glóredhel added.

“Fair enough,” Denethor said. “In the meantime, perhaps you can convince our friend to eat. I can tell you the ellith were a little put out at him turning up his nose at their culinary efforts.”

Maglor grinned. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

Denethor shrugged, giving them a slight smile as he sauntered off. After a moment, Glóredhel spoke. “So, what are your plans?”

“For the moment, nothing,” Maglor replied. “There’s precious little we can do if Thurin refuses to respond to us. We will have to give him time. In the meanwhile, I’m going to go see what progress was made with the aqueduct and perhaps give them a hand.” With that he stood.

“I’ll join you,” Glóredhel said, rising.

Together, they started walking away, but stopped and turned to look at Thurin who had made some inarticulate noise, and they saw him shake his head, looking at them in dismay. He made a gesture of patting his head and Maglor realized the ellon wanted him to continue stroking his hair. He glanced at Glóredhel, who shrugged, and sighed.

“Come,” he said, gesturing to Thurin. “Come.”

But Thurin just sat there patting his head and making noises of distress. Glóredhel gave Maglor an amused look. “It looks as if you’re not going anywhere anytime soon, my lord.”

Maglor scowled but did not contradict her. He went back to the fire and sat beside Thurin, pushing the ellon’s hand out of the way so he could stroke his hair. Thurin gave a gurgle of pleasure and actually smiled, but his eyes never left the fire.

****

Later, one of the ellith came over with slivers of goat meat in a trencher. “Perhaps Thurin would like some,” she suggested as Maglor readily accepted the offering with his thanks. He noticed Thurin’s attention had been diverted with the ellith’s approach and his eyes lit up at the sight of the meat. Maglor decided to use the opportunity for another lesson, holding the trencher just out of Thurin’s reach.

“I will give you some,” he said, “but you must earn it.” He then pointed to Glóredhel. “Glóredhel. Can you say that? Glóredhel.” He repeated the name several times, each time giving Thurin the chance to repeat him, but the ellon just sat there looking confused and reaching for the trencher. Maglor stood up and held the trencher away, still pointing at Glóredhel, repeating her name. “If you can say it, I’ll give you some,” he said.

“You’re being cruel,” Glóredhel protested. “Can you not see he doesn’t understand what you want from him? He only knows you are denying him food.”

“I am not being cruel,” Maglor said. “I’m training him.”

“Like a dog?” she retorted sharply.

“Like an elfling,” Maglor responded. “Trust me, I had plenty of practice. Sometimes, what looks like cruelty is really kindness, for the elfling learns boundaries and proper responses. Right now, Thurin is more elfling than anything and we need to treat him as such until he can show his maturity.”

Thurin, meanwhile, had decided he wasn’t taking anything sitting down and leapt to his feet, making a grab for the trencher, giving them an inarticulate cry of frustration. Maglor nimbly stepped out of his way.

“Glóredhel. Say it, Thurin. Glóredhel.”

Thurin, however, had other ideas. He stooped down to pick up one of the rocks littering the ground, his eyes now dark with anger and murderous intent, and Maglor knew himself to be in danger, yet he could not back down, dared not, for to do so would be for Thurin to win and that would not do. He vaguely noted that several Elves had started toward them when they noticed the drama being played out.

“Thurin, no!” Glóredhel cried, rising to her feet. “Bad ellon. Put the rock down.”

Thurin actually stopped and stared at her, looking uncertain. Glóredhel had put on what Maglor considered the ‘angry nana’ look he well remembered from his own elflinghood and wondered if it was an acquired trait of all ellith, whether they had children or not.

“You are being naughty, Thurin,” Glóredhel said firmly even as she took the two steps that separated her from the ellon and pulled his arm down. “Drop the stone. Now.”

Amazingly, he did just that. Glóredhel nodded. “Very good. Now, say after me: please, Maglor. Can you say that? Please, Maglor.” She was now facing Maglor, holding out her hands as if in supplication. Maglor just stood there watching in fascination as Thurin actually imitated her gesture. “Please, Maglor. Please, Maglor. You can say it. I know you can. Please, Ma….”

“Pw…pw…pwees, Mahgr.”

Both of them stared at the ellon in surprise, neither of them actually expecting him to do as they wished. “Get him to say it again,” Maglor whispered, never taking his eyes off the ellon, who stood there with his arms out, still looking confused.

“Please, Maglor,” Glóredhel complied. “Can you say it again, Thurin? Please, Maglor.”

“Pwees, Mahgor.” Thurin’s expression was now one of anticipation.

“You said it!” Glóredhel cried, clapping her hands, and then surprised both Thurin and Maglor when she wrapped her arms around the ellon still standing there with his arms outstretched and kissed him on the cheek. “Now let him eat,” she commanded and Maglor grinned.

“Here you go, Thurin.” He held out the trencher for the ellon to take, which he did, stuffing the meat in his mouth as quickly as he could, as if he feared it would be taken away from him. Glóredhel stood there smiling fondly at him, the same sort of smile he recalled his own naneth giving him when he’d done something of which she had approved.

“So, perhaps I should let you take over Thurin’s education and go do something else,” he said in an off-hand manner. “You’re obviously better at this than I.”

Glóredhel gave him a surprised look. “It was a team effort. We did it together.”

“I suppose,” Maglor replied with a diffident shrug.

“There’s no ‘suppose’ about it, my lord,” she retorted, sounding angry and hurt at the same time. “It was a team effort and I won’t hear you say anything less.”

Maglor gave her a smile. “Yes, Nana.”

Glóredhel just snorted, her humor restored.

Thurin, meanwhile, had finished off the meat and was staring wistfully at the empty trencher. Then he held it out to Maglor. “Pwees, Mahgor.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow even as he took the trencher and held it out to one of the ellith standing near. “Our friend is still hungry, Amarthamíriel,” he said. The elleth smiled as she took the trencher and went to the other fire where she shaved off some more of the meat roasting over it. Thurin watched her every move.

“Why don’t we sit and relax?” Maglor suggested and Glóredhel nodded, taking Thurin’s arm to lead him back to the bench. “Come sit, Thurin. It’s more comfortable.”

Thurin allowed himself to be led back to the bench and Maglor joined them. When Amarthamíriel came back with the filled trencher, Maglor indicated that she should give it to him, then he turned to Thurin. “What do we say?”

Thurin frowned and reached for the trencher, but Maglor held it away from him. “What do we say, Thurin?”

Everyone around them remained still, waiting to see how the ellon would respond. Thurin blinked a couple of times, still frowning, and then his eyes brightened. He held out his hands, but not to grab. “Pwees, Mahgor,” he said in an entreating tone.

Maglor gave him a bright smile as he handed him the trencher. “Very good. Good ellon.” He patted Thurin on the shoulder in approval, but the ellon was too busy shoveling the meat into his mouth to pay him any more heed.

“It seems you’re getting through to him.”

Maglor looked up to see Denethor watching.

“It was a team effort,” he said, nodding at Glóredhel, “and this is just the beginning.”

“But a beginning nonetheless. Good work, both of you.” Denethor nodded approvingly before moving away to tend to other business. The other Elves murmured their own congratulations as they too drifted away, leaving Maglor and Glóredhel alone with Thurin once again.

****

Nana/Naneth: Mama/Mother.

18: Insights

Over the next several days, Thurin’s vocabulary and pronunciation improved. He could now say Maglor’s name correctly, but other names were still a problem, so that Denethor became ‘Denthur’ and Glóredhel was mangled into ‘Glorthil’, but no one minded. They were just pleased that he was beginning to respond.

“Though you really need to teach him to say more than ‘please, Maglor’,” Denethor said with a grin when Maglor remarked on how far the ellon had come. “He says that for just about everything.”

“True, and we’re working on it,” Maglor said with a grin of his own. “Glorthil” — and Denethor actually snickered at that and Maglor’s grin became wider — “reminded me that at least he’s learned one form of politeness. She’s trying to get him to say ‘thank you’ now.”

“It’s like teaching an elfling,” Denethor remarked with a shake of his head. The two of them were sitting by the main fire sipping tea. Glóredhel had taken Thurin on a walk through the hills accompanied by Duilinn as their guard, thus giving Maglor a short break.

“Just about,” Maglor averred. “The only difference is, I suspect he understands more than we think but he hasn’t yet recovered the skill of articulating what he wishes to say except in the simplest of terms or using pantomime, such as patting his head when he wants me to stroke his hair.” He gave Denethor a rueful look and the other ellon smiled sympathetically.

“He’s been so long without any kind of physical contact with another, that I imagine having someone stroke his hair is his way of connecting with the rest of us. I notice that after you’ve stroked his hair for a while he becomes more responsive, willing to play your word games and following you and Glóredhel around, allowing you to do other things than attend to him all the time.”

Maglor nodded. “Yes, I noticed that as well, so I don’t mind doing it, but I hope it doesn’t become a lifelong habit or I’m more likely to strangle him.”

Denethor chuckled. “Well, I also think that it helps that there are not as many of us here at the moment. He seems to respond better now that there are so few of us around.”

“Yes, I saw that. Indeed, I felt it. When Ragnor and the others left for Mithlond, I was sitting beside Thurin and felt the tension ease out of him when the camp fairly emptied out. Since then, he’s been more relaxed and hasn’t drawn into himself as he had earlier. I don’t know how he will react when they all return.”

“Hopefully, by then he will be even more acclimated and will not find their presence troublesome.”

“I would like to encourage everyone who is here to interact with Thurin as much as possible. I don’t want him to become so dependent on me or Glóredhel that he refuses to respond to others.”

“Perhaps you should explain what you want from us then,” Denethor said and called everyone who was present to attend him and Maglor. It took a few minutes for everyone to drop what they were doing and join the two by the fire. Even the hunters were there, helping with the building projects, for they had enough meat for at least three days and there would be no need to hunt for a couple of days. When everyone was gathered, Denethor said, “Maglor wishes to discuss Thurin.”

Everyone gave their attention to Maglor. “Denethor and I have been discussing how best to integrate Thurin into our society. Glóredhel and I are taking on the burden of teaching him language, but each of you can help simply by speaking to him as you would to any of us. Ask him questions even if you expect no answer. Smile often. Sing even more. Include him in your lives as far as you can and as far as he will let you, so that he begins to feel a sense of belonging. Take care not to speak down at him, as if he were a simpleton or a very young elfling, even if he acts like both at times. He understands more than he lets on, of that I am sure.”

“So, should we try to get him to do things as well?” Amarthamíriel asked. “I mean, if he shows any interest in helping us with something?”

“Yes, of course, but don’t expect him to be proficient. He’s very clumsy still, at least by our standards, and we must be patient. He’s relearning skills he’s forgotten, though it’s interesting to see what things he hasn’t forgotten, such as the need to go elsewhere to relieve himself.”

“For which we can thank the Belain,” Damrod said with a grin. “I don’t fancy having to change his nappies.”

The others all laughed at that and Maglor grinned. “No, for that we can be thankful, but you take my point: he is mind-damaged to some extent because of his long isolation but he is beginning to reclaim himself. It’s just not going to happen immediately and I have no doubt that there will be the occasional setback. It’s inevitable. We just have to be patient.”

“And we are nothing if not patient. After all, we put up with you,” Denethor said with a straight face.

Maglor gave him a disbelieving look while everyone else chuckled. Denethor stood, clapping Maglor on the shoulder in a friendly manner, and that seemed to be the signal that the meeting was over, for the others began drifting away to return to their own tasks. Just about then, Glóredhel and Thurin, whose hands were full of stones, returned. When he saw Maglor he hurried over to him and promptly dropped the stones he was carrying at Maglor’s feet.

“Pwetty,” he said with a grin, holding up a stone and handing it to Maglor.

There was actually nothing pretty about the stone, Maglor saw. It was dark gray mottled with green, but no more unusual than the stones lying about them, yet Maglor realized that Thurin was attempting to share his delight in ‘discovering’ the stone on his walk and Maglor smiled. “Yes, it’s very pretty. May I keep it, please?”

Thurin frowned slightly but then nodded and scooped up the other stones, all of them as plain and ordinary as the one in Maglor’s hand, and went bounding off, just to stop in front of Rían where he dropped his stones at her feet. He stooped down and picked out a stone, handing it to her. “Pwetty,” he said. Rían glanced over at Maglor, who nodded, holding up his own stone. Rían then looked at Thurin and smiled. “Yes, it’s quite pretty. Thank you for showing it to me.” She attempted to give it back but Thurin shook his head, scooped up his remaining stones and bounded off to someone else. Thus, in a matter of minutes, the ellon had given away all but one of his ‘pwetties’, returning to the fire where Maglor still sat. He patted his head. “Please, Maglor,” he said, then sat there in contentment, playing with his stone, while Maglor stroked his hair.

****

“How do we keep the water from freezing as it travels along the trough?” someone asked.

Maglor was checking on the progress of the aqueduct while Glóredhel took Thurin on a walk nearby to collect more ‘pwetties’. Maglor examined the aqueduct, which actually bore no semblance to any he had ever seen. It was essentially a narrow ditch that ran from the spring to the camp, or actually to the foot of the plateau on which the towers stood. They would still have to bring the water up, but the distance was not as great as trekking all the way to the spring. Maglor could see that the ditch was about a foot deep and stone-lined. It did not go all the way to the spring, though. The plan was to build a wall around the spring so that the water did not flow away, but pooled. The last bit of earth would then be removed and the water would then flow in the only direction left open to it.

“If we were to cover the trough with stone, it would at least keep snow from filling and blocking it,” one of the ellith standing there said.

“So we had planned,” Damrod said, “but it still does not address the possibility that the water will freeze before it reaches us.”

“What if we built fires along its path?” someone suggested.

“They would have to be maintained constantly and that would be impractical, I deem,” Damrod replied with a frown.

“With all the snow that is bound to fall, it seems rather silly to be building this aqueduct. Why don’t we simply collect and melt the snow as we’ve done all along?” another said.

“Snowmelt just doesn’t taste the same as pure spring water, though,” another elleth commented, “but you are correct that it would be simpler.”

“We should wait and see if the water actually freezes,” Damrod then said, “before deciding on things. I would like to collect as much spring water as possible before it gets too cold. The cistern we are building is deep enough that the water may not freeze except on the surface.”

The cistern, Maglor knew, was a good ten feet deep and also lined with stone. It had taken nearly a week of constant work to dig it, the earth piled up around to give it some protection against the elements. Maglor had to agree that collecting snow to melt would be simpler, but he did not say so, realizing that the building of the aqueduct served more than one purpose, and collecting water was only secondary to the main purpose: keeping people occupied. The various building projects kept people busy as they prepared for the winter, already looking forward to spring.

And Maglor realized something else: the very real possibility that there may be no way to reach Valinor without a ship. Certainly they could not be expected to walk across the ocean, even if it were frozen. No. It was obvious to him, if to not many of the others, that the Belain never intended for them to reach the Blessed Realm, only for them to make the attempt. And if they must remain where they were over the long centuries until the glaciers finally receded and trees became available again so that they could build a ship, what of it? They had all survived this long with no actual hope of reaching the Blessed Realm. Now they had that hope, that dream, and it was what gave them the energy to face each new day, each new challenge.

Maglor glanced at those standing about discussing the aqueduct and noticed the aliveness of their expressions, the easy joking and camaraderie that had grown up between them all. It really did not matter what they did, only that they did it together. The aqueduct may well prove an engineering failure, but the sense of accomplishment, the sense of having done something instead of just waiting around for something to happen, was what truly mattered here.

“We can probably build fires around the cistern and here at the pool,” he said, joining the discussion for the first time. “Perhaps the rate of flow will prevent the water from freezing completely as it makes its way down the trough.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Damrod said. “As you can see, the walls for the pool are almost completed. Another day or three and we will be ready to test it.”

Maglor nodded. “Let us hope it actually works, or there will be a lot of frustrated people to placate.” He gave them all a merry grin and they chuckled.

“At least it has kept us occupied,” one of the ellyn said, echoing Maglor’s thoughts. “I prefer to be doing something constructive even if it does turn out not to work as well as I would hope. It is better than sitting around doing nothing.”

There were many nods. “And if it doesn’t really work, we may be able to figure out what we did wrong and fix it before it gets too cold to bother,” another said and again many there nodded or made noises of approbation.

Maglor gave Damrod a significant look which the ellon returned and he realized that Denethor’s second-in-command was well aware of the importance the building of the aqueduct was to improving the morale of their group as a whole. He was about to comment when Thurin came bounding up with Glóredhel and Duilinn trailing behind, his hands full of stones no more remarkable than any of the others lying about, but he handed them out to everyone with such unfeigned delight that they all smiled, thanking him. He didn’t seem to notice that most of the Elves surreptitiously dropped their stones as they all headed back to the camp.

Maglor, however, kept his stone, had kept every stone Thurin gave him as a reminder of what he could have become had circumstances been different for him. Thurin’s fate could well have been his own and he appreciated that. He also noted that Thurin was very selective of the type of stone he collected, for they were always dark gray mottled with green. He did not know if that was significant or if it simply meant that Thurin was attracted to the color combination. It did not seem to matter, so long as it kept the ellon occupied and happy and his willingness to share his prize with everyone else was a good sign.

****

The hunters went out the next day and Maglor watched Thurin watching them as they checked over their gear before setting off, a confused look on his face.

“They go to hunt,” he explained to the ellon. “In a few days they will return with more meat, goat most likely, perhaps a deer if they’re lucky.”

Thurin gave him a nod. “Goat good,” he said.

Maglor smiled. “I suppose it is,” he replied, though personally he was getting rather sick of it and was waiting impatiently for Ragnor and the others to return from Mithlond, hopefully with a catch of fish. He was looking forward to fish. “Come on. Let’s help with the wall.”

The wall was actually two walls that extended from the south tower to the west, encompassing the area around the main fire pit. The area was not completely enclosed, though. The walls did not touch the towers, leaving a two-foot gap at either end and a doorway was created on both sides with the south door halfway between the south tower and the fire pit and the north door halfway between the west tower and the fire pit. Pillars of stone were set at measured lengths down the center of the space over which the goatskins would be stretched, providing them with some cover. Only the fire pit would be left open to the sky. The south wall was nearly complete and most of the workers were concentrating on the north wall, which was only half done. The walls were about a foot higher than the tallest Elf and they used blocks of stone as stepladders to reach that high.

Maglor and Thurin helped to transport the stones out of the ruins of the north tower, piling them where the builders could easily reach them. It was hot, heavy work, but no one minded. One of the ellyn helping to construct the wall was even singing an old hymn dedicated to Lord Aulë and others joined in, though Maglor did not. He was still reluctant to sing with the others though he did not mind singing to Thurin when the ellon became restive, and then only simple lullabies.

So he was surprised when he heard Thurin humming along as he placed his stones in the pile that was being created. It was not exactly on tune and it could have been mistaken for sounds of contentment such as he made when eating, but Maglor realized that the ellon was attempting to sing. He gave Thurin a smile and started humming as well. Thurin stopped to stare at him for a second or two before he smiled back and started humming again as the two continued to help pile the stones.

****

The hunters returned earlier than expected, hauling the carcasses of several creatures like those that had attacked them in the Shire. People stopped what they were doing, exclaiming at the sight.

“They were hunting us,” Haldir said as people congregated around them. “We decided to return the favor.” He gave them a wide grin and several people chuckled.

“Did you learn where the rest of the colony is?” Denethor asked.

“No,” Haldir replied. “We decided to get these back here first. We’ll go back out after we’ve had a short rest, but we figured you’d want to get at these in the meantime. Have no idea if the meat is any good, but we can use the pelts.”

Everyone nodded and several people were already grabbing skinning knives while others looked on. Denethor and Damrod were quietly speaking to Haldir and the other hunters, trying to ascertain just where they had encountered the creatures in relation to the Towers. Maglor was half listening to the various conversations around him, being more intent on watching Thurin, for the ellon, on seeing the dead creatures, had become agitated.

“What is it, Thurin?” he asked softly, placing a steadying hand on the ellon’s shoulder. “Have you met these creatures before?” The thought of meeting even one of the cats alone sent tremors through him and he could not imagine how anyone could survive a concerted attack by an entire pack.

“Bad,” Thurin replied. “Bad.” And before Maglor realized his intent, the ellon stooped down, grabbing a large rock, and pushed one of the skinners out of the way, smashing the rock into the creature’s skull. “Bad! Bad!” he screamed.

“Thurin, no!” Maglor yelled and grabbed him, trying to pull him away, though Thurin struggled, still screaming. Someone came and grabbed Thurin from the other side and Maglor saw it was Damrod and Denethor was with him.

“Let’s bring him over to the fire,” he said and Maglor nodded as they dragged the ellon away. All the while Thurin continued screaming. “Thurin, Thurin. It’s all right,” Maglor said soothingly as they reached the fire. He wrapped his arms around the ellon and began crooning a lullaby while Denethor stood over them with Damrod looking on. Thurin’s struggles became less as Maglor continued humming and stroking the ellon’s hair until he finally collapsed, weeping.

“Well, that was interesting,” Damrod said, as Glóredhel came over and handed Maglor a cup of water, who then tried to get Thurin to drink it. “Do you think he’s had his own encounters with these creatures?”

“Obviously,” Denethor commented with a scowl, “which means that Ragnor and his people may also encounter them unknowingly.”

Damrod grimaced. “Let us hope that they don’t, but in the meantime, what do we do with the creatures? The pelts and the bones can be used but can we eat them?”

“No eat. Bad.”

They looked at Thurin who had calmed down enough that Maglor had released him from his embrace. Denethor frowned. “Seems a waste though.”

“Yet, I would trust Thurin’s assessment just based on his reaction,” Maglor commented. “He must have had encounters with these creatures at some point and perhaps tried to eat their meat and discovered that it made him sick. Is that it, Thurin? Did you try to eat the cat-creatures and got sick?”

Thurin nodded. “Bad. No eat. Ar…arthad eat… sick… so sick… die… now I alone… so alone….” He was weeping again and Maglor took him back into his embrace and held him tightly, the horror he was feeling mirrored on the faces of those listening.

“He had someone with him,” he said, trying to articulate the import of that revelation. “Arthad. He must have died after eating the flesh of one of these creatures.”

“And then Thurin was left alone,” Denethor said sadly. “The Belain have mercy.”

“They did,” Glóredhel stated categorically as she sat beside Thurin, stroking his hair. “They sent us, didn’t they?”

Maglor felt a frisson of something that was not quite fear but was closer to awe at the implications of the elleth’s words as he came to the conclusion that perhaps he had not been the only one the Valar had wanted Denethor’s people to save. Looking at the ellon now fallen asleep in his arms, he thought perhaps that he had never been the true object of the Valar’s concern, and for some reason that thought brought him comfort.

“We’ll make use of the pelts and the bones but we burn everything else,” he said in a decisive tone, giving Denethor a significant look and the ellon nodded in agreement, turning away to issue his own orders to that effect.

19: Approaching Storm

In the end, they decided not to bother even to keep the pelts, to burn everything, for the creatures exuded a noisome stench that was quite nauseating and they did not think even curing the pelts would rid them of it.

“There is something unwholesome about these creatures,” one of those responsible for the skinning said to Maglor and Denethor. “I really don’t think I can even handle the pelts long enough to cure them.”

“And I don’t know if Thurin won’t get upset again at the sight of them,” Maglor stated. “I don’t want to have to deal with that every time the hunters bring a carcass back.”

“I’ll tell them not to bother to do so, to leave the carcasses where they fall,” Denethor said.

So in the end they took the creatures’ remains far enough away from their settlement that only the smoke of their burning was visible and the wind thankfully bore it to the south so they never smelled the stench, to which those overseeing the cremations attested when they returned, looking decidedly green.

Thurin became apathetic after that, withdrawing into himself, refusing to play the word games with Maglor or go on walks with Glóredhel to collect more ‘pwetties’. Nor did he join the others in their building projects. Instead, he climbed the stairs of the west tower and stood looking out to the northwest toward Mithlond and the Ered Luin beyond. The rope they had used to pull themselves up to the top of the tower had been replaced by a rope ladder. There was always someone there during the day acting as a sentry who could give the settlement early warning of anything approaching them from any direction.

When Thurin made his way to the tower, Maglor followed him, concerned for his friend. He wanted to ask about Arthad, they all did, but he knew it was not the time to start questioning the ellon. Neldorion was already there acting as sentry when Maglor joined him. Thurin was standing to the north looking out.

“Two visitors in as many minutes,” Neldorion said with a smile as he gave Maglor a hand up. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Maglor jerked his head in Thurin’s direction and Neldorion nodded, giving his fellow Noldo a concerned look. “I could see and hear what was going on below,” he said quietly as he and Maglor stepped to the south to give them and Thurin some privacy. “Nasty business. I can’t imagine having something like that happening to me, to see a friend die that way and be left all alone. No wonder he is the way he is.”

Maglor nodded. “It was bad enough to think that he was alone from the beginning and I’ve wondered why he did not return to wherever he had come from instead of remaining here, but to think that he was with someone and then be left alone….” He gave an involuntary shiver before casting Neldorion a considering look. “Arthad. Did you know anyone by that name?”

Neldorion shook his head. “An Elf? No. I know, of course, that it was the name of one of Barahir’s Twelve Companions, but they were all mortals.”

Maglor nodded. “Yes. When I heard the story, I cast it into song, though I doubt anyone’s ever sung my version of it.” He gave Neldorion a thin smile that held no warmth.

“Perhaps you will sing it for us someday,” Neldorion suggested somewhat diffidently, as if to let Maglor know that if he never sang it, he would be fine with that. Maglor, however, wasn’t fooled by his demeanor. He knew that everyone in the settlement was anxious to hear him sing, not just simple lullabies — although he made even those sound exquisite — but true ballads and laments on which the Elves thrived.

“Perhaps,” he said with a shrug, leaving it at that. He turned to look at Thurin, standing rock still, staring out, and sighed, giving Neldorion a rueful look. “I knew there would be setbacks but we’ve come so far with him.”

“It is discouraging, I agree, but at the same time, it is also hopeful.”

Maglor gave him a jaundiced look. “Do you want to explain that, because I am having difficulty in reconciling discouragement with hopefulness.”

Neldorion grinned. “I’m just saying that, as discouraging as it is, what happened has shed some further light on the mystery that is our friend over there. We’ve learned that there was another Elf named Arthad. Who he was, we don’t know, but we do know that his death and the manner of it deeply affected Thurin. It had to, and because we know this, we can understand better why he is the way he is now. Knowledge, as they say, is power, and the more knowledgeable we are about Thurin and his circumstances, the greater our power becomes in helping him to reclaim himself.”

“Seen in that light, I quite agree,” Maglor said. “I have come to the conclusion that perhaps I wasn’t the sole reason for the Belain inspiring you all to seek the Straight Road. I was merely the excuse to bring you here so you could find and succor Thurin.”

“Do not belittle yourself so, my friend,” Neldorion said gravely. “You may be correct that you were not the primary target of the Belain’s concerns, just a means to an end, to bring us here for Thurin’s sake, but I do not think the Belain see you simply as a tool for them to use or discard at will. You are as precious to them as any of us and perhaps they were simply killing two birds with one stone, as the saying goes.”

“How do you mean?”

“They may have wanted to rescue both of you and this was the way they decided to do so. We rescued you and you in turn rescued Thurin. Or you are in the process of rescuing him.”

“Any of you could have been the one he latched onto, though,” Maglor protested. “I just happened….”

“Happened to be the one,” Neldorion interrupted. “Weren’t you the one that said there are no coincidences? I think I remember you saying something to that effect once. So, what makes you think it doesn’t apply to you, hmm?” He waggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner and Maglor couldn’t help grinning, recognizing the truth of the ellon’s words. Truly, what made him think he was exempt from the universe’s regard?

“So do you have any suggestions as to how we bring him back out of his shell?” he asked after a moment.

Neldorion shrugged, casting a sympathetic look Thurin’s way. “I can only counsel patience. It’s no use trying to cajole or threaten him out of his state, but if we let him know by small gestures that we’re there for him in whatever manner he allows us, that will go a long way, I think. He might not say it, but I think he will appreciate our efforts to comfort and console him.”

Maglor nodded and was about to comment when Thurin turned, pointing out. “Ragnor come,” he said. Maglor and Neldorion quickly moved to stand beside Thurin and gaze out. Maglor could see in the far distance several people moving away from the city, though even he, whose eyesight was sharper than most, could not discern individual faces yet.

“He’s returning early,” Neldorion muttered. “We weren’t expecting any of them back this soon.”

“Something must have forced them to return now instead of as planned,” Maglor said. “Well, they can’t get here before tomorrow at the earliest, but I’ll go warn Denethor. Perhaps we’ll send a party out to meet them.”

“My shift does not end for another three hours,” Neldorion said. “I’ll keep a watch on them. When they are closer, I may be able to see if any are injured. It’s the only reason I can think for them to be returning as early as they are.”

Maglor nodded as he headed for the ladder. “Keep an eye on Thurin, will you?”

“Of course. Indeed, I welcome his company and keen eyesight.” He gave Thurin a smile, but the ellon ignored him, continuing to stare out, seemingly retreating back inside himself. Neldorion looked to Maglor with a helpless shrug and the ellon gave him a sympathetic grin as he made his way down the ladder and then fairly flew down the steps, wondering what could have driven Ragnor and the others out of Mithlond so soon.

Denethor, when he heard the news, asked Damrod to organize a party to go meet with Ragnor. “There may possibly be injured. I cannot imagine any other reason for them to be returning this soon.”

Damrod nodded and shortly thereafter, he was off with a mixed group of ellyn and ellith. Maglor declined to go, as much as he wanted to. “I don’t dare leave Thurin alone.”

“Hardly alone,” Denethor pointed out with a smile.

“I know, but all the same….”

“All the same, you’re the best one for controlling him if he gets… um… anxious,” Denethor averred.

“I’ll go back up the tower and relieve Neldorion,” Maglor said. “I can keep an eye on Thurin at the same time.”

Denethor nodded. “I’ll send Amarthamíriel up later to relieve you.”

When Maglor reached the top of the tower, he was surprised to see Neldorion standing next to Thurin with his arm around the ellon, the two of them apparently holding a conversation. He stood at the top of the ladder and listened as Thurin spoke in his halting, child-like manner.

“… long time. So alone. I… I cry a lot….”

“You did not go back home,” Neldorion said, making it a statement rather than a question.

Thurin shook his head. “No home. No more home. I stay. I tried to… to keep estel but too hard… too very hard and I all alone.”

He started weeping then, soft, anguished sobs, and Neldorion held him close, kissing him on the temple. “But you’re not alone anymore,” he said softly. “You’ll never be alone again.” He fell silent and Maglor thought to make his presence known, but stopped when Neldorion spoke again. “Was Arthad your friend?”

Maglor found himself holding his breath, wondering how Thurin would react to that question. It was the one question on everyone’s mind — who was Arthad? — but no one was ready to ask, for fear of setting the ellon off.

For a long moment Thurin did not answer, still sobbing quietly, and Neldorion held him closer. “It’s all right,” he said softly. “You don’t have to tell me. Just know that you are among friends who care for you very much and hate to see you hurting. We’ll help if you let us. All of us have lost so much in the long years, so do not think none of us know what you’re going through.”

“He… he my… my brother,” Thurin stuttered, speaking just above a whisper.

Maglor closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cold stone of the ledge, remembering his own brothers, lost to him one-by-one, until only he was left. The sense of emptiness was still there even after all these ennin and he wondered if any of them had actually been reborn or were they still languishing in Mandos?

“I’m sorry,” he heard Neldorion say. “I lost my sister when my lord’s lady was waylaid by Orcs. My sister did not survive the attack.”

“Orcs bad,” Thurin said categorically. “I don’t like Orcs.”

“I don’t know anyone who does,” Neldorion replied and Maglor could almost hear the smile in his voice. “Would you care to join us, Maglor?”

Maglor started, for the ellon never turned his head, though Thurin, sniffing a bit and wiping the tears from his eyes, looked over his shoulder and gestured to him. “Come. Come.” Maglor raised an eyebrow and forced himself not to smile as he climbed the rest of the way up. Neldorion turned with a welcoming smile.

“Damrod has set out, I see,” he said as Maglor joined them.

“Yes. Have you been able to tell if anyone is injured?”

“They’re still too far away for us to say,” Neldorion answered.

“I told Denethor that I would relieve you once your shift is over,” Maglor said as he gazed out, watching the scouting party coming toward them even as Damrod’s party was making its slow way through the hills to the plains below. He estimated that Damrod would probably meet up with Ragnor later that evening. He knew both parties carried torches and if Ragnor saw torches heading his way, he would light his own and wait for Damrod to reach him.

“Thank you,” Neldorion said. “Eirien was supposed to relieve me, but I see she’s gone with Damrod.”

“She and Voronwë are the most knowledgeable about the healing arts,” Maglor replied in explanation.

“Well, if you don’t mind, why don’t you take the southern watch while I continue keeping an eye on our friends?”

Maglor nodded. “Would you like to help me, Thurin?” he asked but Thurin shook his head, keeping his gaze to the northwest, his expression pensive. Neldorion gave Maglor an apologetic shrug and Maglor smiled, not all that upset, and moved around to the other side of the tower. He cast his gaze about, taking in the landscape, noting where everyone in the settlement was. He could see a few people working on the walls and another smaller group working on the aqueduct. Several of the ellith were busy at the two fires that were always kept burning and the smell of roasting goat wafted into the air. Further afield, all was empty of movement. He noticed clouds thickening to the northeast and thought that they might come into some bad weather soon.

“Looks like a storm’s brewing over the Shire,” he said conversationally.

“Hmm…” he heard Neldorion say as the ellon moved around to join him. “Storms from that direction are always bad, worse than those from the west, as I recall.”

Maglor nodded. “We should warn Denethor. I don’t think anyone can see it from the ground.”

“I go.”

Maglor and Neldorion turned to see Thurin making his way to the ladder.

“Are you sure?” Maglor asked.

Thurin nodded. “I tell Denthur bad storm coming.”

“Well, hurry back,” Neldorion said. “I don’t want to be left alone with Maglor too long. He’s very boring company.”

Maglor stuck his tongue out at the ellon, though Neldorion evinced not to notice, merely smiling. Thurin frowned. “Maglor not boring. Maglor good. He keep pwetties when everyone throw them away.” Before either Maglor or Neldorion could respond, the ellon was climbing down the ladder and was soon lost to sight. Maglor saw the rueful look on Neldorion’s face.

“I didn’t think he would notice,” he said, not looking at Maglor.

“He may be mind damaged but he’s not blind or even stupid,” Maglor retorted with a snort of amusement. “You should return to your post. I’ll keep an eye on the storm.”

Neldorion nodded and went back to the other side of the tower. Maglor turned to look out and saw Thurin running to Denethor, gesticulating toward the northeast. He could see Denethor give the ellon a surprised look and then glance up at the tower, his expression questioning when he saw Maglor staring down at him. Maglor nodded and Denethor turned back to Thurin, clapping him on the shoulder, obviously thanking the ellon for his news. Thurin than ran back toward the tower and Maglor could hear him practically running up the stairs. Denethor, meanwhile, was calling everyone to attend him and in moments he was giving them the news. Then the settlement became a hive of activity as people prepared for the storm.

“Denthur say good job,” Thurin announced somewhat breathlessly as he climbed the ladder and joined Maglor, who gave him a smile.

“What about Ragnor and Damrod?” Neldorion asked. “Can the storm affect them, do you suppose?”

“It depends on the path it takes,” Maglor replied. “If it continues as it is, it’ll hit us but the plains to the west may be spared the worst of it. If it shifts and goes around these hills, then they might be in trouble. By my estimate, the storm won’t reach us for several hours, so we can only hope for the best.”

Thurin stood beside Maglor, looking out, frowning and becoming agitated. Maglor wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “It’s all right, Thurin. The storm won’t reach us for some time. You don’t have to stay here. Why don’t you go back down and help Denethor? With Damrod gone, he’ll need all the help he can get.”

“No. I stay,” Thurin replied. “Too early.”

“What do you mean?”

For an answer, Thurin pointed. “Storm too early. It not come now. Later.”

Neldorion came over and joined them, his expression thoughtful. “He’s lived here long enough to track the weather patterns,” he said, speaking to Maglor. “Thurin, have the storms ever come early before?”

For a long moment Thurin did not answer, merely staring out, but then he nodded. “It was bad,” was all he said, or perhaps it was all he was capable of saying, Maglor thought. Thurin’s vocabulary was still limited and he had to grope for even the simplest words to express himself.

“How bad?” Maglor asked.

“I not hunt for long time. I hide in cave. It was bad.”

Neldorion cast Maglor a concerned look. “We’ve yet to experience a storm in these parts. There was that blizzard as we crossed what was once Anórion and Rohan, but that may not be an indicator of how fierce storms might be here in the north.”

“And the walls are not done yet,” Maglor said pensively. “We may have to have everyone come inside the tower.”

“It’s Damrod and Ragnor and those with them that I worry about. Ragnor, I think is far enough out on the plains that he can probably see the storm coming and be alerted, but Damrod can’t possibly know about it. The hills block his view.”

“There’s no hope for it, though,” Maglor replied. “There is no way to contact them, let them know what is happening. We must hope that they can reach the shelter of the hills before the storm strikes. Even if they can’t make it back here they will at least have some protection. Out on the plains they have none.”

Thurin had moved back over to the north side during Maglor and Neldorion’s discussion and now he was pointing out. “Ragnor running.”

The other two ellyn joined him and Maglor could see that Ragnor’s group had picked up their pace, obviously making as much speed as possible. “He’s seen the storm,” he said and Neldorion nodded, looking down, scanning the hills for Damrod and his group, but they had moved around the hills and were now nowhere to be seen. “If Ragnor keeps up the pace, they might reach the hills just about when Damrod makes it down to the plains.”

“We can only hope,” Maglor said with a sigh. “Look. I said I would relieve you, but would you stay for a while longer while Thurin and I go see Denethor? He needs to know what Thurin can tell us about what we can expect from this storm.”

“Go. I will continue keeping watch.”

“Come, Thurin. We need to find Denethor.” Maglor moved back to where the rope ladder was and headed down with Thurin behind him. They made their way swiftly to the bottom to find Denethor entering the tower.

“I was about to come up and see this storm for myself,” he said.

“Thurin says that it’s too early for such a storm and that when they come from the east they are very bad,” Maglor said. “I suggest we get everyone inside the tower, get a fire going here.”

Denethor frowned. “Damrod and Ragnor?”

“We saw Ragnor’s group picking up their pace. They must be able to see the storm approaching from where they are. With luck, they’ll reach the hills about the time Damrod makes it down to the plains. They might not get back here in time, but they should be able to find shelter.”

“Then we’ll start getting everyone in. Thurin, can you go to the spring for me and tell those working there to return now?”

Thurin raised an eyebrow in surprise and gave Maglor an uncertain look. Maglor nodded but said nothing, letting Thurin decide for himself. Something in the ellon’s demeanor changed. It was slight, barely noticeable, but he straightened and there was a light in his eyes that had not been there before, a confidence in himself that had been lacking.

“I go swift,” he said and, true to his word, he ran out of the tower.

Denethor gave Maglor a mirthless grin. “Let’s see about getting this place organized.”

Maglor just nodded as they exited the tower at a more leisurely pace while Denethor began issuing orders to those in the vicinity.

****

Ennin: (singular and plural) Long-year or a Valian year, similar in meaning to the Quenya yén/yéni.

20: Hunkering Down

It was late afternoon before the storm hit. The dark clouds ate the sky, turning day into night, and the sun set in fiery protest, shooting crimson and gold beams to pierce the gloom, defiant in its death struggles against the storm.

Or so Maglor thought as he watched the sky, keeping track of the storm front which was now visible even from the ground. Thurin returned with the few Elves working on the aqueduct almost glowing with pride at having accomplished his mission and Maglor gave him a warm, welcoming smile, gesturing for the ellon to join him where he was busy helping to shift their supplies inside the west tower.

“What can you tell me about the storm? How long might it last?”

Thurin thought for a moment. “Snow fall long time. I not hunt. I very hungry. Maybe this many days,” — he held up four fingers — “maybe more. It hard to count.”

Maglor nodded. “Well, we have food to last us that long at least, perhaps longer if we tighten our belts a bit. The hunters are still out and that is worrying for we have no way of recalling them.”

“You need horn like Araw,” Thurin said with a nod.

Maglor gave him a surprised look. “And do you know Araw personally?”

Thurin frowned, the light in his eyes darkening as he struggled to remember something he might not know. “Long time ago I hear stories of Araw’s horn. Long time….” His expression became pained and Maglor could feel his agitation and put his arm around the ellon’s shoulders to comfort him.

“I remember him from when I was living in Dor Rhodyn,” he said softly. “I heard his horn once. The sound of it was wild and fierce and set my blood burning. Sometimes I dream of him blowing his horn, calling me home.”

Thurin gave him a puzzled look. “Home?”

“A long time ago, but it has not been my home for many ages. I am not sure I really want to go back, but it seems the Belain wish it. That is why Denethor and his people came looking for me when I came north to die.”

“You die now? I left alone again?” Thurin asked, clearly upset, for he was shaking and tears came readily to his eyes and Maglor knew that the ellon was terrified at the thought of being alone once again.

“No, I promise you. I am not dying now and you will never be alone again.” Maglor gave Thurin a fierce hug. “Do not be concerned for me. I am well. You are well. You will never be alone, Thurin. Denethor and the others saved me just as we saved you and we will go to Dor Rodyn together.” Just as soon as we figure out how, he added to himself as he continued hugging Thurin, rubbing his back until the ellon calmed down. “Now, come. Let us help the others,” he said, releasing Thurin from his embrace. Thurin nodded and together they sought out Denethor who asked them to help stretch some of the goatskins over those sections of the walls that were completed in the hope that they could keep the snow from piling too high inside the enclosure. They spent the next hour helping there and were tying down the last skin when the first flakes began to fall.

“Hello the camp! We need help.”

Maglor, working at the south wall, turned to see the hunters entering the settlement, dragging several deer carcasses and ran to give them a hand with Thurin and several others right behind him.

“We wondered if you would return in time,” Maglor said to Haldir, helping him with the deer he was lugging.

“So did we,” the ellon said with a grunt. “We were about to butcher these deer when we saw the storm and decided not to stop but to get back here as quickly as possible.”

“You did well,” Denethor said with a nod of approval. “Let’s get these deer inside. I am glad you did not abandon them. We may well need them before this storm ends.”

“We were tempted to in order to make better time,” Haldir replied, “but I decided it would be better to bring them with us. As it is, we were forced to leave a couple of them behind for we could only drag one deer a piece.”

“That you were able to bring this much back is more than we hoped,” Denethor assured him. “Your adar will be proud of you.”

Haldir glowed with the praise, then looked pensively at the clouds that hovered above them, loosing their burden of snow. “I hope Ada and Nana are well. If this storm reaches Mithlond at least they have plenty of cover.”

“Unfortunately, they were seen making their way across the plains not too long ago,” Denethor said.

Haldir gave him a startled look. “Are they well? What has happened?”

“We are not sure,” Denethor said soothingly. “Damrod and some others have gone out to meet them. They should at least make it back to the hills but it’s doubtful they will get back here before the worst of the storm hits. In the meantime, we had better get these deer dressed.”

Even with several people helping, they were still at work on the deer when the storm came down upon them in full force, the snow falling so heavily and so fast as to blind them. They did not stop at their task but continued until the last of the deer was butchered, using the newly fallen snow, now lying several inches thick on the ground, to wash off the worst of the blood from their hands before seeking shelter in the west tower where a stew was bubbling over the fire.

Inside, they found themselves in very crowded conditions, but the warmth of bodies along with the fire was welcome and those who had been working on the deer were soon drying in the heat. Goatskins covered the doorway, keeping out the wind. Some few flakes drifted down from the openings above but the heat of the fire melted them away before they reached the ground.

There was some concern voiced for those still out in the storm, but there was nothing anyone could do about it except worry, so Denethor kept their attention focused on ideas for making their camp even more winter-proof than it already was.

“This is just a foretaste of what we will have to endure for the next six months or so,” he said to them, “so why don’t we spend some time deciding on how to improve our conditions so that we do not suffer unduly waiting for spring.”

“Tedium will be our enemy as much as anything,” Maglor said. “There may be long days of being forced inside with nothing to do but wait out a storm.”

“We should begin thinking on hobbies or something to occupy ourselves,” Aerinn said, giving them a shy look. Being one of the youngest of them, she was more content to listen to her elders than to contribute to any conversation.

Denethor nodded. “That is a good thought, my dear. Unfortunately, my hobby was sitting in a cedar tree and watching the Mortals go about their business back where we once lived. I don’t think I will be doing that here.”

There was a lot of chuckling at that. “I’m surprised you never thought to build a talan in that tree,” Neldorion said.

Denethor just shrugged. “At any rate, it might be well for each of us to think on some project that can be worked on when storms such as this one force us into inactivity.”

“We have so little in the way of material things, though,” one of the ellith said. “It’s not as if we can pick up a hand loom and start weaving. None of us brought anything like that with us.”

“I know,” Denethor said with a nod, “still I think everyone should take some time to think about what they can do to while away the time. Thurin, what did you do when you were forced to stay in your cave while a storm raged outside?”

Thurin started at being addressed and shook his head. “Sleep and dream of food,” he answered, looking embarrassed.

“Now that, I can do.” Haldir said with a laugh and others joined him. Maglor clapped Thurin on the shoulder, giving him a grin, and the ellon visibly relaxed, looking less embarrassed.

“I suppose that many of us will be doing that more than we like,” Denethor said with a smile. “Well, I urge everyone to come up with something with which to occupy themselves or I fear we may well be at each other’s throats before too long.”

“I want to see about making the south tower more habitable once this storm has passed,” one of the ellyn said. “It’s crowded enough here already and we’re not at full strength. When the others return, we’ll be forced to sleep standing up as there won’t be any room to lie down.”

There were nods all around.

“That is another consideration,” Denethor said. “Hopefully, the enclosure will also be finished before long and that will allow us to move about more freely.”

“Food is going to be our biggest concern,” Amarthamíriel said. “The hunters may not be able to get out often enough to replenish our supply of meat.”

“Which is why we’ve been trying to stockpile as much as possible, figuring that the cold will preserve the meat until we need it,” Haldir said. “But you are correct that we cannot possibly stock enough to last us for the entire winter. We’ll need to hunt at least once every four or five days and we may not have much luck at times. It’s a pity that there isn’t a ready supply of succulents and fish to supplement our diet. I fear that we will not be able to visit Mithlond once winter settles in.”

“We’ll just have to monitor our food supply very carefully,” Denethor said. “And there may be long stretches of time when there are no storms and the weather moderates enough that we can send an expedition to Mithlond, but you are correct that we cannot plan for that with any certainty.”

“Well, we have plenty of meat at the moment, thanks to the deer,” Rían said, “but we will be very careful with it for we have no idea how long this storm will last.”

Everyone nodded and then someone suggested a song or a tale to while away the time and someone began singing about the Fell Winter and the invasion of the White Wolves into Eriador and soon people were comparing other winters which they had experienced. Maglor declined to join in the conversation, content to listen. Glancing at Thurin sitting beside him, he saw that the ellon’s eyes were half closed and realized that he was already asleep. Denethor, on the other side of Thurin, raised an amused eyebrow and the two shared a smile as Maglor reached over and settled a cloak over Thurin’s shoulders before returning his attention to Rían singing a hymn in praise of snow.

****

The storm lasted almost three days by their estimate with the occasional lull allowing them to move about and ascertain the condition of the encampment. Denethor had people clearing the parts of the enclosure that were still open to the sky so the snow would not pile up too high. Earlier two ropes had been secured between the north and west towers to allow people to find their way to the privy and not a few began speaking about constructing a walkway to make it easier to get back and forth. Someone thought that the conditions might get cold enough that they could use the snow itself to form a tunnel between the towers and a couple of people began experimenting with the piles of snow to see if they could construct something that would stay in place. They became rather enthusiastic about it and once the storm passed they were seen laying down blocks of stone to form a walkway and then building a wall of snow on either side. The temperatures dropped rather sharply and the snow began to crust over, freezing in place.

“And it’s early yet,” Denethor remarked to Maglor and Thurin who were helping with the stretching of the last of the goatskins over the enclosure. “I fear the cold will be even worse before long.”

“We’ve all survived worse,” Maglor pointed out.

“Denethor! They’re coming!”

Denethor and Maglor looked up to where Duilinn, taking his turn at sentry-go, was leaning out of the tower, his expression one of excitement.

“Ada and Nana and the others are just one hill over. They’ll be here soon,” he shouted down to them and there was cheering among those who heard him.

“Any sign of injured?” Denethor called up.

Duilinn shook his head. “I couldn’t tell. Damrod is with them, that much I could see.”

“Very good,” Denethor said. “Continue watching, son.”

Duilinn gave him a salute and ducked back inside even as Denethor was issuing orders. Maglor volunteered to go out to meet the returnees, but Denethor said it was pointless since they should be arriving soon enough and, true to his prediction, they were seen cresting the hill within a half an hour. Damrod was leading with Ragnor beside him. The others straggled behind, looking rather cold and bedraggled.

“Didn’t think we would ever make it,” Ragnor said by way of greeting when everyone from the encampment rushed to meet them. “We were halfway across the plains when we saw the storm and hastened as quickly as we could. It was a miracle that we even met up with Damrod.”

“Why did you leave Mithlond early, though?” Denethor asked, scanning Ragnor’s people. “Are there injured?”

“Nay, we are all well if cold and wet,” Ragnor assured him. “As to why we left early, I will explain after I’ve changed into dry clothes and have had a hot meal.”

“That goes without saying,” Denethor said with a smile. “Come, we’re all in the west tower at the moment. There is a nice venison stew waiting for you all.”

There were grateful looks and a few cheers from the returnees as they headed for the tower, some of them holding up strings of fish, which were welcomed by those assigned to cooking that day. Denethor ordered everyone else to continue with their appointed tasks. “We will call everyone together once our friends have had a chance to dry out.”

Maglor turned to Thurin with a smile. “Let’s finish with the roof then.”

They had finished with the walls earlier so now they were almost done covering the enclosure. Even the fire pit had been covered, for Denethor had decided to move the fire into the tower itself. Some people were attempting to make improvements to the south tower to ease the crowded conditions of the west tower. There had been a lively debate as to who would end up being sent into exile, as someone put it, and Denethor had announced that if there were no volunteers he would have people assigned there by lot and there would be a rotation schedule so everyone would end up in the south tower at some time during the winter. No one had argued with that.

“Ragnor look sad,” Thurin commented as he and Maglor stretched the last goatskin across and secured it.

“Tired, more likely,” replied Maglor, but privately he thought Thurin was not far wrong in his appraisal. Ragnor had looked sad, especially when his eyes fell on Thurin while he was speaking to them all.

Denethor called them all together about an hour later. Maglor and Thurin found places on the stairs to sit and listen to Ragnor, who was sitting beside the fire with his arm around Finduilas. “We reached Mithlond without any problem and quickly sorted out who would remain and do some fishing and who would come with me to the mountains. We weren’t sure where to look, but I figured that wherever Thurin holed up it had to be relatively near to the city. There is a spur of the mountains that comes about a mile closer to Mithlond than the rest of the range so we made for that.”

He paused to drink some more tea. “It was not too difficult to find the cave. Or rather, caves. The mountains are riddled with them.”

“Lots of caves,” Thurin said with a nod and those who had been gone with Ragnor gave him surprised looks. Maglor grinned at their expressions but did not say anything.

“Yes, lots of caves,” Ragnor echoed. “At any rate, Thurin’s cave was easy enough to find since it was the only one that looked to have been occupied.” He gave them a sardonic grin but then he sobered somewhat. “In the course of our explorations we found a smaller cave, more like a niche actually, in which we found the remains of another person.”

“Arthad,” Thurin said quietly, looking immensely sad, leaning against Maglor who wrapped an arm around his shoulders to comfort him.

Ragnor gave Maglor a strange look. “His brother,” Maglor said. “Those cat-creatures we fought against, he ate some of their meat and was poisoned. Haldir and the other hunters came upon some but we ended up burning the carcasses. Even their pelts had a nauseating smell to them so we didn’t even attempt to keep them.”

“Poison, you say?” Ragnor exclaimed. “That’s odd, for when we found the body there was a knife stuck in its chest. Even if he had been dying of poison, I think it was the knife that actually killed him.”

Now everyone was staring at Thurin in shock and disbelief. Maglor brushed a hand through the ellon’s hair. “Thurin?” But Thurin did not respond, just sat there in dejected silence, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Are you saying Thurin killed Arthad, his own brother?” Denethor asked Ragnor.

“No. I am only saying that we found the body of another Elf with a knife in his chest. That’s why we returned sooner than we were planning. If Thurin murdered the other Elf, he could well murder others. I felt it important to return as quickly as possible to warn you.”

Maglor was only half-listening to Ragnor’s explanation, concentrating on Thurin. Glóredhel, who was seated on the step below them, reached up to place a comforting hand on Thurin’s knee, her expression one of compassion and sorrow. “Would you like to tell us what happened, Thurin?” she asked softly, her tone sympathetic rather than condemnatory.

For several tense minutes there was only silence as everyone waited for Thurin to speak. Maglor hugged him. “It’s all right, Thurin. We just want to help. Can you tell us what happened?”

“I not like smell of meat,” Thurin finally said, not looking at anyone as he spoke. “I tell Arthad not eat, but he said he not want to starve. We not have food for long time because of a storm. No hunt in storm. Found cat thing already dead. Arthad cook it and eat. He… he so sick… so sick… he beg me kill him… he beg me….” He started weeping in earnest and Maglor took him more fully in his embrace and held him close, rocking him slightly.

“Shh… it’s all right, Thurin. Shh…” He looked up at the others staring at Thurin in sympathetic horror.

“No wonder he went insane,” someone whispered.

Maglor gave Denethor a helpless look, not sure what they should do next. He had no doubt that Thurin had killed his brother out of mercy and not out of anger, but even so, the horror of it was more than he wished to contemplate.

Thurin suddenly pulled himself out of Maglor’s embrace. “I bad. I sorry. I go now.” He made to stand up, but Maglor pulled him back down.

“No. You’re not going anywhere,” he said.

“You hate me now,” Thurin protested. “I bad. I not good. Maglor good. Denthir good. Glorthil good. Everyone good. I not good. I go.”

At that Denethor rose and made his way to the stairs with people making room for him, stopping to look up at Thurin. “If you think we’re all good and pure as the driven snow, my friend, then you are mistaken. We are all of us bad in some way or another. We are all of us good in some way or another. That is true for you as well. What you did was terrible, there’s no denying, but we don’t condemn people for doing what any of us could well have been forced to do in similar circumstances. I think you’ve been punished enough and we do not hate you. We hate that circumstances drove you to do what you did. For better or worse, Thurin, you’re one of us and we don’t give up on anyone, just ask Maglor.” He cast Maglor a grin, which Maglor returned.

“Arthalion.”

“Who?” Maglor asked Thurin, for it had been he who had spoken.

Thurin wiped the tears from his face. “Arthalion, not Thurin.”

“Arthalion,” Maglor repeated, giving Denethor a significant look.

Denethor nodded. “Arthalion, then. Thank you. We’re happy to have you with us, Arthalion. I have no doubt the Belain meant for us to find and rescue you.”

Thurin — or rather Arthalion — gave him a puzzled look. “You not hate me?”

“No, child,” Denethor said with a gentle smile. “We don’t hate you.”

Arthalion looked about him and seeing the genuine concern on everyone’s face started weeping again. Maglor hugged him, giving Denethor a knowing smile and began singing a lullaby. Soon, everyone was joining in and in a short while, Arthalion was fast asleep. Maglor kept his arm around the sleeping ellon, gently rocking him, while he listened to Ragnor’s description as to what else they had discovered in the caves.

“We found this,” he said, pulling something out of a haversack lying at his feet. It was cloth-wrapped and he slowly undid the covering.

Maglor felt the breath leave his body and his scarred hand spasmed with pain at the sight of the jewel sitting in Ragnor’s hand, reflecting the firelight. “Valar, no!” he whispered in horror as he gazed upon what could only be a Silmaril.

****

Araw: Oromë.

21: Opening Old Wounds

The silence inside the tower was complete as they all gazed in wonder and, in some cases fear, at the scintillating jewel sitting in Ragnor’s hand. Maglor had closed his eyes, unable to look upon it any longer without dread.

“We’ve been careful not to touch it,” he heard Ragnor say softly, breaking the silence.

“Where did you find it?” Damrod asked.

“How was it ever recovered?” Denethor added.

“We found it lying at the head of the… of the body,” Ragnor replied. “That cave is a treasure trove, Denethor, one to make any dragon proud. I can only assume that as the Sea receded, much that had remained hidden below the waves was revealed, including this.”

“Pwetty. My pwetty.”

Maglor opened his eyes as Arthalion stirred and saw the ellon gaze upon the Silmaril with a smile.

“Your pretty?” he asked.

Arthalion started to nod and then shake his head, looking more mournful. “No. Not my pretty. Arthad’s pretty. Arthad find.”

“How? How was it found?” Maglor demanded in a harsh whisper, never taking his eyes off Arthalion.

For a moment Arthalion did not answer, merely gazed upon the Silmaril, then he sighed. “Arthad and I decide to go home but we too late. No ship in Mithlond. We go to the Sea hoping to see ship and hail it but ship not there. We stay by Sea for long time and watch the water go away. We explore. We find many pwet... pretties, many other things. One day Arthad go out, far out. I not go that far. I stay close to shore. He come back carrying the pretty. Then he say we go back to Mithlond and wait.”

“Wait for what?” Glóredhel asked.

“Or whom?” Ragnor added, giving Maglor a significant look, which the ellon ignored.

“Did Arthad ever tell you how he found this?” Denethor asked gently, pointing to the Silmaril.

Arthalion shook his head. “No. He say he find, we keep safe.” Then his expression mutated to one of anger and he started to rise. “It is Arthad’s pretty. You not take from him.”

Maglor grabbed him and pulled him down and Glóredhel gave him her stern ‘nana’ look. “You behave,” she said firmly, and the ellon subsided, almost deflating. Maglor cast a knowing look at Glóredhel, who merely smirked in that infuriating way ellith had when they’d bested an ellon. Ragnor stood then, holding the Silmaril out to Maglor.

“By rights, Lord Maglor, this belongs to you.”

Maglor felt something within him go cold as he stared at the jewel before him. Arthalion stared at him in puzzlement. “Why belong to you?” he asked.

“The Silmarils were created by Maglor’s adar, Lord Fëanor,” Denethor answered when Maglor just sat there, apparently ignoring them all. “Maglor is his heir, so this Silmaril is his.” He stood up next to Ragnor and gave Maglor a stern look. “Wouldst thou take up thine inheritance, son of Fëanor? Doth thine Oath hold thee still in thrall? None here will deny thee this bauble, if thou dost desire it. Tell us, son of Fëanor, thy will in this.”

Maglor flinched every time Denethor mentioned his adar’s name, his scarred hand clenched with the remembered pain of the Silmaril burning his flesh. He had thought he had finally renounced the hated Oath, but it was still there; he could feel its insidious words reclaiming him. The hold which the Oath had over him had remained dormant all these millennia, but it had never gone away, not completely.

“I threw it away,” he whispered in anguish. “Why has it returned now? Is this some cruel jest of the Belain? Have I not suffered enough?” This last was practically screamed as he leapt to his feet and, pushing Arthalion away, he practically ran up the stairs, needing to get away from everything. He heard someone shouting his name, but ignored it as he climbed the rope ladder then hung onto the stone as he leaned out and became thoroughly sick. It was some time before he stopped retching, feeling suddenly weak in the knees and had to clutch the parapet even harder to keep himself from falling out of the tower. He felt, rather than heard, someone come up and stand beside him, holding the back of his tunic, helping him to straighten.

“Here, drink some water,” Denethor said, handing him a skin.

He took the proffered skin and rinsed his mouth, spewing the water over the side before taking a long drink. Denethor then helped him to sit with their backs against the stone and their feet dangling in midair. The Sinda offered no comfort or condemnation, merely sitting by him, waiting for him to speak or not.

“I renounced the Oath,” Maglor finally said in a whisper, staring into space. “I know I did.”

“You threw the Silmaril away,” Denethor replied just as softly, not looking at him. “That might not be the same thing.”

Maglor gave him a surprised look. “What do you mean?”

Denethor sighed, “I was not there, so I cannot speak from my own experience, but in all the tales told of that fateful last attempt by you and Maedhros to take the Silmarils it is said that you threw yours into the Sea, for you could not hold it in your hands any longer, stained as they were with the blood of your kin.”

“I know what I did,” Maglor hissed, his expression harsh. “You need not repeat the tale of my sins back to me.”

“But that’s just it,” Denethor replied equably. “It is a tale, nothing more. Only you know for sure if you renounced the Oath at the same time as you threw away the Silmaril. By all accounts, you threw it away simply because you could no longer hold it in your hand, but it does not necessarily follow that you renounced the Oath that led you to attempt the theft from right under the Maiar’s noses, killing the Vanyar guarding them.”

For a long moment Maglor did not respond, mentally reviewing all that he had done and thought and felt on that fateful night. He had cursed Maedhros even as he mourned him and wished that he had had the courage to end his own life then and there instead of running away like a puling coward. He had hoped someone would have slain him as he ran, but no one had offered him that particular mercy and now, now after all this time…

“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispered. “I can’t… I can’t….” Now he was weeping and Denethor wrapped an arm around his shoulders and held him through his tears, never saying a word, just holding him until the tears abated.

“I told Ragnor to take the Silmaril and hide it somewhere away from here. There is nothing we can do about it or with it for the moment. It won’t put food in our bellies or keep us warm in the night. It’s a useless bauble. “

“Perhaps not too useless,” Maglor replied, straightening and wiping the tears from his face. “It was found and kept safe for a reason, and I doubt it was only so as to test my resolve in renouncing any claim to it, for I do renounce it and the Oath. I want nothing more to do with the accursed thing, but that is not to say that its finding does not hold another purpose besides testing me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Maglor admitted. “But you know as well as I that short of walking across the Sea, we may have no way of reaching Dor Rodyn unless we miraculously find a ship waiting to take us. We may well have to wait until the climate has warmed enough for trees to grow again before we can build our own.”

“What about the trees in Tûm Ivon? Could we use them?”

“Possibly, though it would be an incredible undertaking to get the wood all the way to the Sea. I just don’t know.”

“I cannot believe that the Belain would inspire us to come all the way here and then abandon us.”

Maglor gave him a wintry smile. “A nasty habit of theirs,” he retorted. “I am not all that surprised. My impression is that the Belain are willing enough to inspire us toward a certain goal but leave it to us to figure out the rest. Are you and the others prepared to spend who knows how many more ennin it will take for the climate to warm, for trees to grow, for the Sea to return until we can ever hope to reach the Blessed Realm?”

“Are you?” Denethor retorted.

Maglor sighed, shaking his head. “I honestly don’t know. I was all set to die, wanted to die, have been wanting to die for a long time, though every attempt was rudely interrupted by something or someone.” He cast Denethor a wry look.

“Which must tell you something right there, my friend,” Denethor replied with a chuckle. “I think if the Belain wanted you dead, they would have cheerfully arranged matters to accommodate you instead of thwarting your attempts one way or another.”

Maglor frowned. “You seriously think they interfered with my attempts to die? Why?”

“I think you know the answer to that, Lord Maglor,” Denethor said firmly. “Now, as much as I am enjoying sitting here dangling my feet like an elfling, I have a community to look after. As long as you’re up here, though, you can take the watch. I’ll send someone up to relieve you in a couple of hours. That will give you time to think things over in private. Ragnor is the only person who knows where he’s hidden the Silmaril. I told him even I do not want to know. Therefore, if you are so inclined to look for it, please limit yourself to torturing Ragnor for the information and leave the rest of us alone.”

And with that outrageous statement, which left Maglor sitting there with his mouth hanging open, Denethor rose and made his way back down the stairs, leaving Maglor alone.

****

Maglor was staring northwestward toward Mithlond and the Sea beyond, lost in thought. It was almost time for his relief to arrive. He’d spent much of the last couple of hours standing there, gazing toward the West, though he had made a conscious effort to circle the tower at regular intervals to keep an eye on things. He saw Ragnor return from the east about an hour into his watch, stopping to speak to Denethor briefly. They both looked up at the same time to see him staring down at them and he found he had to look away, pretend that he was simply keeping watch, though he doubted he had fooled them. He certainly hadn’t fooled himself.

He spent the time rethinking all that Denethor had said, calling to mind all the times in the long years of his exile where he had attempted to end his sorry existence and failed for some reason or another. He had always put it down to bad luck or bad timing, never thinking that there was a purpose behind his failures.

Now, however, he was seeing things in a new and different light and he found he was not happy with the implications. In fact, he was feeling downright frightened. Had this all been for the sole purpose of bringing him to where the Silmaril was and see what he would do with it so readily at hand? He realized that it had been easy enough to renounce it and the Oath when the Silmaril was no longer reachable by him or anyone else for that matter. It was an entirely different matter when it was nearby and all he had to do was to convince Ragnor to take him to it.

He shook his head. Pure foolishness. What would he do? Torture his friend? Threaten his family? The very thought of harming any of them for that accursed jewel made him ill. But what was he supposed to do now? He had no idea and the very thought of having to do anything overwhelmed him and left him feeling weak and defeated.

The sound of someone climbing the rope ladder alerted him and he turned his attention to the new arrival and was surprised to see Arthalion there.

“Denthur… I mean Denethor say… um… said I should relieve you,” the ellon informed him, taking care to speak more correctly.

“You?” Maglor could only say, too surprised to be more polite.

Arthalion nodded. “Yes. He say… said I was a member of the comu… comun… the group and had to take my turn on watch. You go and eat and rest. I watch.”

“I’m not hungry,” Maglor said, “nor do I desire sleep.”

“Then stay and watch with me. It is lonely up here. I not like being alone… not anymore.” He gave Maglor a shy look and Maglor nodded, gesturing for the ellon to join him.

“I can do that,” he said. For a time, the two of them stood side-by-side staring out, saying nothing. Maglor was not sure what he felt about Arthalion now. The ellon seemed to be reclaiming himself more quickly than Maglor had anticipated. He found he was almost missing the elfling-like behavior of this newest member of their community. The person standing silently beside him seemed more a stranger. He had to consciously think of him as ‘Arthalion’ and not ‘Thurin’. He was not sure he liked the change. ‘Thurin’ had become his project. He had anticipated spending the winter socializing the ellon, teaching him language. He had even begun planning lessons. That thought forced a rueful chuckle from him. Arthalion gave him an enquiring look.

“It’s all right,” Maglor said. “I was just thinking I liked you better as Thurin. Er… sorry. That didn’t come out right. I just meant that I’d been looking forward to spending the winter helping you to become Arthalion but you beat me to it.”

“I forgot who I was,” the ellon said with a nod. “I forgot many things, even Arthad. You help… helped me remember, though it hurts to do so. Still, I am grateful. Losing yourself is a terrible thing.”

“I cannot even begin to imagine what you endured. It amazes me, all of us, that you did not fade.”

Arthalion looked pensive. “I think I forgot even that. I was too focused on surviving, too focused on carrying out my brother’s last wish.”

Maglor felt his eyebrows leave his forehead. “Last wish?” he repeated in a whisper.

“Yes. With his last breath he thanked me for showing him mercy and then said, ‘Keep the Silmaril safe for the one who will come and claim it.’” He gave Maglor a significant look. “I think he meant you.”

“And you kept it safe all this time,” Maglor said, refusing to acknowledge Arthalion’s last words.

“No. Arthad kept it safe. I left it with him. I never visited him after that. I avoided the cave where I put him, but all the while I knew I could not forsake the watch. Arthad was depending on me, only as the years went by I began to forget, forget Arthad, forget the pretty… I mean the Silmaril, forget myself. I was more animal than Elf when you found me. I had long ceased to even remember how to cook my food. I ate it raw as any animal would.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling with humor. “When you gave me that cooked goat meat to eat, I could not believe how wonderful it tasted. That first meal saved me in more ways than one.”

“I am glad, truly,” Maglor said with as much sincerity as he could muster. “My own life has been one of exile. I mainly interacted with the Mortals on those occasions when I had no other choice, but I avoided the company of Elves for I did not wish to be burdened with their horror or pity or downright hatred. It was safer to have nothing to do with them.”

“Denethor does not hate you,” Arthalion responded. “I do not hate you. I do not know what you did or if I ever knew, I’ve forgotten. Should I know?”

“Perhaps,” Maglor said. “How much of your former life do you remember?”

Arthalion shrugged. “I am not sure. Much is still hidden from me, I think. I remember mostly the long, lonely years. I am not even sure where Arthad and I lived before we came to Mithlond seeking for a ship.”

“Perhaps over the winter you will remember more of your life,” Maglor suggested.

“I am afraid of what I will remember, though,” Arthalion admitted, looking embarrassed.

“I know, but keep in mind that you are with friends now. You do not have to remember alone. We will all be here for you when any memory becomes too much for you.”

“Thank you,” Arthalion said simply. He looked back out to the West where the sun was now sinking below the horizon and sighed. “Ragnor has hid the Silmaril.”

“Yes.”

“I followed him. I know where he hid it. Do you want me to tell you?”

Maglor hesitated for a long moment before answering. “No.”

“Good, because I won’t,” Arthalion said, giving him a pointed look.

Maglor raised an eyebrow. “Another test?”

Arthalion shrugged. “I will take the east side if you wish to remain here,” was all he said and when Maglor nodded, he moved around to take up his post. Neither one spoke another word until Sador arrived four hours later to relieve them.

22: Return to Mithlond

Ragnor wanted to return to Mithlond and specifically to Arthalion’s cave as soon as possible and told Denethor as much as the two ellyn sat around the fire in the west tower three days later. Maglor, Damrod and Arthalion were also there, the five of them discussing several matters pertaining to the settlement as it prepared for the coming winter, though Arthalion was content to just sit and listen.

“We didn’t explore it all and there were things there that we might be able to use,” Ragnor said when they broached the subject of the cave, “with Arthalion’s permission, of course.” This last was obviously an afterthought, but no doubt sincere on the Elf’s part.

Arthalion nodded. “My brother and I collected many things and after he… after he died, I continued doing so, though I long forgot the reason why.”

“What reason did you have to collect what you did?” Maglor asked.

Arthalion shrugged. “I do not know. Perhaps when you see what I collected it will make sense to you. It never made sense to me but I still continued collecting certain things, especially any jewels that I found.”

“There was one chest full of jewels, emeralds mostly, but also rubies, diamonds and the odd sapphire,” Ragnor said with a nod. “There was carving on the chest, nearly worn and hard to make out, but we think it originally came from Gondor. We think perhaps a ship was carrying it to the northern kingdom and sank somewhere off the coast of Lindon during a storm.”

“Arthad found the chest,” Arthalion said. “He said it was important, but he never told me why. The jewels are pretty enough, I suppose, but what use are they, really? You cannot hunt or fish with them.”

“And yet, you have been going around collecting these,” Maglor said, pulling out one of the green-mottled gray stones he kept in a pouch. “You seemed to think these were important.”

Arthalion actually flushed red with embarrassment. “I was… stupider then,” he mumbled and the other ellyn grinned.

“No, you were being very young and you wanted to share your delight in finding pretties,” Denethor said kindly. “We rejoiced that you did so, for it meant that you were seeking to integrate yourself into our community however clumsy your attempt. And Maglor has kept every one of your pretties as a reminder of what he, indeed what all of us, could have lost had fate been less kind to us than it was to you. You have no need to feel ashamed of your previous behavior, Arthalion. All of us go through that stage, you just happened to go through it twice.”

Ragnor and Maglor all snickered and Damrod, sitting on Arthalion’s right, threw his arm around him, giving him a hug, which seemed to mollify the ellon somewhat, for he looked less embarrassed.

“Getting back to the matter at hand, though,” Maglor said after a moment, “it seems odd that Arthad felt this need for the two of you to collect things yet never explained why. When did he become obsessed with collecting, before or after he found the… my adar’s jewel?”

Arthalion frowned, as if in deep thought, and Maglor suspected the ellon was attempting to dredge up a well-buried memory. Finally, his expression cleared. “I think it was afterwards, but I cannot say for sure.”

“Was Arthad older than you?” Denethor asked.

Arthalion nodded. “He always looked after me.” His expression became immensely sad and Maglor thought the ellon would start weeping, but he didn’t; he just sat there staring at the fire. There was an awkward silence for a moment or two before Denethor turned his attention back to Ragnor.

“When were you thinking of returning?”

“I would like to go as soon as possible while the weather holds. We could do with some more fish as well.” Denethor nodded. “And I would like Maglor and Arthalion to come with me this time.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Ragnor gave him a steady look. “I want Arthalion there to help explain what we find and I need you there for Arthalion’s sake.” He gave Arthalion a rueful look. “You might become upset and…”

“And Maglor can calm me down with his singing,” Arthalion said with a nod.

“What am I, your nanny?” Maglor asked, throwing them all a disgusted look.

Denethor, Damrod and Ragnor all grinned. “It’s not as if you’ve not been there before, Lord Maglor,” Denethor said. “By all accounts, you proved an apt nanny to the Eärendilionath.”

Now Maglor gave them a supercilious look. “I was their foster-father, not their nanny. I left that chore to one of the ellith of my household.”

“No doubt,” Denethor said equably. “And no doubt, you were called upon more than once to sing those two impossible ellyn to sleep whenever they became fractious.”

Maglor gave him a considering look. “You knew them, didn’t you?”

“After a fashion,” Denethor said with a shrug. “However, we’re not here to speak of the past but the present. I agree that we need to take an inventory of whatever lies in Arthalion’s cave and determine why he collected what he did. And more fish would be a welcome change to our diet. There does not seem to be any sign of another storm coming soon, so let us plan to send you back tomorrow, Ragnor. Maglor and Arthalion will accompany you. Glóredhel should go as well or Celepharn, if she does not wish to, so the burden of looking after Arthalion does not lie entirely on Maglor’s shoulders.”

“I do not need looking after,” Arthalion protested. “At least, not much,” he amended, giving them a chagrined look.

“You are still struggling to reclaim yourself, Arthalion,” Denethor said gently, “and returning to the cave might prove emotionally hard for you, so I want Maglor and Glóredhel there to help you, if you need it.”

Arthalion nodded reluctantly and Maglor gave him a sympathetic smile. “I’m curious to see what you’ve been collecting, too, so even if you weren’t coming I would still go.”

“Then it’s settled,” Denethor said decisively, standing. “You should plan to leave at first light. Damrod, organize volunteers to go back to fish.”

“I doubt I’ll have any trouble there,” Damrod said with a grin. “I suspect the problem will be too many volunteers.”

They all chuckled at that, knowing the truth of the ellon’s words. “Well, we’ll have a lottery then with the promise that those who do not go this time will be allowed to go the next and, just to be fair, those who went previously should not be allowed to go this time.”

Damrod nodded. “I’ll see to it,” he said.

“Come, Arthalion. Let us see if Glóredhel is willing to accompany us to Mithlond,” Maglor said, rising, and the two went off to find the elleth and apprise her of what had been decided. It did not surprise Maglor one bit when she enthusiastically agreed, thanking them for including her in the expedition.

“Don’t thank us,” Maglor said with a smile. “Thank Denethor, for it was his idea.”

****

Mithlond had not changed much since the last time Maglor had been there. He said as much and the others with him gave him disbelieving looks, then began chuckling as they saw the twinkle in his eyes and knew he’d been jesting with them.

“Truly, it hasn’t,” Maglor said with a straight face. “Gil-galad’s palace still looks like a heap of stones and that wall over there hasn’t gotten any higher.” Now they were laughing outright and Ragnor made a swatting motion at Maglor’s head and Maglor obligingly ducked, a wide grin on his face.

The party split up at the river, with several people pulling out fishing lines, agreeing to meet up with Ragnor’s group later at the tower by the palace. “We’ll have dinner ready for you when you return,” they were promised and the two groups parted in good spirits. Leaving the city and heading toward the mountains, Maglor made sure he was walking next to Arthalion and was pleased to see Glóredhel walking on the other side. Arthalion had been quiet ever since they had arrived at the city and his expression could only be called haunted. Maglor put out a hand and squeezed Arthalion’s shoulder.

“It will be well,” he said softly. “We’re all here for you, my friend.”

“The cave is this way,” Ragnor said, pointing.

Maglor stopped to look about. Behind them was the city, and looking at it from the north, he could see how much destruction the ice had caused, the wall on the north side completely gone and many of the buildings so much rubble, barely discernible as having once been buildings. He suspected that, given time, no trace of the city would remain. Turning away from the ruins he gave the mountains a hard look. There was a spur of rock that came further out onto the plains that lay between the river and the mountains and that was where Ragnor was pointing.

“See that cleft to the left?” he said. “Follow it down to the right and just between those two hills lies the cave, or rather caves. We think that most are interconnected but we didn’t stay long enough to test the theory.”

“The caves are a maze,” Arthalion said. “Arthad and I explored them as much as we could but I do not think we saw even a quarter of them.”

“They must have been part of the Dwarf-halls of Nogrod before this part of Beleriand was changed,” Maglor suggested. “Belegost was further south and I do not think Gil-galad allowed the Dwarves to relocate here in the north.”

“No, not while he was alive,” Ragnor said. “After his death, Círdan allowed the Dwarves access to the mountains further north, but most of them remained in Belegost.”

“I wonder if they’re still there,” Glóredhel said musingly.

“It would not surprise me if they were,” Maglor said, “but I doubt it. Stubborn as the day is long they may have been, but they were not stupid. I think the Dwarves would have fled to the South along with everyone else and if any remained I doubt they survived for very long.”

They came upon the cave about an hour later and by mutual consent stopped before the entrance. Arthalion was pale and kept biting his lips. Maglor thought that the ellon would turn and flee at any moment and stationed himself slightly behind the others crowding around the entrance just in case.

“We’ll need light,” Ragnor said and began pulling out several torches from his haversack along with his tinderbox and in a short while they were all carrying lit torches with Ragnor leading the way, followed by Glóredhel. Arthalion hesitated and Maglor patted him on the shoulder, giving him a warm smile and they entered the cave together.

It took a few minutes for their eyes to adjust to the gloom. The cave was empty, Maglor could see, and rather small, barely eight feet across, the ceiling low so that he had to crouch slightly. Opposite the entrance was a hole, about five feet high. Ragnor went directly to it and crouched down and everyone else followed him. The hole led into a short tunnel that opened up into a larger cavern and this one had clearly been occupied. It was perhaps three times as large as the outer cave and the ceiling was higher so they could all stand straight. There was a bundle of furs piled on a shelf of rock to their right and Maglor suspected that they had served as Arthalion’s bed. The rest of the cave was filled with… junk.

That was the only way Maglor could describe it. Strewn about were iron-bound casks, large and small, stuffed mainly with gemstones and jewelry — crowns and carcanets, necklaces and rings, even plates and goblets and urns made of gold or tarnished silver, and a few pieces made of mithril. It was indeed a treasure trove.

“And you and your brother collected all of this?” Maglor asked Arthalion in an awed whisper.

Arthalion nodded, walking over to the pile of furs, stroking them idly. “Mostly. After Arthad died, I continued collecting, but not as much as I did not travel far from here. When Arthad was alive we would make our way to the Sea and hunt for treasure, but afterwards, I did not wish to travel that far alone, so I remained here.” He turned away from the furs and frowned at nothing in particular as his gaze fell upon the baubles lying about. He kicked at a piece of jewelry lying at his feet. “Useless, all of it,” he said with disgust. “I must have been insane to collect them.”

“And yet you did, and from what you’ve said it sounds as if Arthad was driven to find more and more treasure after he discovered the Silmaril,” Glóredhel said, “almost as if he were suffering from dragon-sickness.”

“It does sound like it, doesn’t it?” Ragnor said with a nod, looking pensive. “Yet something tells me that perhaps it was not, that something else was going on. The Silmaril would not evoke the same kind of… greed that a dragon’s trove would, I deem. And it was only Arthad and Arthalion and Arthad never denied you access to the Silmaril, did he?” He directed his gaze on Arthalion, who shook his head.

“We both held it.”

“Well, what do we do with this?” Glóredhel asked, making a sweeping gesture to encompass the cave and its contents. “If we were so inclined, we could take all of this and return to the South and buy a ship to take us West.”

“More like an entire fleet,” Maglor retorted with a chuckle. “You could even buy yourself a kingdom or three with what is here, I suspect.”

“You’re probably not too far wrong there, Maglor,” Ragnor said with a grin. “However, I doubt any of us wish to make such an arduous journey, at least not with winter breathing down our necks. Perhaps in the spring we might decide to do just that. Perhaps that is why Arthalion and Arthad collected all this, to provide us with the means for buying ourselves a ship.”

“Well, that’s something that will have to be decided on by everyone,” Maglor said. “Personally, I have no desire to return to the South, even if it’s just long enough to secure a ship and set sail. I think that if we are ever to find our way to Dor Rodyn, it will be here in the North.”

“So do we take any of this with us, or leave it?” Glóredhel asked.

“What say you, Arthalion?” Ragnor asked. “Should we take anything back or leave it here?”

Arthalion gave him a surprised look. “Why do you ask me?”

“Because, for all intents and purposes, all this belongs to you since you and your brother found it and as Arthad’s next of kin, you stand as heir to his portion.”

“By that logic, the same can be said of the… of the Silmaril,” Maglor said.

Ragnor, however, shook his head. “You are a living heir of the one who created it, therefore, the Silmaril belongs to you and to no other.”

“It belongs to no one,” Maglor retorted harshly, “and if I had the power to do so I would destroy it.” Without another word, he turned and left them, suddenly feeling everything closing in on him, the need for open sky and fresh air driving him. He reentered the outer cave and then was gulping lungsful of fresh air, leaning weakly against the outer wall of the cave, his eyes closed. He felt someone coming out but could not be bothered to look to see who had followed him. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“It is well, Maglor,” he heard Arthalion say. “The Silmaril was never mine. It was Arthad who found it. I am sure he would have willingly given it up to you had he lived.”

“But I do not want it,” Maglor said with a sigh as he opened his eyes. “I want nothing to do with that accursed jewel. It has done nothing but brought sorrow and pain and death. It should have remained in Ulmo’s realm for all the ages of Arda.”

“But it has not,” Arthalion replied in a reasonable tone. “And perhaps it was found for a reason, though I cannot fathom what that might be. Yet, I think perhaps you may know.”

“Denethor thinks that when I threw the Silmaril away the first time I may not have actually renounced it or the Oath; that I simply threw it away, no longer able to hold it.” His right hand spasmed and he clenched his teeth against the sudden pain.

“And now you have the opportunity to decide if you will renounce the Oath for real or allow it to rule you once again.” Ragnor said, coming outside. Glóredhel followed. “In the meantime, I think we should return to the city and see how successful our friends have been in catching any fish. We’ll decide on the treasure later. It’s not going anywhere and neither are we.”

Maglor had no objections to that and nodded. “Yes. Let us go. Arthalion, is there anything you wish to take with you? We will wait until you have had a chance to collect whatever personal items you wish to have with you.”

“There is nothing in that cave that I want,” Arthalion said, but his expression was somewhat troubled.

“What is it, Arthalion?” Glóredhel asked.

Arthalion shook his head. “I just hate to leave Arthad all alone. This is the longest he’s been alone. “

Maglor glanced at Ragnor and Glóredhel, both of them looking sympathetic. “You said you never visited him,” he reminded Arthalion, speaking as gently as possible.

“I did not. I would sit outside the cave where he lay and I would tell him about what I’d found that day. At least, in the beginning. After a while, I stopped speaking altogether.” He sighed and there was a universe of sorrow in his eyes. Glóredhel gave him a hug.

“Would you like to sit outside Arthad’s cave and tell him about all your adventures with us?” she asked. “I’m sure he would be interested.”

Arthalion shook his head. “He’s not there, never has been. I spoke to him, imagining he was just lying there listening to my tales, because there was no one else and when he never responded I finally gave it up.”

“I think, though, that you drew much comfort from telling Arthad about your life,” Glóredhel said, giving him a searching look.

“Perhaps at first,” Arthalion admitted. “I was so lost afterwards. I hardly knew what to do and desperately wanted to fade, to follow Arthad to Mandos, but I could not. Something would not let me take that route. But after a while, it just got too hard to make conversation, especially when it was one-sided. Finally, I just gave up, sinking further and further into despair.”

“Still, I think Glóredhel is correct,” Maglor said. “I think you need to speak with Arthad, not so much for his sake, for, as you say, he is not here, but for yours. And I think it might help put everything in perspective for you.”

Arthalion stood silently for several moments, staring out pensively, obviously deep in thought. Then he looked at his companions, giving them a shy look. “I do not have to do it now, though, do I?”

Maglor, Ragnor and Glóredhel all smiled. “We’re not leaving immediately,” Ragnor said, “and we still need to inventory the cave and give people a chance to catch as much fish as possible. Why don’t we go back to the city for now? We’ll return here tomorrow.”

Arthalion looked relieved and made no protest and soon they were heading back to Mithlond. By the time they reached it, the sun had long set, but they had no trouble finding their way, for the smell of trout cooking over a fire drew them and soon they were happily feasting on fish and describing all that they had seen in the cave to their friends.

****

Eärendilionath: The sons of Eärendil. As there were only two, Elrond and Elros, the collective plural form is used.

23: A Brother’s Farewell

They were there for a week taking inventory. Glóredhel had brought with her a roll of tanned leather on which she recorded the items found in the cave, using henna ink which she made from dried henna mixed with tea and blue gum oil. Maglor had not been surprised by the blue gum oil, for it was a well-known medicament and commonly used. He had been surprised to learn that anyone had bothered to bring along dried henna, but Glóredhel had simply shrugged, as if the matter was of little importance. Once the ink was made, she used dried reeds taken from the river as writing instruments. It was crude, but it did the trick. The roll of leather was not large, so she used an abbreviated form of tengwar to record the items.

“It is a mnemonic,” she explained to Maglor when he asked her about it, “to help me remember what we find.”

“Why are we even bothering, though?” someone asked. “What’s the point? It seems a waste of good leather, if nothing else.”

“To make sure that we do not miss an item that may prove important to our survival,” Ragnor answered. “Even Arthalion cannot tell us what it was he collected except in general terms. It may end up being that there is nothing in the cave that can help us, but I would rather waste my time and that roll of leather knowing that there is nothing in the cave that can serve our purposes than to find out when it’s too late that what we need the most lies somewhere buried underneath all that… um… salvage.”

And so, they took turns in helping to sort out the items in the cave, giving Maglor and the others a chance to try their luck at fishing. By the end of the week, plenty of fish had been caught and smoked and most of the items in the cave had been inventoried. As predicted, it was mostly junk, or at least of no real use or value to them. Arthalion found a few trinkets that seemed to have some meaning to him and he placed them on the pile of furs out of the way. It was understood that anything placed on the furs was not to be handled by the others.

As they sorted out the treasure (Glóredhel insisted on calling it that rather than ‘junk’ as most everyone else was calling it), Maglor tried to discern a pattern to the things that had been collected. The bulk of the collection consisted of gemstones, some mounted, but most not. There were several bits of jewelry, most of it of excellent workmanship and he suspected that several pieces were Dwarf-made. The largest cache was the chest of uncut emeralds, diamonds, rubies and sapphires that Ragnor had described to them. What had Arthad been thinking as he urged his brother to collect these things? What purpose had he seen for them? And what did the Silmaril have to do with it?

Maglor was certain in his own mind that it was only after finding the Silmaril that Arthad felt the need to collect any gemstone he and his brother could find among the exposed wrecks. Arthalion had admitted that until then, their main purpose in hunting the wrecks was to determine if any of the wood was salvageable with the idea of perhaps repairing one of the smaller ships.

“But the wood was too rotten and I think now that Arthad had us searching just to keep me busy,” Arthalion told them when Maglor questioned him about what the two brothers were hoping to find in their searches. They were all gathered around the fire on the second evening after a day of either doing inventory or fishing. “He knew how upset I was at coming too late to Mithlond, for I had been reluctant to heed the call. It was Arthad who wanted to Sail and he spent much time urging me to join him. I think had it not been for that, we would have reached Mithlond in time and Arthad wouldn’t have died.” He gave them a chagrined look.

“You cannot blame yourself,” Maglor said sympathetically, “and I doubt if Arthad blamed you for tarrying.”

“But he’s dead,” Arthalion protested.

“More than likely he’s been re-embodied and waits impatiently for you to join him in Dor Rodyn,” Maglor rejoined.

“Do you think so?” Arthalion asked and there was a hunger in his eyes that spoke volumes to the others.

“Yes, I do,” Maglor said firmly. “And when we come there, he’ll be there to greet you.”

“How can you be so sure, though?”

“Truly, I cannot be, for I have never met anyone who has returned from Mandos, though I have heard of Lord Glorfindel. I suppose I can only say that I have the same hope as you, that when we finally reach the Blessed Realm my own brothers will be waiting for me as well.”

“It is the only thing any of us have: hope,” Glóredhel said and her expression became wistful. Maglor wanted to ask her if she, too, was hoping to find someone waiting for her in Valinor but knew that it was not proper. He had no doubt that every one of these people had lost someone to Mandos and were anxious to be reunited with them. He did not think any of his brothers would have been released, given the nature of their crimes, but the closer they came to reaching their goal the more hopeful he became that there would indeed be someone waiting for him. Perhaps his ammë….

He shook that thought away and concentrated on what was being said around him. They had discovered a particular piece of jewelry — a necklace of superior workmanship, clearly elven made — that had been inventoried that day. Unlike the other pieces, which were neatly piled into one corner of the cave after being inventoried, this piece had been brought back to the camp so everyone could see it.

“It looks like Celebrimbor’s work, but I don’t see his mark,” Voronwë said when the piece came to him, and Maglor recalled that the Noldo had once lived in Ost-in-Edhil. “It may have been fashioned by one of the others belonging to the Gwaith-i-Mírdain,” Voronwë continued as he passed it on to the next person. “I know that there were a number of imitators of Celebrimbor’s style, especially after his death.”

“And this was found in one of the wrecks?” Maglor asked Arthalion.

“No, I found it in Mithlond,” Arthalion replied.

Everyone gave him a surprised look. “Where? Where in Mithlond?” Maglor demanded. “Surely there was nothing left behind by the last residents of the city.”

“It was in the palace,” Arthalion replied to their astonishment. “At first, we lived here in the city, in the palace, actually. The city was not a ruin yet. It would be centuries before the ice would descend from the mountains to cover it. We had been here for several years and periodically Arthad would insist we travel to the coast and see how far the water had receded, for the level of the water in the Gulf dropped noticeably as the years passed. However, there was a time when Arthad wished to go to the coast, but I did not, so he left me here, suggesting that I might begin removing our things to the caves we had discovered earlier. The city was too empty, you see. Neither of us felt comfortable living there and Arthad thought the caves would be safer.” He shrugged at that and became pensive, staring at the fire, his eyes darkening with memories that he was only just admitting to himself.

The others listening remained respectfully silent, waiting for him to continue his tale. After a few minutes, he resumed his narrative, never looking up. “It was the first time we had separated and I was alone for several weeks. Removing our supplies to the caves took little time and I was getting bored waiting for Arthad to return. In the time we had been living here, we really never explored the palace or the city except in a cursory manner, just to determine if anything had been left behind that we could use, but we did not explore very thoroughly. Indeed, most of our days were spent in just surviving, hunting or fishing or gathering what roots and vegetables we could find that were still growing then.” He shrugged and looked up, giving them a small smile.

“Well, anyway, during the time that Arthad was away, one of the storms that were becoming more and more frequent hit while I was here in the city gathering some last items to take back to the caves and so I was forced to wait the storm out. That’s when I decided to explore the palace more thoroughly than we had done before, since I had nothing else to do.”

“Just how intact was the city then?” someone asked. “It seems to me that the ice never came any further south than here.”

“At the time, the glacier was slowly making its way down from the mountains. It came no further than here, which is why East Mithlond is in a better state of preservation. The entrance to my cave was actually blocked by ice, but there are several other entrances and one that is further west was never covered. I used that entrance to go in and out even though I had to walk several miles underground to reach it.”

“It just seems incredible that you were able to survive for all this time in such harsh conditions,” another commented.

Arthalion shrugged. “My brother and I were born here in Ennorath, but our parents came from Dor Rodyn. They often told us tales of their journey across the Grinding Ice. I think it was those tales that kept me going.”

They all, even Maglor, who was the only one in their party who remembered that time, looked at him in disbelief and Arthalion nodded, giving them a shy look. “I did not want to disappoint my parents by giving up.”

For a moment the others remained silent, then Glóredhel leaned over and placed a hand on Arthalion’s arm, giving it a squeeze. “I am sure they are very proud of you and you could never disappoint them. Did they Sail?”

Arthalion shook his head. “No. They did not survive the War of Wrath.”

The silence that followed that statement was full of sympathy and compassion. Many there had lost loved-ones to that war. Maglor forced himself not to think about that. Instead, he said, “So you went exploring in the palace during a snowstorm.”

Arthalion nodded, giving them a grin. “It was rather fun, actually. Arthad and I had kept ourselves to one small area of the palace, the kitchen actually, which had its own entrance so we did not have to traverse half the palace to get outside. Nothing of personal value had been left behind, only furniture, weapons and armor, arrases, and such remained, though there were a few blank spots on the walls here or there so I suspect some of the tapestries had been taken. Since the storm looked to be lasting for quite some time, I did not rush in my exploration but searched each room thoroughly.”

“Where did you find this?” Ragnor asked, pointing to the necklace that was being examined.

“I think it was Gil-galad’s own suite,” Arthalion replied and several eyebrows went up. “At least, I assume so, for it was the one set of rooms that was locked. In fact I had to practically chop the door into kindling to get inside for I could not find any key. It was also the only place where nothing had been removed.”

“Nothing?” Maglor asked in disbelief. “Are you saying that no one, not even Círdan, thought to take some of Gil-galad’s personal items with them to give to the king when they reached Dor Rodyn? I cannot believe that. I cannot believe that Círdan would be so thoughtless.”

Arthalion shrugged, now looking upset. “I cannot explain it. I only know that when I finally got inside, the rooms looked untouched. Even his robes and tunics were still hanging in the garderobe and there were other personal items as well. Most of them I left there, for they were not on Arthad’s list.”

“List?” Glóredhel asked.

“Yes, at least that was what I called it. It was the list of things he said we should always keep our eyes open for.”

“Such as gemstones and jewelry,” Maglor added and Arthalion nodded. “So this particular piece of jewelry just happened to be lying about for you to find?”

“No. Oh, there were several coffers of jewelry and I took them to the caves eventually, but that trinket was hidden.”

Several eyebrows went up. “Hidden? Hidden how?” Voronwë asked.

“You have to understand. I was alone and there was nowhere for me to go with the storm raging and I was bored, so when I said I made a thorough search of each room, I meant thorough, right down to checking to see if there were any secret rooms and such.”

“Why would you even think there would be?” Ragnor asked.

Arthalion gave him a disbelieving look. “But every palace has secret rooms and tunnels.”

Maglor chuckled. “When they were building the palace in Tirion, I understand my daeradar insisted that at least one secret tunnel be incorporated into the structure. I think it was Ingwë who asked him why and he said that he had to have some manner in which to sneak about without his wife being the wiser.”

Now others were laughing and it took a few minutes for them to calm down enough to let Arthalion continue his tale.

“Even though I searched very thoroughly, I never found any evidence of hidden rooms or tunnels anywhere in the palace until I came to Gil-galad’s apartments,” Arthalion explained. “I had actually given up the idea that there were any secret rooms and tunnels by then, for Gil-galad’s rooms were the last ones I examined. I had found them earlier, but because they were locked, I decided to leave them until later. So, when I was examining the area around the fireplace in the closet, I was surprised when a door in the wall opened after I pushed on one of the finials gracing the mantle.”

“What did you find?” someone asked excitedly, and Maglor hid a grin at the almost elfling-like curiosity that he detected in the person’s voice and in truth he was just as curious. He was as spellbound by Arthalion’s tale as the others.

“It was a strongroom, I believe,” Arthalion replied, “perhaps no more than five or six feet wide and deep. There were shelves on which sat small coffers and when I examined their contents it was obvious that I was looking at the Crown Jewels.”

“Where are they, though?” Glóredhel asked. “I don’t recall seeing anything that would have been considered Gil-galad’s regalia except for this necklace.”

“I left them where I found them,” Arthalion answered. He nodded as eyebrows rose in disbelief. “Yes, they were on Arthad’s list, but I did not feel right in taking them. They were the king’s and if I had taken them, I would have been no better than a thief.” He paused for a moment, his eyes on his lap. “I never told Arthad about them,” he finally said in a soft voice that was barely above a whisper.

“You did well,” Ragnor said decisively. “As you said, it would have been thievery, but you did take this necklace. Why?”

“It was off to one side in its own coffer,” Arthalion explained. “Indeed, I almost missed it, for it was on a lower shelf, hidden in shadows. And, for some reason, it spoke to me. I cannot explain it any better than that. I guess I was mesmerized by its beauty, though it was no more beautiful than anything else in that room. I do not know. I only know that when I left the room, carefully closing the door behind me, this necklace went with me and when I was able to reach the caves after the storm, I put it in with the rest of the jewels and such and never told Arthad about it or the strongroom.”

“And in the end, the palace and all it held was destroyed, crushed by the unforgiving ice until nothing but rubble remains,” Voronwë commented in a sorrowful voice. “All that we hoped to achieve has turned to dust and there are none left to care or remember. Certainly not the Mortals, most of whom have little or no memory of our existence, except as nursery tales to be told to their children for amusement.”

There was an uneasy silence as everyone contemplated the ellon’s bitter words. Finally, Maglor stirred. “At least we know and we care. All that we sought to accomplish in these lands may have come to naught, but I have no regrets on that score. Whatever my failings, and there are many, I do not regret leaving Dor Rodyn for Ennorath. I only regret the manner in which I left.”

“Well, beyond that, what do we do with all this… um… treasure once we’ve finished inventorying it?” someone asked.

Ragnor, who was their nominal leader, shrugged. “That is something we will decide on later. It is enough for now that we have a record of what is here. I suspect that during the long winter days we’ll be spending much time contemplating that list and deciding what possible use any of this is for us. In the meantime, Arthalion, if you would hang on to this necklace, I would like to take it back with us. I think Denethor and the others would appreciate seeing it. Perhaps it was not crafted by the great Celebrimbor himself, but it certainly came out of the same school and to my mind it is far superior to anything I’ve ever seen, here or elsewhere.”

“I will keep it safe,”Arthalion promised solemnly.

In the days that followed, they found nothing else of equal value to the necklace, though there were several exquisite pieces that were admired. Eventually the last piece of treasure was recorded and Ragnor decided it was time to return to the encampment. The weather was beginning to deteriorate after many days of blue skies and sun and no one wanted to be caught out in the open if another storm was in the offing.

As they were finishing with the last of the inventory, Maglor took Arthalion aside. “In all this time you have never visited your brother,” he said softly. “We may not be back here until the spring. Do you not wish to spend some little time with Arthad?”

“I have never visited him,” Arthalion said. “I would sit outside the cave where I put him and speak to him as if he were there on the other side of the entrance, but I never went to him. I could not. It was too hard. It is still too hard.”

“I understand,” Maglor said sympathetically. “Would it help if I went with you? I think you need to do this Arthalion. I think for your own peace of mind and to put away your guilt, you need to do this.”

For a long moment Arthalion did not respond, his expression one of indecision. “I am afraid,” he finally said, not looking at him.

“Why?”

“I do not know. I only know I am afraid to go in that cave, to see him… lying there… the knife… I couldn’t pull it out… and…”

“Hush,” Maglor said gently, giving the ellon a brief hug. “It is well. I understand that Ragnor took the knife and placed it by Arthad’s side. I really think you need to say farewell to your brother and not from a distance, but the decision is yours.”

“Will you go with me?”

“I said that I would. If you only want me to come as far as the cave entrance and give you privacy, I will go no further, and if you want me to accompany you all the way, I will do so gladly.”

“Have you been there, to see him… or rather gawk at him?” Arthalion asked with a shrewd look. “I know others have gone there.”

“No one went to gawk, I assure you,” Maglor replied. “And no, I have not gone to pay my respects to your brother.”

Arthalion stared at him for a long moment and Maglor did not look away. “Then, let us go together to pay our respects. I would like to introduce you to Arthad. I think you and he would have been friends.”

“As you and I are friends,” Maglor responded, giving the ellon a slight bow. “Come, then. I know Ragnor wishes for us to leave soon.”

They left the others then, traversing deeper into the cave system. Maglor had explored some of it with the others and Arthalion had shown them the path he had taken to the west door, as he called it, when it was the only entrance not blocked by glacial ice, but he had studiously avoided going into the cave where Arthad lay. At the cave entrance, Arthalion hesitated and Maglor placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Arthalion nodded and stooped to enter the cave for the lintel was low. Maglor stooped as well and followed him.

It was not a large cave, more like a niche, as Ragnor had described to them. On a low shelf of rock was Arthad. Someone had thoughtfully covered him with their cloak so his features were hidden. Arthalion stood there, staring at the cloaked remains.

“Who…?” he finally said.

“I do not know,” Maglor replied. “I think whoever donated their cloak did so out of respect. Do you wish me to leave you to speak to your brother alone?”

Arthalion shook his head. “No, please stay.” He stepped forward and slowly, reverently lifted the cloak to expose Arthad’s head and upper chest. Maglor could see that the remains had mummified and appeared wizened and shrunken. He recalled seeing mortal remains in a similar condition. He sent a silent prayer to the Valar that the ellon had been released from Mandos by now and was well and happy. He doubted any of the Valar were listening, but he prayed anyway.

Arthalion remained motionless, staring down at Arthad. Then he bent down and carefully kissed his brother’s brow. “Goheno nîn, hanar,” he whispered, tears streaming unheeded down his cheeks. “Goheno nîn.”

Maglor took a step forward and wrapped an arm around Arthalion’s shoulders. “I have no doubt that he did and does, mellon nîn.”

Arthalion nodded, carefully replacing the cloak. He took a deep breath, swiping at the tears, and without another word, turned and left. Maglor remained behind for a few seconds, giving the remains a low bow of respect, before following.

****

Ammë: (Quenya) Hypocoristic form of amillë: Mother.

Gwaith-i-Mírdain: People of the Jewel-smiths, the name of the fellowship of craftsmen in Eregion, founded by Celebrimbor.

Daeradar: Grandfather.

Goheno nîn, hanar: ‘Forgive me, brother’.

Note: In medieval palace architecture, the closet was a small private room without windows situated off the king’s or queen’s bedroom, generally used for prayer and meditation, but was also an informal gathering place for their majesties and their courtiers during the winter because it was usually the warmest room. The garderobe was where clothes were hung as well as being the privy.

24: Settling In

They returned to the Tower Hills in good time, arriving late in the afternoon, loaded down with fish and succulents and the roll of leather on which was painted the inventory. Once they had rested and had had some dinner, everyone gathered in the west tower where Glóredhel unrolled the leather strip before the assembled Elves.

“Basically, I categorized items by what they were,” she told them. “You can see that gemstones of various types and qualities are more prevalent than other types of treasure, such as gold plate or silver. There is nothing of wood or other perishable materials, only imperishable gemstones, metals and even some stone carvings.”

“Anything that we can use ourselves?” Damrod asked before anyone else.

Ragnor shook his head. “Not really, unless we find a ready market for gemstones. If there were some Dwarves hanging about....”

People chuckled at that.

“There was one thing we found that we decided to bring back,” Maglor said and nodded at Arthalion who brought out the necklace and the others gasped in surprise as it was passed around. “Voronwë says it’s Celebrimbor’s work or possibly from that school, as there’s no jeweler’s mark to indicate who made this.”

One or two nodded as they examined the piece. Maglor turned to Arthalion. “Tell them where you found it.”

Arthalion hesitated for a moment as all eyes fell on him and then he gave a small shrug and explained how he had found the necklace. There was much shaking of heads by the time he finished his narrative.

“I cannot believe no one took anything belonging to Gil-galad of a personal nature,” Denethor said with a frown. “You would think Círdan at least….”

“Who can say?” Maglor rejoined with a shrug. “At least this one piece was saved and if… I mean, when we reach Dor Rodyn we can at least give him this. I find it curious that it was in its own coffer and tucked away from everything else, at least according to Arthalion. You said you almost missed seeing it, didn’t you?”

Arthalion nodded. “I was actually leaving the room and just happened to notice a glint of metal on the bottom shelf. I had to bend down to see it. There was nothing else on that shelf or even on the shelf above, just that one coffer. All the others were on the upper shelves within easy reach.”

“Well, perhaps when we see Gil-galad again and give him this we can ask him about it,” Denethor said handing the necklace back to Arthalion. “Would you keep this safe for us, Arthalion?”

The ellon gave Denethor a surprised look, a look that mutated to one of pride at being given this task, and he nodded. “I will keep it safe,” he said simply and he tucked it back into the makeshift cloth bag that had been hastily constructed for it by one of the ellith in their party as they were returning to the Towers, using material cut from one of her muslin shifts. Denethor thanked those who had gone to Mithlond, praising their efforts in fishing and gathering and in inventorying Arthalion’s cave. “It would have been nice to have found something in Arthalion’s cave that would be immediately useful to us—”

“Like a ship ready to sail?” Maglor couldn’t help interjecting with a grin and there were chuckles all around.

Denethor just rolled his eyes then continued what he was saying, giving Maglor a glare, though his eyes were bright with barely suppressed humor. “But it’s better to know that we’re no worse off than before than not know anything at all. You did excellent work, all of you.”

“Do you anticipate another trip to Mithlond soon?” someone asked and Maglor realized it was one of those who had yet to see the ruined city.

“I think we can risk one more fishing trip before the weather makes it too dangerous to make the trip,” Denethor replied. “Damrod, would you be willing to lead the next group to go?”

Damrod nodded. “We can leave tomorrow if you like. The sooner we go, the sooner we’re back and I don’t wish to be stranded in the city if the weather turns against us, which it is bound to do and probably sooner than we expect.”

“Then those of you who have not yet been to Mithlond may go if you so desire, but let’s keep this trip short. Once at the city, stay no longer than three days.”

Damrod nodded and stood. “Anyone who hasn’t been to Mithlond and wishes to go should be ready to leave at dawn.”

At that, the meeting broke up and most people scattered to go about their own business, those who would be leaving in the morning asking their friends who had already been to the city questions about it. Maglor remained by the fire sipping on some tea. Across from him Glóredhel rolled up the leather strip but otherwise did not move away. He watched her as she sat staring into the fire and there was that same wistful look that he had seen before on her.

“Finduilas said you were a loremaster,” he commented, breaking the silence that had settled around them. They were alone, or at least, there were no others huddled around the fire. Even Arthalion had left with Ragnor and Denethor.

Glóredhel looked up and shrugged. “A long time ago when the world was greener,” she replied.

“May I ask what your specialty was?”

For some minutes, she did not reply, simply stared into the fire. Finally, she spoke, never lifting her gaze. “Metallurgy.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow. “Me, too. I spent many a day in Lord Aulë’s forge learning the properties of various types of metals and alloys.”

Glóredhel gave him a mirthless grin. “Whereas I spent my days in Lord Elrond’s library reading every tome and treatise I could find on the subject for my ada would not let me near any forge. He said it was unseemly for an elleth, but I had no desire to sit and learn to embroider or sew or weave or even cook, all the things he considered proper for one of my station.”

“And what was your station?” Maglor asked.

She gave a rather unladylike snort. “The daughter of an Imladrin guard. Ada was a Noldo, but you can see I am not. Nana was a Sinda, actually she was Sindarin and Silvan, coming originally from Lothlórien. She and Ada met when Lord Elrond was courting the Lady Celebrían.”

“And not being a full-blooded Noldo, your adar felt you were not worthy to become a loremaster?” Maglor asked with a frown.

“Say rather, he did not believe that the daughter of an Imladrin guard should aspire to such a lofty position.”

“Which really makes no sense,” Maglor said with some disgust at what he considered wrong thinking.

Glóredhel shrugged. “He had his opinions about propriety. Lord Elrond however was not impressed by his arguments.”

“Oh? So, he insisted you should be allowed to work in the forge?”

“No. He would not go against Ada’s wishes in that respect, saying that he had not the right, even if he had the power to do so. Instead, he appointed me an assistant to Lord Erestor who just happened to need to know everything there was to know about metallurgy for some mysterious project about which he never spoke and apparently never undertook.” She gave him a grin that was just this side of wicked. “So naturally, he had me research everything I could about the subject and when Ada was out on patrol I was often sent to the forge on some pretext or another with orders not to return to the library too soon. I never took a turn at the bellows but the smiths were kind enough to speak to me about how they did their work.” She gave a small shrug. “It was little enough, but it was what it was and Lord Elrond did consult me on matters concerning metals and their properties on more than one occasion so I was able to use what I had learned to good purpose.”

“And your naneth, how did she feel about it?”

“Oh, she did her best to teach me the finer arts proper to an elleth but finally gave up, insisting I must have some Dwarf blood in me to be more interested in dead metal than in living plants. Being part Silvan and having lived in Lothlórien she was more attuned to growing things and helped to oversee Lord Elrond’s orchards.”

Maglor nodded, thinking about his cousins, Galadriel and Aredhel, and how both had been allowed to work in Lord Aulë’s forge, though Aredhel did not pursue her studies much. Galadriel, however, had been quite proficient in the handling of metals as she had been in doing most anything. He half smiled at that, remembering her constant rivalry with all her male cousins and Aunt Eärwen’s despair of ever taming her daughter. Of course, Galadriel was an excellent weaver and that skill apparently had been improved with Melian’s tutoring. He remembered Finrod commenting once that Eru must have had a glint in his eyes when Galadriel was conceived because she was so impossible at times. As Maglor recalled, he himself had merely shrugged, sisters not being something with which he had any direct knowledge.

“What’s so funny?” Glóredhel asked.

Maglor realized he must have chuckled out loud while thinking about his cousin and gave Glóredhel an embarrassed look. “Oh, I was just thinking of my cousin Galadriel and how she had been allowed to be tutored by Lord Aulë’s Maiar.”

“And that thought you found humorous?” Glóredhel cast him a disbelieving look.

Maglor shook his head. “No, it was remembering a comment Finrod once made about his sister being impossible. Galadriel was always a force to be reckoned with and when she married Celeborn, well, that certainly set the cat among the pigeons for both the Noldor and the Sindar. Maedhros was especially vocal about his disapproval, so much so, that I actually walked out on him and returned to my own steading when I had been visiting him one time at Himring.”

“So you approved of the marriage?”

“No, not necessarily. I just wearied of Maedhros going on about it. I only met Celeborn once at the wedding, but I liked what I saw and, over the ages when he and Galadriel were here, I watched them together, though from a distance, and could see he loved her and she him and I think he was the only one who could have dealt with her as a husband. I had the impression that Celeborn was unimpressed by her histrionics and was quite able to put her in her place when needed and curb her… enthusiasms.”

Glóredhel raised an eyebrow at that but did not comment. Instead, she stood, picking up the roll of leather. “I had better put this someplace safe,” she said and when Maglor simply nodded in agreement she walked away. He remained by the fire for a few more minutes before deciding to go see what Arthalion was up to.

****

The day after the last party left for Mithlond the aqueduct was completed and when the dam was removed, they were all on hand, those who were still at the settlement, to watch as the water flowed along the trough. It was not yet covered in its entirety so they were able to track it and when the water reached the cistern and began filling it, they actually cheered. It was decided to wait until the cistern was filled before covering the trough completely.

“How do we keep the cistern from overflowing though?” someone asked.

“Or the pool at the spring if we block the trough?” another chimed in.

“We’re not completely daft,” said one of those who had been a part of the aqueduct project. “We’ve constructed a sluice gate opposite the trough. If we have to block the trough for a time, we’ll open the sluice and let the spring flow in the other direction. Close the sluice and it will pool again and then we can open the trough.”

“Excellent work,” Denethor said approvingly. “You should all be very proud of yourselves.”

The aqueduct engineers, as they liked to refer to themselves, all stood a little straighter at Denethor’s words and Maglor nodded in agreement. With Damrod gone to Mithlond, Denethor had appointed him as his lieutenant even though Maglor had protested, saying that Ragnor would be the better choice. Ragnor, however, had disagreed and had insisted that Maglor should be Denethor’s second-in-command.

“I’m better at following orders than giving them,” he had said.

Maglor had given him a disbelieving look. “I didn’t notice you having any difficulty giving orders while we were in Mithlond.”

Ragnor had merely shrugged and in the end Maglor had acquiesced, though reluctantly.

“Yes, as excellent a job as I have ever seen given our lack of just about everything,” he said to the engineers. “I doubt others with all the proper tools could have done any better if they tried.”

One of the engineers had grinned. “If we had had the proper tools, we would have been able to construct a true aqueduct rather than this pitiful trough.”

“That you were able to construct this much, however pitiful it may seem, speaks well of your skills, ingenuity and intelligence,” Maglor rejoined. “You have nothing to be ashamed of and everything to be proud of and that goes for all of us. In the short time we’ve been here we’ve been able to turn this desolate place into a workable and livable settlement that will see us safely through the coming winter.”

“Maglor speaks truly,” Denethor chimed in. “So, let us celebrate this engineering feat with song and cheer.” To that, they all agreed, and they lifted their voices in thanksgiving to both Aulë and Ulmo as they returned to the settlement where the cooks made a fish stew, a welcome break from goat and venison.

****

By the time Damrod’s party returned from Mithlond loaded with more fish and succulents, the remainder of the building projects were completed. They now had a covered walkway between the west and south towers and another leading to the north tower, though that one was really a tunnel constructed of snow and ice. The north tower was completely opened to the sky but they had put up two of their tents over the two deep latrines they had dug, thus providing sufficient cover for anyone using  the privies. The dirt that was dug up was piled outside the tents so it could be used to cover the waste. There had been some concern about the dirt being snow-covered and frozen and in the end all the dirt was piled against the tower wall where it was only Elf-high and then a canopy was created from a patchwork of goat and deer hides and placed over it. It was the best they could do and they hoped that what remained of the tower would help insulate the dirt so it would not freeze over.

 “I think we are in good shape to survive the winter,” Denethor said where he, Maglor and Damrod stood surveying the settlement.

“We’ve sent out more hunting parties to secure as much meat as possible,” Damrod said with a nod. “It’s going to be monotonous fare but we won’t starve.”

“Why haven’t we simply corralled some of those goats?” Maglor asked. “We could certainly use the milk to make cheese and such to supplement our diet.”

“I thought about that, but decided it might not be worth the trouble,” Denethor answered. “These goats are completely wild and I, for one, don’t fancy having to domesticate them and then when we leave, what happens to them then?”

“Perhaps in the spring we can take some of the kids and raise them,” Maglor said. “They won’t know anything else.”

“Do you seriously think we’ll still be living here come spring?” Damrod asked. “We’re supposed to be finding the Straight Road, not colonizing this place.”

“True, but we may not be able to find the Straight Road immediately,” Maglor pointed out. “We may have to spend some time in exploration. We need to determine how far the sea has receded. We need to decide how we may best achieve the goal of reaching Dor Rodyn. We may well have to stay here for many centuries until the ice has receded and we can harvest seeds from the trees in Tûm Ivon and begin growing the wood we’ll need to build a ship to take us there.”

Both Denethor and Damrod sighed and Maglor gave them a thin smile. “Were you hoping that a ship would be waiting for us or perhaps an odd island for Lord Ulmo to tow?”

Denethor gave him a rueful look. “Something like that,” he admitted and Damrod nodded, looking equally chagrined.

Maglor’s grin became wider. “So did I, but the sad truth is that neither is likely to happen, but we should not despair. Look what we did with this settlement. It’s crude, yes, and rather unlovely, but it’s a testament to our ingenuity and ability to use what is at hand to our best advantage. I never truly thought that reaching the Blessed Realm would be easy, indeed, I think it impossible, but I’m at least willing to try and if we must needs remain here or even remove ourselves to Mithlond for a time, what of it? Are we not Elves? We’ve survived this long in Middle-earth, certainly we can survive a little longer and in the meantime we can resurrect some of our lost skills to prepare ourselves for building the ship that will take us home.”

“And we have the winter to formulate such plans,” Denethor said with a nod. “Thank you for reminding me of that, Maglor. I guess I was being too hopeful.”

“No, Denethor, not too hopeful, just not hopeful enough,” Maglor said and when both Denethor and Damrod gave him puzzled looks he went on. “I think we have all been under the delusion that this journey would be easy, that the Belain would have everything laid out for us without us having to do anything except show up. But don’t you see? That’s too easy and dependent on no real hope, merely an expectation. As disheartening as the thought of having to wait out centuries before we can ever achieve our goal of reaching Dor Rodyn may be, yet that way lies our greatest hope because we will have achieved the task ourselves instead of having it all done for us by the Belain. I don’t know about you but I think I prefer that to having Lord Ulmo towing us to Dor Rodyn like so many lost sheep.”

For a moment, neither of the other two ellyn spoke, their expressions thoughtful. Then Denethor nodded, clapping Maglor on the shoulder. “You’re absolutely right, my friend, and I thank you for pointing out the error of my thinking. We call ourselves the Harthadrim. It’s about time we lived up to that name in deed as well as in thought.”

“Perhaps while we are waiting out the winter we can determine what skills each of us has and how we can best utilize them to achieve our ultimate goal.”

“Glóredhel is a metallurgist and I have knowledge of smithing as well. We could create a forge that will allow us to begin creating the various implements we will need. There may well be a forge somewhere in Mithlond and we have plenty of gold, silver, mithril and other metals in the form of plates and goblets and such lying about in Arthalion’s cave that we can use while we hunt for the remains of the mines that have to be somewhere in the mountains. Belegost was situated somewhere in the southern Ered Luin and we should hunt for it come spring.”

“Yes, that’s excellent and that’s what we all need to do,” Denethor said and Damrod nodded. “When we are all gathered this evening, I will speak on this. We might as well begin now in thinking about such matters.”

With that, he and Damrod set off to check on how the aqueduct was holding up while Maglor went to find Ragnor, who was taking his turn at sentry-go in the west tower, with the intention of asking if he could join in the next hunting party that was due to set out the next day. He found that staying in the settlement day after day left him feeling restless and he needed to be away for a time. He thought perhaps he could convince Arthalion to join them and see what hunting skills the ellon might have.

As he came to the tower entrance he happened to glance southwestward to where he could see the snow-covered peaks of the Ered Luin rising some fifty miles away above the crest of the hills before him and wondered what they might find when they finally reached the mountains.

25: Mapping

As the days and weeks progressed the temperature dropped and there came a day when the water in the cistern had a film of ice forming and the spring was running sluggishly. Maglor and Arthalion were examining the trough, for everyone took a turn at keeping an eye on it. They lifted part of the roof covering it.

“The water is still running but you can see it’s beginning to freeze a bit,” Maglor said.

Arthalion nodded. “At least the cistern is completely filled. Should we close the trough and open the sluice, do you think?”

“That seems to be the best course for now,” Maglor replied. “Let us hope that the water in the cistern does not freeze all the way, though.”

“Even if it does, we’ll have plenty of snow to melt for water, then the water in the cistern will still be there in the spring.”

“I just wish we had a wooden cover for it to keep debris out of it,” Maglor said as he replaced the stone cover on the trough. Arthalion did not comment on that as they moved further along to where the spring was and set about closing the trough and opening the sluice, allowing the water to flow away. “We’ll keep an eye on the spring and see if it freezes as well. Possibly it just gets covered with snow and is iced over.”

“It’s not as if you really are any worse off than before,” Arthalion said with a smile. “Perhaps I should have invited everyone to move to my cave. There is an underground river not far from the cave I used. The water is so cold that nothing lives in it and even when the glaciers covered all it still ran. I have no idea where its source is or even where it goes. I never felt the need or desire to trace its path.”

“Well, it’s too late for us to go there now,” Maglor said with a shrug. “I think we’ve done well enough here.”

“Oh, indeed,” Arthalion said with a nod. “I am most impressed by what has been accomplished here.” Then he changed the subject as they went back toward the settlement. “Do you think we will be able to establish a forge and find a mine as you wish to do?”

“That remains to be seen,” Maglor replied. “You know Glóredhel and I have been discussing what we might be able to do if we are able to find the remains of a forge or what we would need to do to construct our own. If we can get a forge going and find sufficient metal, we can begin creating implements to help with building a ship. The various metal plates and such that we found in your cave can be melted down but we’ll need more than what is there, so we need to find one of the Dwarf mines and hope we can find the necessary ore. We’ll also need to go back to the valley of trees and begin harvesting them, both for wood to feed the forge and for seeds to plant trees that will eventually be used for building the ship.”

“You really do not think the Belain will not simply find a way for us to reach Dor Rodyn.”

Maglor shook his head. “No. I do not, though I suspect most of us hold to that fantasy.” He chuckled. “I even overheard Aerin say to her brothers that perhaps the Belain would send Eärendil in Vingilot to pick us up and sail us back to Dor Rodyn.”

Arthalion grinned. “Now that would be fun,” he said and they both laughed.

“And it would certainly make things easier for us all,” Maglor added when they had both calmed down, “but I honestly don’t see it happening, and to tell you the truth, I would much rather make it or not on my own.”

“I can sympathize with the impatience that some are feeling at the thought that we may have to wait many ennin before we are able to Sail,” Arthalion said. “I remember the despair I felt when Arthad and I finally came to Mithlond to find it deserted and the last ship was already disappearing down the Gulf too many miles away for us to ever catch up to it though we ran almost to Harlond in the hope that someone would see us. They never did and we stood there on the headland and watched the ships leave us behind.” He stopped in his tracks, gazing at nothing in particular. Maglor stood silently by. When Arthalion spoke again it was barely above a whisper and there was much anguish in his voice.

“I was convinced that my brother blamed me for us not reaching Mithlond in time. He never said a word, but in my heart of hearts I believed he hated me for being the cause of our delay. For a long time I thought his… his dying was my punishment for us missing the ship. He, at least, was now in the Blessed Realm and would someday be reborn, but I… I was forever condemned never to see it or him and….”

He was weeping now and Maglor moved to hold him, never saying a word, for what could he have said? Instead, he simply held the ellon through his tears until they finally ceased. He held Arthalion for a minute or two longer before stepping back, giving him a sympathetic smile. “I grieve for your loss and your sorrow. I do not believe Arthad hated you or even blamed you. I suspect he always blamed himself and his grief at being unable to bring you safely to Dor Rodyn weighed heavily upon him, perhaps still does, but the Belain in their infinite mercy saw fit to arrange matters so that we found you and now you have the opportunity to finally Sail with the rest of us, though that event is probably many long years away. Take comfort in that, if in nothing else.”

Arthalion nodded, swiping at the tears on his cheeks that were half freezing in the cold. “Thank you,” he said with simple sincerity and Maglor nodded as they resumed their walk, reaching the settlement a few minutes later where they reported their findings to Denethor and what they had done. Denethor nodded and thanked them, saying that Damrod was planning on another hunting party to leave in the morning and they were welcome to join it.

“Though what I really would like is for someone to find where those cat-creatures are holing up,” he said at the end. “Haldir thinks the colony is actually in the Ered Luin and they only come into these hills to hunt. There’re only about twelve or fifteen miles separating the southern-most spur of the Emyn Beraid from the northern-most spur of the Ered Luin, so that makes sense. The mountains would afford better protection against the elements.”

Maglor and Arthalion both nodded. “Perhaps we can do that. There are two hunting groups going out, are there not? We can join the one heading south and see if we can find evidence of where these cat-creatures live. I know Haldir and the other hunters have been keeping an eye out for them, but except for that one time, there’s been no evidence of them.”

“And that is what is most disturbing,” Denethor averred. “If there is a colony anywhere near, we should have found evidence of it, and if these creatures have some kind of intelligence to them, why have they not come looking for their companions when they did not return?”

“Hopefully, we will find the answer to those questions,” Arthalion said.

“Hopefully,” Denethor repeated, but his expression was still troubled and Maglor knew he had every reason to be.

“Let’s go check with Damrod,” he said to Arthalion. The two gave Denethor brief bows and set off to find Damrod who was in the south tower organizing the two hunting groups. When they arrived Damrod welcomed them and when Maglor told them what Denethor had said, Damrod agreed that the hunters going south should also see if they could find evidence of where the cat-creatures were living.

“I, for one, would like to eliminate them completely so we never have to worry about them,” he said and there were more than a few nods among the others. They spent a little time discussing their possible routes based on the maps that they had begun to create using some of the precious leather for that purpose. Slowly the Emyn Beraid were being mapped with the location of goats and deer herds carefully marked. Much of the area around the towers and north was well mapped but the bulk of the hills lay to the south and little of it had been explored as there were too few of them to send too many parties out. Now, though, Denethor felt it necessary to begin mapping the southern reaches of the hills before the weather became too dangerous to do so. Already the snows were coming more frequently and Arthalion assured them that before too long there might be days and weeks with nothing but snowfall. Mapping as much of the area as they could before that was thus a priority.

So, the next morning, Maglor and Arthalion joined Celepharn, Gilgaran and Saelmir and headed south while others went north.

“And you may actually have better luck than we,” Haldir, who was leading the north hunters, said with a grin. “The goats are becoming wary and they are harder to find.”

“Good luck then,” Maglor said and they parted company.

Gilgaran was the nominal leader of the southern group, though when he learned that Maglor was joining them he tried to turn the leadership over to him. Maglor demurred.

“You are a far more experienced hunter than I, at least where the Emyn Beraid are concerned. I have only been on one hunting expedition and I went north, not south. Damrod appointed you to lead us and rightly so.”

“But you outrank us all,” Gilgaran protested.

“Perhaps if we were lolling about the Noldóran’s palace in Tirion-on-Túna, plucking cherries from the trees in the lower orchards as we listened to a group of minstrels entertain us, that might be true,” Maglor retorted with a grin, “but out here in the middle of what is now only wilderness on the wrong side of the ocean? Please, don’t make me laugh. Now let’s stop wasting time and get on with it.”

Without waiting for the others, he set off with Arthalion striding beside him, the ellon casting a merry look at the three Sindar. For a second or two, the other three ellyn just stood there gaping at them but then pulled themselves together and set off, catching up with the other two. Gilgaran walked on the other side of Maglor while Saelmir and Celepharn took the rear. Maglor, for his part, gave Gilgaran a brief nod of welcome but said nothing as they wended their way southward.

“How far have you mapped this part of the hills?” Arthalion asked after a few minutes of silence.

“Not as far as we would’ve liked,” Gilgaran replied. “Most of our mapping endeavors have been to the north because the Towers lie just north of what we think is the central point of the entire range and the northern flank seems lower and less steep than the southern flank.” He pointed ahead to where they could see the crest of a hill that was perhaps a couple of miles away, though distance was deceiving as they would have to make their way through valleys and up ridges and Maglor knew that it would be hours before they reached that particular hill. “We haven’t mapped much further than there,” Gilgaran continued.

“How extensively do you intend to map this part then?” Maglor asked.

“Not too extensively at the moment,” Saelmir answered, for mapping was his primary responsibility and along with his usual gear he carried a roll of leather, several reed brushes and homemade ink for that purpose. “What we want is to get a general outline of these hills, so we’re going to skirt the outer boundaries, make a circuit. Once we’ve done that then we can concentrate on the interior, but that will probably have to wait until spring or summer. If we chance upon valleys where goats and deer congregate, we will mark them on the map.”

“We won’t actually hunt for anything until we’re heading back to the Towers,” Gilgaran added. “Mapping is our primary purpose, that and finding out where those cat-creatures are.”

“Perhaps we should move down into the plains if you simply want to map the boundaries of the hills,” Arthalion suggested.

“That is what we plan to do,” Gilgaran answered, “but I want to go to the valley where we encountered those creatures first. It’s only a two-day march from the Towers, far too close for comfort to my mind. I am hoping to pick up traces. If those creatures are actually living in the mountains, I want to know why they were so deep in the hills. I would think they would stay closer to the southern flank.”

“It is disturbing,” Maglor said. “Do you think they were scouting us, somehow sensing our presence within these hills which they must think of as their private domain? When we were attacked on the Downs I sensed a heightened intelligence in them. They were thinking creatures, though perhaps not on the same level as we or Mortal Men. Yet, there was a miasma of evil that hung around them and I suspect that Morgoth had a hand in their creation.”

The others visibly shuddered at that pronouncement and their looks were grim.

“I guess the only way to find out is to ask one of them,” Saelmir said after a moment and most of them rolled their eyes at the attempted levity. Celepharn gave him a swat in the back of his head.

It actually took them the better part of three days to traverse the distance to the valley where the hunters had encountered the cat-creatures. Along the way, Saelmir, with everyone’s help, began mapping their route, for Maglor had pointed out that even though they had not been commissioned to map the interior as such, it was foolish not to at least map their route southward so it would not have to be done later. Gilgaran had agreed, so their pace was slower than it needed to be as they made careful notes on the topography. In the course of their travels they did encounter one valley where goats were congregated and carefully marked its location on the map.

“They’re moving,” Celepharn commented. “There were no goats the last time any of us came this way.”

“Where do you think they came from?” Saelmir asked as he rolled the leather strip up once the ink had dried.

“There was a group further east at one point,” Celepharn replied, frowning slightly in thought. “It was nearer to the plains. If this is the same group….”

“They’re moving inward into the deeper valleys,” Maglor suggested. “They know winter is nigh and they seek better protection. There is precious little in the way of forage for them but these hills are more protected than the plains.”

“That makes sense,” Gilgaran said. “I wonder if the other hunters are noticing any migrations as well.”

“It would be interesting to see if there is a pattern,” Maglor said. “Perhaps if we are here long enough we’ll be able to discover it. It might help us to keep track of the herds better.”

They all nodded and once Saelmir had everything packed they headed off again. “We should be at the valley where those cat-creatures were found by nightfall,” Gilgaran informed them and true to his word the sun was just setting in glory behind the hills to the west as they made their way into the valley. It was much like all the other valleys they had traversed: a narrow strip of land running more or less north and south. This one was shallow, the hill peaks closer and the way was not as steep as it could be and like all the other valleys there was little to commend it, no trees or bushes, not even grasses, only a variety of mosses clinging tenaciously on the rocky soil and now much of it was snow covered.

“Were they actually hunting here or resting?” Maglor asked as he surveyed the area. “Haldir said the creatures were hunting them.”

“Yes,” Gilgaran said. “We had been following a herd of deer actually. There were signs of one in this area and perhaps those cat-creatures were doing the same and then they found us. We knew we were being stalked though we did not know it was the same creatures as attacked us in the Shire until we lured them into our trap. We had no compunction about killing them. I did not wish to bring any of them into camp but Haldir thought it important.”

“Why did you not butcher them here and bring the meat?” Arthalion asked. “Though I am very glad you did not or attempt to eat them beforehand.”

“We were going to, but Haldir decided to bring the carcasses back whole, saying only that he felt it was important that we do so. I confess having to touch them left me feeling unclean and it was some time before I stopped scrubbing myself raw afterwards.”

“Perhaps something inspired him to do as he did,” Maglor said quietly, stealing a glance at Arthalion who had moved away to stand staring at nothing in particular, his expression pensive. “It saved us much grief.”

The three Sindar nodded in understanding.

“It’s too dark to do any exploration,” Gilgaran said, staring up into the sky where stars were beginning to shine. “Why don’t we set up camp and look about in the morning?” The others agreed and soon they were sitting around a fire enjoying the goat stew that Arthalion had put together.

In the morning, after dousing the fire, they began looking about, spreading out in search of evidence of the cat-creatures. It was Arthalion who found what they were looking for.

“Over here,” he called from where he had wandered away and they went to him. He was crouched near the ground and did not rise but simply pointed. Maglor crouched beside him and saw the tracks. They were faint, the impressions filled in by recent snowfall and only because the temperatures had remained cold and nothing had melted were they still visible.

“They’re old, at least several weeks, is my guess,” Maglor said and the others nodded.

“Could be from the same group that we killed,” Gilgaran said.

“Where did you kill them?” Maglor asked as he and Arthalion stood up.

Gilgaran pointed to the southwest. “Over there. You can see where the valley goes in that direction. We originally sensed them in the valley we traversed yesterday but it was here that we set our trap.”

“And so we have no idea from which direction they originally came,” Arthalion commented.

“Except that a hunting party had been this way several days earlier and there was no sign of the creatures,” Gilgaran pointed out.

“So sometime between one hunting party and the next, these creatures appeared,” Maglor said. “How far are we from the southern flank of these hills?”

“We think it’s a good eight leagues as the craban flies,” the Sinda replied, “but no one has gotten all the way down so we’re only guessing at this point.”

Maglor nodded, sweeping his gaze about, thinking about what he had learned so far. It was little enough and none of it conclusive. “Well, it appears that none of those creatures have been here for some time now. Should we try to hunt them or continue with the mapping?”

“We should be mapping,” Saelmir said before Gilgaran could answer. “And we’ll need to backtrack because we passed the point where the last group ended their mapping. Denethor wants as accurate a map as we can produce.”

“How far must we backtrack?” Gilgaran asked with a frown.

Saelmir unrolled the map and pointed. “We’re here. You can see we put this valley in already based on what the hunters could remember of it. I’d like to stay long enough to make any corrections. You can see that this valley is south of where the eastern boundary ends. Celepharn has been helping me measure the distance. We will need to move northeast until we are out of the hills and down into the plains. The last group of mappers left a cairn to mark where they had stopped before returning to the settlement. We need to find that cairn.”

“That could take days,” Gilgaran protested.

“No,” Maglor said, looking closely at the map. “Even if the distances recorded here are not exact, I suspect that we’re only a league or two from where the cairn is. The main problem I see is that none of the valleys run in the direction we need to go, which means we will be doing a lot of climbing.”

“Can’t be helped,” Saelmir said philosophically. “We should have gone directly down to the plain and simply followed the hills until we came to the cairn. Now we’ll just have to hunt for it and hope we find it quickly. Coming here, I think, was a waste of time.”

“No, not a waste,” Arthalion said. “These tracks tell us that the creatures have not come into the hills recently. They should have been able to track their missing companions and if so they should have tracked them to this valley and then they need only follow the scent left by the carcasses as they were dragged to the settlement by Haldir and the others.”

“You’re right, Arthalion,” Maglor said. “I hadn’t thought of that. We’ve seen no sign of those creatures near the settlement or anywhere in these hills, just that one party.” He paused to think out the ramifications of that but then shook his head. “Saelmir, finish up with what you need to do as quickly as possible. We should continue on while the daylight lasts. We can think about it later.”

Saelmir nodded. “I just want to make a few minor corrections and then we’ll be set.” With that he moved away from the rest of them, examining the surrounding area, then looking at the map, making a few corrections as he muttered to himself while everyone else looked on. In a short while, he was rolling up the map and stowing away his equipment and they set off, heading northeast.

They ended up spending a day and a night traversing the distance until they were finally coming down onto the plains just as dawn was breaking. Far to the east they could make out the smudge of blue that marked the Fox Downs.

“We’ll split up,” Gilgaran stated. “Saelmir, you and Celepharn head north while Maglor and Arthalion head south. I’ll stay here. Go no more than a day’s walk before returning if you haven’t found the cairn before that.”

“We have no idea how far we are from it, though,” Arthalion pointed out. “We could be further than a day’s walk from it.”

“Yes, I know, but I don’t like the idea of us being separated for too long,” Gilgaran said. “I’m hoping though that Saelmir’s estimate of the distance is close and we’re not too far from it.”

“We can only hope,” Maglor said and he and Arthalion headed off.

Luck, however, was with them, for they had gone only half a league when they rounded the shoulder of a hill and saw the cairn. There was no mistaking it, for it was a pile of rocks about chest high set on top of one another in a pattern never imagined by nature. Maglor turned to Arthalion. “Go back and let them know. The others cannot have gone too far and you can easily catch up with them. I’ll stay here.”

Arthalion nodded and ran off, his feet barely touching the ground.

Maglor took the opportunity to scout around but saw nothing of real interest. About an hour went by before he saw the others approaching. Saelmir was already pulling out his map. “That was a bit of luck, finding it so quickly,” he said to Maglor.

“Not luck,” Maglor retorted with a smile. “You were not too far off in your estimate. That shows how well you are doing in being accurate. I’m sure Denethor will appreciate it when we bring back the map.”

The younger ellon blushed slightly. “Well, let’s get on with it then. Arthalion, you and Celepharn go ahead of us and count off paces walking naturally.”

“Why both of us when one will do?” Arthalion asked.

“Because I want one of you to do the pacing and the other to do the counting,” Saelmir replied. “Stay in step with one another and count out loud. We’ll be right behind you. Stop every one thousand one hundred and eleven strides to let us catch up.”

“What is the purpose of counting though?” Arthalion asked, clearly wishing to understand why they were doing what they were doing.

If Saelmir felt any impatience, he did not show it. “It took us a bit of experimenting to figure out how to do distances. You may have noticed that I was counting our paces under my breath as we were walking through the hills.” Everyone nodded. “Yes, well, I was double-checking distances. Those of us who have been mapping figured out that most of us can travel one league covering three thousand three hundred and thirty-three strides. So….” He left the rest unspoken for they understood what he was saying. Arthalion nodded and turned to Celepharn.

“I’ll count the first mile,” he said and the other ellon nodded and they went off. “One, two, three, four, five….”

“We’ll give them time to get ahead,” Saelmir said to Gilgaran and Maglor. “I want to move away from the hills a bit so I have a better perspective.” With that, he headed east, looking back now and then to gauge his distance while Maglor and Gilgaran followed. They could see the other two striding south with Arthalion counting nice and loud.

“… four hundred and three, four hundred and four….”

By the time the sun was setting, they had covered only ten miles but Saelmir was very satisfied with their progress and said as much.

“It’s still going to take a long time to finish this mapping,” Arthalion said. “I do not think we will complete it before we will need to head back. Snow is in the air and I sense a storm coming our way. I do not wish to be trapped in these hills when it comes.”

“How much time do you think we have?” Gilgaran asked.

“Maybe a couple of days, maybe more. I think we will do well to reach the southern flank before we need to head back.”

“We still need to hunt though,” Celepharn pointed out. “They are depending on us to bring back more meat.”

“There is that herd of goats we saw earlier,” Saelmir said. “We can come back this way instead of going along the western flank.”

“Except, I think we would do well to go along the western flank even if we do not do any mapping,” Arthalion countered. “The storm is coming from the northeast again and staying to the west will give us more shelter.”

“You have lived here long enough to be more sensitive to the weather patterns,” Maglor said. “We will do as you suggest.” He looked about at the others and they all nodded.

“We’ll continue mapping this for as far as we can before we have to head back to the settlement,” Gilgaran said. “I was really hoping that we would be able to find evidence of where those cat-creatures are but that may have to wait until we can send another expedition out.”

The others just shrugged, knowing there wasn’t much they could do about it. They finished their meal and set the watches as they waited for dawn to come so they could continue on their way.

****

Note: Saelmir is calculating a league using the ranga, which, according to Tolkien, was a Númenórean measurement that was 38 inches. 5,000 rangar equals 1 lar (Sindarin daur) which is approximately 3 miles or a league in our terminology. Thus, a mile would be 1,667 rangar. According to Tolkien, given the tallness of the Elves and Númenóreans as opposed to other Men, “[t]he ranga is often said to have been the length of the stride, from rear heel to front toe, of a full-grown man marching swiftly but at ease; a full stride ‘might be well nigh a ranga and a half.’” Thus Saelmir’s calculation that one mile would be covered in 1,111 strides is correct. See Unfinished Tales, ‘Númenórean Linear Measures’.

26: Hunting

It took them nearly two days to reach the southern flank of the Emyn Beraid, which had curved eastward the further south they went. They each took turns with the pacing and so it was that Maglor and Arthalion were in the van counting their paces as they rounded the last of the hills.

“….one thousand fifty-six… one thousand fifty-sev….”

Arthalion stopped counting even as Maglor came to a halt, the two of them staring at the Ered Luin some fifty miles away rising into the heavens, their weathered peaks wreathed in snow. From this distance there was a blue cast to the stone of the mountains, hence their name.

“Why did you stop?”

Both of them turned to see Saelmir, Celepharn and Gilgaran a few hundred feet behind them. For an answer, Maglor simply pointed. The other three Elves began trotting, their expressions ones of concern. Gilgaran even went so far as to pull his sword from its sheath, but stopped with it halfway out when he realized that neither Maglor nor Arthalion had drawn their own swords. He pushed the sword back into the sheath with a grimace. In the meantime, they came abreast of the other two and stopped to see what Maglor was pointing at.

Gilgaran’s eyebrows shot up and Celepharn went completely still. Saelmir just scowled. “It’s not as if you haven’t seen them before,” he said. “Now where did you leave off?”

When neither Maglor nor Arthalion answered, he punched Maglor (being the closer) in the arm. “Wake up!” he shouted with frustration. “It’s just the mountains. Now where did you leave off or do we have to backtrack to the last stop and recount?”

The other four Elves stared at him in surprise, but Saelmir was not impressed. “Well? Which is it? Did you lose count or what? Honestly, what is wrong with you people?”

“What is wrong with us?” Maglor asked, looking more amused than angry even as he rubbed his arm where Saelmir had punched him. “What is wrong with you? Can you not see?”

“See what? Mountains? Yes, I see them. Very pretty, I’m sure, and no doubt quite impressive in their own way, but we have work to do and even I can feel the storm approaching. I would at least like to have the southern flank of these hills mapped before we have to deal with it.”

Gilgaran actually rolled his eyes. “Are we sure he’s an Elf?”

That set the others sniggering even as Saelmir continued to glower at them. Arthalion saved the day (in Saelmir’s eyes at least) as he started counting. “One thousand and fifty-seven…move Maglor… one thousand fifty-eight… one thousand fifty-nine….”

No one said anything more until Arthalion reached the next stopping place. “… thousand one hundred and eleven. Happy now, Saelmir?”

“Immensely,” Saelmir said as he made a notation on the map, taking another five minutes or so to draw what they could see of this edge of the hills, then he capped the glass of ink and looked about, his eyes falling upon the mountains in the distance, his expression one of feigned surprise. “Oh look! Mountains! Are they not spectacular? Oh and so blue. Why even the snow looks… Ow!”

He ducked as more than one person attempted to swat him upside his head or punch him in the arm and he danced away from them giving them a merry grin. “There is a time for work and a time for sightseeing, my friends. Back there,” he jerked his left thumb toward the east, “we were still working.”

“And now?” Arthalion asked with a grin.

“And now that we’ve all admired the mountains, it’s time to get back to mapping,” Saelmir replied.

Gilgaran had other ideas, though. He glanced to the west. “Anor will be behind the mountains within the hour. We might as well stop here and camp for the night, have a little celebration for finally making it all the way down without any mishaps. How extensive are the hills south of the settlement then?” This last was directed at Saelmir, who consulted the map, doing quick calculations.

“We’re about eight leagues as the craban flies, but we’ve certainly traveled more than that as we’ve skirted the flanks.”

“And I would guess that the mountains are about fifty miles from here,” Maglor said, nodding westward. “We could easily reach them tomorrow if we wished. You only need two people to count the paces, Saelmir and it’s Gilgaran and Celepharn’s turn now. Why don’t Arthalion and I go to the mountains while you continue mapping this part of the hills? We’ll see if we can find any traces of those cat-creatures. By the time you come around this flank and head north again, we should be back.”

“I hate the idea of us splitting up,” Gilgaran said, still acting as their leader, “yet I can see the wisdom of it. It was one reason why Denethor wanted us to come this way, to see if we could track those creatures down.”

“We promise not to do anything… rash,” Arthalion said. “I do not wish to face even one of those Morgoth-spawned demons-in-fur, but we do need to find their lair if we can so that in the spring we can launch an attack and get rid of them.”

“After you and Arthad encountered them, did you see them again?” Maglor asked.

Arthalion nodded. “Yes. There is or was a small colony of them that made their home in the Shire, or at least, they liked to hunt there. That’s where we encountered them at any rate when we went exploring in that direction once.” He paused for a moment, giving them an embarrassed look. “I was complaining that Mithlond was boring and I wanted to see something else besides crumbling stone or one more cave in the system of caves that we had discovered and where we had moved to. So we went toward the Shire. If we had stayed in Mithlond….”

“They may still have found you, eventually,” Maglor pointed out. “Do not play the “what-if” game, my friend, it will only lead to madness and despair. I know. I played it for a very long time after… well, after.” He stared down at his right hand, which was clenched and a spasm of pain and regret marred his visage.

There was an uneasy silence for a long moment and then Gilgaran cleared his throat. “You are correct, Maglor. It only takes three to do the mapping. Saelmir is quite capable of drawing what is before him and he doesn’t need any of us breathing over his shoulders watching him draw. So, you and Arthalion can go on ahead of us and see what you can find of these creatures. Saelmir, based on our progress so far, how long do you estimate it will take to cross this section of the hills and head back north?”

Saelmir frowned slightly in thought, staring westward along the flank. “It must be close to forty miles if it’s an inch. Barring unforeseen mishaps and based on our rate of walking so far, I would say that we should be at the other end two days from tomorrow.”

Gilgaran nodded. “It will take you a day to reach the foot of the mountains from here. We will be heading north two days after that. Allowing a day for you to cross back to these hills, let’s say that you’ll meet up with us six days from tomorrow.”

“That only gives us four days for searching,” Maglor pointed out. “That’s not a whole lot of time.”

“Agreed, but I do not wish for us to be separated for too long. I would be happy if you came back to us sooner than that, but I don’t wish for you to be any later. Just find evidence that the creatures do indeed haunt the mountains and are using the hills only for hunting. We can worry about just where they are located at a later time.”

“Good enough,” Maglor said as he pulled his haversack off him and dropped it to the ground. “I’ll build the fire and get dinner started.”

Everyone nodded, removing their own haversacks, and an hour later, as the sky darkened to midnight blue and the stars shone out, they were enjoying Maglor’s fish stew.

****

Maglor and Arthalion set off an hour or so before sunrise while the sky was just turning a pearly gray, wishing to arrive at the mountains with a good hour or so to spare before nightfall. “We’ll see you in six days if not sooner,” Maglor said. “The storm will probably be upon us by then.”

The others nodded and wished them good hunting. Maglor told Arthalion to set the pace and the two began running easily as they headed directly west, keeping the southern flank of the Emyn Beraid well to their right, for they were making a straight run rather than following the curve of the hills as they had been doing while mapping. Except to stop every couple of leagues to take some water and look around they did not tarry and they did not speak. For several hours the mountains did not appear any closer and their features were indistinct, but by midmorning they were able to discern certain features.

“We should be there well before the sun sets,” Maglor said when they stopped for a drink and to check the land around them. “That is, if we make a straight run from here, but I want to go closer to where these hills begin to bend northward. I want to see if there are any traces of those creatures that we can follow.”

“That makes sense,” Arthalion said. “If we continue as we have we’ll actually be well south of the closest point between the hills and the mountains. It seems more logical to think that those creatures would cross at the narrowest point.”

“Let’s go then,” Maglor said and they set off once more, but now angling north of west, following the shoulders of the hills. About an hour or so past noon they were rounding the hills and could now see north and west. The bulk of the mountains now lay behind them and only about ten miles separated them from a spur that jutted out into the plains. The land stretched flat before them as they looked toward Mithlond, though the ruins lay beyond the horizon. Maglor pointed to the right toward the hills. From the west, their slopes were not as sheer but they still loomed over them, dark and brooding.

“This spur is too steep for even those creatures to climb,” he said. “Let’s see if there are gentler slopes further north. I imagine that these creatures would run a straight path between here and the mountains, or as straight as possible depending on where they are living. See? The closest part of the mountains is actually south of us but I think they may be inhabiting the northern flank. You can see where the mountains are lower here and more worn looking than further south.”

Arthalion agreed and they set off again, spreading out slightly to cover more ground. Maglor estimated that they had moved a couple of miles northward before they discovered any evidence that anything lived in the area. It was Arthalion who found the tracks. It was, in fact, but a single paw print that had been frozen and was not completely covered by snow.

“This is heading toward the mountains,” Arthalion pointed out when Maglor approached. He looked to his right, trying to gauge distance. “I think that crevice there is where they enter the hills.”

Maglor looked to where Arthalion pointed and nodded. “Let’s check along this path.” He pointed first at the mountains. “I’ll go this way and you backtrack to the hills. Sing out if you find anything and I will do the same.”

Arthalion nodded and set off, keeping his eyes on the ground. Maglor did the same, going in the opposite direction. This time, he found what they were looking for. “Arthalion, here.” Arthalion turned and came swiftly. Maglor simply pointed down at the spoor, clearly visible.

“This looks fairly recent,” he said.

“I suspect it’s barely a week old. Shall we see where it goes?”

Arthalion nodded and they headed southwest, taking a direct route to the mountains. They were now north of the most eastern spur of the range and Maglor thought that the peaks were even more eroded than he recalled from the last time he had lived in this area, long before the ice came. Not for the first time he wondered if a colony of Dwarves had somehow survived through the ages in spite of the ice. Belegost, as he recalled, lay well to the south and, though it had been mostly destroyed in the cataclysm that had sunk Beleriand, a small section of it was later reoccupied sometime late in the Second Age. The colony of Dwarves prospered well enough, even more so when the Dwarves of Erebor made their way there after the coming of Smaug and joined with their kin. He recalled meeting Thorin Oakenshield by chance, as they say, when that worthy happened to be making his way toward Mithlond to pick up the East-West Road. Maglor had encountered the Dwarf prince along the way for he was making his once-a-century pilgrimage to Imladris. Neither had spoken of the reason for their journeys but it was sometime later that Maglor heard rumors of a battle far to the east and the death of Thorin Oakenshield.

Well, that was a long time ago and no longer of importance. He vaguely wondered if he should add Thorin to his forgiveness list but after a moment’s reflection decided that the two had not been in each other’s company long enough to warrant it.

“Look!”

Maglor pulled himself out of his memories to see where Arthalion was pointing. They had come halfway to the mountains by now and they could clearly see where there were dark slits that he thought had to be the entrances to caves.

“Where now is the Gulf of Lune, there once existed the ancient Dwarf city of Nogrod before the cataclysm that destroyed Beleriand,” Maglor said. “Those caves could well be what are left of the mines.”

“If they are not infested with those Morgoth-spawned creatures, we might be able to use them to mine for metals,” Arthalion said.

“And even if they are infested, we can still use them once we eliminate them,” Maglor rejoined. “Let’s approach with caution. Any creature hiding in those caves can probably see us coming.”

“I hate that there are no trees or even some scraggly bushes to use as cover,” Arthalion said.

Maglor grinned but did not comment as they set off again. As they got closer, Maglor could see that the dark slits, of which he counted four, were not cave entrances at all, but narrow crevices that were open above and reached back into the mountain range. The two Elves stopped and looked about, trying to find any evidence that the creatures were about. They ranged along the mountain shoulder but did not find any spoors.

“This makes no sense,” Arthalion said in frustration when they met up again on the plain. “We saw that one track heading here. We saw no other tracks along the way, but it just seems improbable that we would not find other tracks closer to the mountains.”

Maglor shrugged, not sure how to answer the younger Elf. “Let’s examine these crevices,” he suggested. “Maybe we’ll find something within them.”

“Do you want to split up?”

“No. I do not want to risk coming upon these creatures alone. Pick a crevice, any crevice.”

Arthalion chuckled and randomly pointed to the second one from the right. Maglor nodded and they headed to it. Where they entered, the crevice was wide enough for the two to walk abreast of one another but within a few hundred paces, it narrowed and became twisty so that they had to go single-file and Maglor made sure he was in front, his sword already drawn, for there was no room otherwise. Arthalion followed his example. They had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile (though it was hard to estimate distances in the twisting passage) when they reached a dead end.

“Well, they obviously don’t live here,” Arthalion said, sounding almost put-out and Maglor smiled, though the other ellon could not see.

“Can you turn around or will we be walking backwards all the way?” he asked.

“Hmm… that is the question, isn’t it? I’m going to hand you my sword,” Arthalion said and did just that as Maglor reached back with his left hand. “I’m going to walk back a bit. There was a section just a few feet back that seemed wider than here.”

Maglor just nodded and he turned his head slightly to see the other ellon slowly backing up then disappearing around the last bend. A minute later he saw him returning, but now his back was to him. “Tell me when to stop,” Arthalion said. “I’ll take the swords and then you come at your own pace.”

“Stop,” Maglor said when Arthalion was barely a foot away. “I’m going to hand you back your sword first.” He did so and Arthalion took it. “And now my sword.”

“Got it. I’ll start out. You can turn around easily enough about a hundred paces along. Take your time. I’ll meet you at the entrance.”

Maglor did not bother to answer, merely waited until Arthalion’s footfalls were distant before moving. As promised, the crevice widened just enough on the other side of the bend for him to turn so he was facing back toward the entrance. He advanced more rapidly and was reaching the entrance just as Arthalion did.

By now the sun was well to the west and they decided to make camp in the crevice which would afford them some shelter.

“Do you think they are all like that?” Arthalion asked as they set about building a fire and putting together the night meal. Maglor had suggested they go back a way into the crevice to where it started to narrow, thinking that if anything threatened them they would have an adequate barrier against attack.

“Who knows? We’ll have to investigate them all. These must have been ancient seams of the mines surrounding Nogrod.”

“Did you ever visit them?”

“Once. I traveled to Nogrod to consult with the Dwarves about fortifying my citadel which lay between the arms of the Little and Greater Gelion. That was our weak point in the Leaguer, for the hills that spread along the southern border of Lothlann between the Ered Luin and the highlands of Dorthonion failed at one point. They named the gap after me, for some reason. At any rate, it was through that gap that the Orcs managed to enter East Beleriand before the Dagor Aglareb. Afterwards, my brothers and I decided we needed to strengthen the fortifications along the gap and I went to Nogrod with my brother Caranthir to ask the Dwarves for help, which they gladly gave.”

He paused and gave Arthalion a resigned shrug. “Not that it did any good and in the end it all came to naught.”

“I know,” Arthalion said. “I listened to the tales of those times sung by others, for I was too young to go to war myself. Even Arthad was barely old enough to hold a sword in his hands, though he acted as my adar’s squire during the War of Wrath. Yet, when the call came for us to return to Dor Rodyn, neither of us felt the need to go. Ennorath was our home, after all. We knew no other.”

“And though I was born and raised in the Blessed Realm, I feel the same. Or, at least, I did. Lately I have begun to dream of my life in Dor Rodyn before it all went wrong, before my adar’s exile to Formenos. We were happy, oh so happy, then. We had the love of the Belain and there was all of Valinor to explore.” He sighed. “I do not know why I am being summoned to return now.”

“Perhaps the Belain miss you,” Arthalion said softly.

Maglor looked up sharply at that, but Arthalion was not even looking at him, but was staring into the fire, his own expression pensive. He was tempted to offer a retort to what he thought was a ridiculous statement, but in the end he merely said, “I’ll take the first watch,” and left it at that.

****

The next morning, once their fast was broken and the fire doused, they began checking the other crevices. They started with the most western one and, like the first one, this too came to a dead end after only a few hundred feet. This crevice remained wide enough all along that they had no trouble turning around.

“Two down, two to go,” Arthalion said.

“Could we be wrong in our thinking?” Maglor asked. “Could those creatures be further south?”

“We won’t know the answer to that until we’ve looked,” Arthalion countered, and to that Maglor could not disagree.

So they moved east until they came to the third crevice. This one did not look any more promising than the other two. Indeed, the entrance was just narrow enough that they had to go single file from the first, but they dutifully entered, knowing they had to check out all possibilities. They only got a few dozen feet in when Arthalion, who was in the lead, stopped so suddenly that Maglor nearly ran into him.

“Smell that?” Arthalion whispered.

Maglor sniffed, suddenly aware that he had been smelling a musky odor ever since entering the crevice, though it was so faint and elusive that he had initially dismissed it. Now, however, it was more evident and he wrinkled his nose. Without speaking, he tapped Arthalion on the shoulder and began walking backwards, for there was no room to turn around, or rather, it would have created too much noise if they had. Arthalion began following him and in a few minutes they were back out breathing fresh air.

“Let us check the other crevice just to be sure,” Maglor said and that was when they found the real first evidence that the cat-creatures were actually inhabiting the mountains, for they immediately saw paw prints frozen in the ground and the rank smell was stronger.

“That other seam must connect to this one in some way,” Maglor said, “but this appears to be the main entrance.”

“So what do we do?” Arthalion asked. “We’re not due to meet up with the others for another four days. Now that we know where to find these creatures, should we just leave and deal with them later?”

Maglor looked about, examining the mountains rising above them. He pointed to his right. “Do you think we could climb that? I would like to see if we can follow the crevice from above and see if we can observe these creatures. We can then get an idea of how many there may be.”

“We can but try,” Arthalion said and they moved back to the west and after a few minutes of close examination, began to climb. It was not particularly difficult, for there were plenty of handholds and the face was not sheer. Still, it took them the better part of an hour to make it to where they could see down into the crevice and now their path was more chancy, for a single slip would send them to certain death.

They followed the crevice as well as they could, though sometimes their path was blocked and they had to detour around before returning to the crevice which seemed to extend well into the mountains. However, the further into the mountains they went the narrower the gap until they could have easily jumped the distance. And then the opening ceased to exist where a shoulder of the mountain rose before them. Yet, looking down they could see that the seam continued on but now it was covered.

“Well, there’s no going on,” Maglor said with disgust.

“Let’s go back down then and find a place where we can see but not be seen or smelled,” Arthalion suggested. “There’s been no actual sign of these creatures and I want to see if any of them show themselves before we have to meet up with the others.”

“We’ll go down the east side then,” Maglor said and they made their way across and headed back down. It took them longer for this side was more rugged and steeper and part of the mountain fell away into a valley of stone that had not been obvious from the other side. Thus, it was well after noon when they finally came back down into the plains and they spent some time hunting for a hiding place that would let them see the entrance of the crevice without them being seen.

“This section of the mountains isn’t so sheer that those creatures couldn’t climb up,” Arthalion pointed out.

“But they would have to do it one or two at a time which will give us the advantage,” Maglor countered. “At any rate, we will not be here long. I’ve decided not to linger any more than a day. We’ll go back to the hills the day after tomorrow and wait for the others.”

“Do we risk a fire tonight?” Arthalion asked but Maglor shook his head and they settled themselves as well as they could and chewed on some deer jerky while taking turns keeping an eye on the crevice entrance.

It was well after dark, perhaps an hour or so before midnight when they noticed movement. Maglor was taking the watch while Arthalion walked the Path of Dreams, but with a single touch of Maglor’s finger on Arthalion’s thigh, the ellon was wide awake and joining Maglor where he lay looking down. In the fitful light of the stars which were occluded by clouds now and then, they could see several of the creatures slinking out of the crevice and loping off toward the hills.

“I forgot that they may be nocturnal,” Maglor whispered in Arthalion’s ear. “We’ll let them get well ahead before we follow them.”

Arthalion nodded. They counted fifteen of the creatures and some were not as large as others. Maglor thought they were either females or young males joining their elders. They waited a good half hour before Maglor signaled to Arthalion and then they were making their slow way back down from their perch and in a few minutes they were running as silently as the pack before them, following their trail.

****

Note: The Dagor Aglareb, or the Glorious Battle, was the third of the great battles of Beleriand.

27: Hunted

“Where are they going?” Arthalion whispered to Maglor as they ran behind the pack. They were perhaps half a mile behind the creatures, which, until then, had been making a straight run to the hills, whose peaks were just visible as dark humps on the horizon limed in starlight.

“They’re veering south,” Maglor pointed out the obvious, not having any real answer.

“They’re heading for that section of the hills where it comes around,” Arthalion said, never slowing. “Why have they suddenly—”

Maglor nodded grimly, having come to the same conclusion that the younger ellon had hit upon.

“But we’re not to meet up with them for another two days at least,” Arthalion protested.

Maglor shook his head. “Saelmir said it would take three days to reach the western end of the southern flank. They should be there now. We were simply to meet up with them somewhere along the way as they made their way north.”

“You think those creatures somehow sensed them even from this distance and that’s why they turned aside from wherever they were originally planning to go? Is that even possible?”

Maglor shrugged, his expression turning even grimmer. “Possible or not, that seems to be where they are heading. Our friends will not be expecting them. We need to catch up with the creatures before they find the others.” With that, he put on more speed and Arthalion kept pace with him.

Even under starlight, Maglor could make out the creatures running silently before them. The gap was closing so now they were only a quarter of a mile from them, but in that time they had crossed most of the terrain separating the mountains from the Tower Hills that now loomed large before them. It was obvious to the Elf that the creatures were making straight for the spur of the hills that jutted out as if reaching for the mountains. Somewhere were three unsuspecting Elves and he feared that he and Arthalion would not be able to warn them in time.

“Look!” Arthalion cried though he kept his voice to a near whisper as he pointed to the left.

Maglor stole a quick look and resisted a sigh. From the north he could see dark clouds piling up over the hills and heading due south. The predicted storm had found them. Perhaps that would aid them. It was unlikely the creatures would care to be hunting in it however tempting.

“Do you see any sign of a fire?” he asked Arthalion, for the younger ellon had keen eyesight, keener than most. If they could spot the fire that the others no doubt had lit they would have a better idea where the creatures would strike and could somehow warn them.

“Not yet,” Arthalion answered. “I have been looking for it but… wait! There, just where the shoulder of the hills turns northward, there is a gleam of light. Do you see?”

Maglor looked, straining to see. “Where? There is nothing.”

“Look up not down. Do you see? They must have decided to move into the hills rather than stay on the plain. Perhaps they already knew of the storm’s approach and sought shelter.”

Maglor nodded, realizing the truth of the ellon’s words.

“So, what is the plan?” Arthalion asked. “How do we warn them?”

“The plan is to attack these creatures from behind and hope our friends understand what is happening and come to our assistance.”

“Oh, all right. I suppose that would work.”

Maglor grinned. “Unless you have a better idea?”

“Oh, no, that’s fine. We’ll go with your plan. I just wondered. Do you want to take the ones on the left while I take the ones on the right?”

Maglor actually chuckled even as he drew his sword, never slowing down. Arthalion followed suit. By now, only a few hundred yards separated them from the creatures, which never slowed, but now they were not quite so silent, for they could hear growls between the creatures as if they were communicating with one another. Ahead, he could see the hills looming and he had lost sight of the fire, hidden behind a fold of the earth. He wondered just how to warn their friends of the imminent attack and as the distance closed between them and the creatures he did the only thing he could think of: he sang.

The very unexpectedness of his raising his voice in song brought Arthalion to an astonished halt and caused the creatures running before them to swing around in snarling rage and Maglor was swinging at the nearest one even as he continued singing and what he sang was the Noldolantë, which he had composed shortly after the Noldor had settled in Beleriand. Even as he slashed at the first of the creatures he raised his voice so that it echoed into the hills. He thought perhaps Arthalion would join him in singing but the ellon did not, too busy dealing out death to the creatures that were attacking him.

Maglor thought that perhaps his singing confused the creatures, for they did not attack him all at once, as if they were trying to decipher the meaning of his words. He, on the other hand, did not falter in either his song or his killing and when he slew a second cat, the others seemed to break from whatever spell his singing had cast over them and they launched themselves at him, practically ignoring Arthalion.

Now he fought in desperation but he never stopped singing. For some reason, he needed to sing, sing as he had not done so in too long a time. The words poured out of him like water and even as he continued to fight, knowing that perhaps he would not live to see the dawn, he felt a lightness of heart and for a brief, oh so very brief, moment, he rediscovered joy, as if all his life had been a prelude to this very moment.

He managed to kill another cat but three others were already attacking him and these were the largest of them, the leaders of the pack. He spared a glance at Arthalion, who was beset by two of the creatures, having killed one. The other six creatures were holding back and Maglor thought these were the youngsters in the pack, not yet fully grown, but still a danger. He did not know if he and Arthalion would hold out against all of them before their friends came to the rescue, assuming they had heard his singing and came to investigate. As he slashed at one of his attackers, he felt something wet on his cheeks and then he found himself fighting in the midst of snowfall that had worsened from a few soft flakes to icy sleet in a matter of minutes as the wind picked up. He did not bother looking to where the storm was barreling down on them all; he did not have that luxury.

Somehow in the course of the battle against the creatures, he had moved closer to the hills, their dark slopes a bulwark behind him. He continued singing, though he was fast coming to the end of the lament and wondered what else he could sing, wondering where Gilgaran, Saelmir and Celepharn were and why weren’t they there helping him and Arthalion. Then, he suddenly lost his balance when a gust of wind drove snow directly into his face, blinding him and he stumbled, falling even as two of the creatures leaped at him. That both saved his life and nearly ended it, for as he flailed about, trying to regain his balance, he fell sideways so that his back was exposed. Faintly he heard something hiss past him, a sound he knew but could not immediately identify. There was a strangled snarl and then something fell on top of him, ripping his back to shreds. He screamed and even as he heard another hissing sound he spiraled into darkness and knew nothing more.

****

Pain was the first thing he felt, a fire that was both hot and cold all down his back and he wanted nothing more than to slip back into the blessed darkness where the pain could not touch him. He might have made a sound, a whimper or a curse, he never knew, but then someone was by him, lifting his head and pouring something cold down his throat.

Water! It felt so good and he did not realize how parched he was, yet only a few sips and then he was retching and the pain intensified until he could take no more and he spiraled down into darkness again, hoping this time he would never wake up….

“…out of this storm.”

“…our camp… not far now…”

The voices were about him and he felt himself moving though he made no movement himself. It took several seconds for him to realize that someone was carrying him. The pain was now a dull throb that beat against him like an inexorable wave and he wanted very much to scream but he no longer had the strength.

“Here… cave near…”

They had stepped out of the raging storm which Maglor had felt only as a freezing wetness upon his skin, but it had never really penetrated his consciousness. Only when they stepped into the cave did he register the fact that he was no longer being drenched in icy sleet. There was light and a sense of warmth but he did not open his eyes.

“Let’s see how badly he’s hurt,” he heard someone say though it was too hard to bother identifying the voice.

They laid him face down as gently as they could and he felt the rough texture of blankets and someone placed their fur cloak under his cheek as a pillow. He whimpered as fire rolled up and down his back.

“I’m sorry,” he heard the person say. “I’ll try not to hurt you too much. Get the water boiling, will you Celepharn? Saelmir, see to Arthalion.”

Then Gilgaran — he now recognized the ellon’s voice — began to strip him of his shredded tunic and this time he did scream and then succumbed to darkness once again….

Warm… he was too warm… He tried to throw off the blankets but his arms would not obey him and he couldn’t seem to move.

“He’s burning up.”

“Let’s try to get more water in him so he does not become dehydrated.”

“Carefully. We don’t want to spoil all our good work. That’s it. Easy now. Arthalion, lift his head. Just a sip. That’s it. One more. Good. We’ll give you more later, Maglor. We don’t want you to be sick again. Gently now. That’s it.”

All the while, Maglor had lain there, letting the others do all the work for him. He never opened his eyes, too exhausted to try as he attempted to sort out the voices and put names to them. He couldn’t do that, either, but the sound of his friends speaking was a comfort and he basked in it. It had been too long since anyone had tended to him. He frowned, or thought he had, trying to remember when he was last so injured to need tending by others. It was too much and he sank into oblivion once more even as he tried to ask the one question that burned in him: where in the name of the Belain were they?

That question met him when he woke to find himself in a cave. He was lying on his stomach. There was a fire nearby and at first he thought he was alone but even as he moved his head a fraction someone was there kneeling beside him, placing a hand gently on his head.

“Maglor, try not to move yet,” he heard Gilgaran say.

“I may have no choice,” he managed to say, though it came out in a rough whisper that didn’t quite sound like his voice.

There was a momentary pause. “Oh. All right… um… Saelmir… a little help here.”

Maglor felt himself almost grinning at the discomfiture he sensed in the ellon’s voice but then he concentrated on not screaming as Gilgaran and Saelmir lifted him up. Waves of nausea swamped him and everything started spinning and he fought not to be sick as the two ellyn led him away from the fire to the back of the cave. He just managed not to pass out again and was able to do what he needed while his friends held him in place. He tried to apologize, feeling embarrassed by it all, but Gilgaran just shook his head.

“Not the first time. I have done my share of nursing in ages past.”

“Do you think you can eat something, Maglor?” Saelmir asked as they led him back to the fire.

But the very thought of food made him feel ill and he shook his head, hissing at the pain that simple gesture caused him.

“Perhaps you can sip on some broth,” Gilgaran suggested as they helped him back down on the blanket. “You need to stay hydrated and keep up your strength.”

Maglor could only nod, too exhausted to say anything. He closed his eyes, listening to the soft sounds of the two ellyn puttering about the cave. Further away he heard the howl of the storm still raging. Opening his eyes, he took in his surroundings.

“Where are Celepharn and Arthalion?” he asked as he realized that those two were missing from their group.

“Out scouting,” Gilgaran answered. “Those creatures, or at least the ones who escaped us, are still out there. Celepharn and Arthalion are checking to see where they may have gone.”

“Surely they are not still in these hills?” Maglor asked in disbelief as he accepted the bowl of broth from Gilgaran. “I would think any who survived would have gone directly back to the mountains.”

“So you would think,” Saelmir said, “but Arthalion seems to think otherwise and….”

He was interrupted by the sound of someone approaching from outside and Maglor looked to see Celepharn and Arthalion brushing out the snow from their cloaks as they came toward the fire. Both ellyn smiled in relief at the sight of Maglor sitting up and sipping on the broth.

Before either could speak, Gilgaran began questioning them. “What news?”

“They’re out there,” Celepharn said with a grimace. “They didn’t go far, just to the ridge south of us where they can oversee the cave.”

“They are watching us,” Arthalion added, “and they are waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” Maglor asked.

“Waiting for us to make the next move,” Gilgaran answered. “We cannot stay here for very much longer. We’re running out of food and this storm does not seem to want to let up.”

“That may be in our favor,” Celepharn commented. “Arthalion and I were able to approach the creatures far closer than we could have without the storm concealing us. If we leave while it’s still raging, those creatures may not even realize it until it’s too late.”

“Yet, we have Maglor to consider,” Saelmir said. “He can barely stand and we cannot carry him. It’s a pity we have nothing with which to make a travois, then he can at least travel, but as it is….”

“You can always leave me behind and make a run for it,” Maglor suggested.

“Are you mad or still fevered?” Arthalion demanded. “We leave no one behind.”

“I cannot run,” Maglor said in a reasonable tone. “If you leave everything behind and travel light you may win out and reach the settlement for help. Those creatures seem disinclined to venture into this cave, so I’m likely to be safe enough so long as the storm and this fire lasts.”

“What if I stay with Maglor,” Saelmir suggested. “He’s going to need help in tending to his needs.”

‘We all go or none go,” Gilgaran stated.

“Then we can only hope that the storm will last long enough to force those creatures to give up the chase,” Arthalion said.

“They do not strike me as the giving up sort,” Celepharn rejoined with a grimace.

“We will go,” Maglor said.

They all looked at him as if he were out of his mind and perhaps he was, but he knew that they could not stay in the cave forever. They needed to leave as soon as possible.

“You cannot even stand by yourself….” Gilgaran started to say but Maglor cut him off.

“We will go. Give me a little time and I will be well enough.”

“You cannot run, not in your condition,” Saelmir objected.

“Then we will walk, but we will walk together,” Maglor retorted with no little heat. “To remain here is to court only death.”

“And braving this storm and those creatures when you cannot even lift a sword to defend yourself isn’t?” Arthalion demanded, looking disgusted. “And everyone thought I was insane.”

Maglor grinned at his friend. “That is why you are here, to protect me. I do not say we should leave immediately. I must rest more and heal as much as possible, but we should not delay our journey for long. I suggest we abandon as much as we dare to lighten our load. Only Saelmir’s map should not be left behind. That is too valuable. Now I must sleep.” He handed the empty bowl to Arthalion who happened to be the closest and attempted to lie down but needed help in doing so, sighing with relief as he settled on his stomach and drifted off to the sound of the others conversing softly, no doubt discussing his mental state rather than his physical one.

When he came to again, it seemed nothing had changed. He glanced about to see Arthalion sitting beside him, staring into the fire in contemplation. The others he could not see from his position. The storm still seemed to rage outside, though it sounded less virulent and he thought perhaps it was dying out. That would not serve them if they meant to sneak away. He attempted to sit up but did not make it very far before the pain became excruciating.

“Here, let me help you,” Arthalion said and after a couple of awkward moments Maglor found himself sitting up, two cloaks pillowing his back as he leaned against a nearby boulder.

“Thank you,” he gasped, trying to stop the world from spinning. Arthalion handed him a bowl which he had filled with water and Maglor took it gratefully. When the world had steadied, he asked, “Where are the others? How long have I been sleeping?”

“They’re out scouting the best way to go from here and you’ve been sleeping, as far as we can tell, for two days.”

“Two… how long have we been here?”

Arthalion shrugged. “My guess, close to a week, perhaps more. It’s hard to tell night from day with this storm and you were rather out of it for several days, burning up with fever. We even had to pack you in snow at one point.”

“I don’t remember,” Maglor said, closing his eyes.

“I would be surprised if you did,” Arthalion said. “How are you feeling now?”

“Weak, but clear-headed. If I need to, I can leave now.”

“It would be better if you could wait a couple of more days and….”

“We may not have that luxury.”

Maglor and Arthalion looked up as Gilgaran came into the cave followed by Celepharn and Saelmir.

“What do you mean?” Maglor asked.

“This storm is abating,” Gilgaran replied. “In an hour or three it will have passed over. We need to be away from here before then.”

“Help me up,” Maglor ordered, already struggling to rise. Arthalion and Gilgaran grabbed his arms and lifted him. He hissed from the pain, but forced himself not to black out, taking deep breaths. The others looked upon him with concern and neither Arthalion nor Gilgaran let him go. “I’m all right,” he said. “Just give me a moment.”

“Douse the fire,” Gilgaran ordered.

“No, don’t do that,” Maglor countermanded. “Arthalion and I were able to see your fire from the plains. If we leave the fire burning, those creatures may think we’re still here.”

“That may buy us some time,” Saelmir said in agreement.

“Take only what we need and leave the rest,” Gilgaran ordered. “It will be a long, cold and very hungry journey, but that cannot be helped.”

“Let us hope that the journey does not end with us dying either from the elements or the cats,” Celepharn said with a mirthless smile.

“It will be what it will be,” Maglor said philosophically as he attempted to walk a few paces unaided. It was difficult but he managed to stay upright and the more he walked the less fiery his back felt.

Within minutes, they were ready or as ready as they would ever be. Gilgaran insisted that Saelmir and Arthalion stay on either side of Maglor and help him. “We need to climb down to the plains and the going is rough.”

“Should we not stay in the hills?” Maglor asked. “At least then we have more shelter. The plains are too open and the cats will be able to outrun us.”

“They can outrun us either way,” Gilgaran retorted, “because we cannot run at all with you injured. I deem the plains will give us a smoother trail and we will be able to travel more quickly. Come. Let us not waste time in arguing. Did you not say I was the leader? Then let me lead.”

To that Maglor had no argument and he simply nodded, allowing Arthalion and Saelmir to help him with a cloak. It was Arthalion’s for Maglor’s cloak had been shredded. When Maglor protested, the ellon insisted he did not need it. “You forget, I lived here for a very long time and wore precious little. I am more inured to the cold than you and you are injured. Now, stop arguing. We must go.”

Maglor gave in with as much grace as he could and kept silent as they exited the cave. The storm seemed as vicious as he remembered it from earlier and was nearly as blinding. From the darkness he assumed it must be night. They made their way down a treacherous path and Maglor was grateful for the help. By the time they reached the plains he was drenched in sweat but he refused to let them stop.

“Go! We cannot linger,” he shouted against the storm.

The others nodded and they set off at a pace that was more a quick walk, but at that moment it was all that Maglor could manage and he had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from screaming. Arthalion and Saelmir never left his side, but helped steady him and it was not long before they were practically dragging him along, for he felt himself retreating into himself as they struggled on. He wondered vaguely if his cousins who had suffered the Helcaraxë had done something similar.

And somewhere behind them, there was more than the howling of the storm on the wind.

28: A Desperate Run

“Gilgaran, wait up. Maglor needs to rest.”

Maglor came out of his daze at the sound of Arthalion calling out and shook his head. “No, we cannot stop. We….”

“Easy now. You’re dead on your feet, my friend,” Saelmir said as Gilgaran came back to them, having taken point. Looking about, Maglor noticed Celepharn, who was behind them, turning to face south, his hand on his sword, acting as rearguard.

“We can spare a few minutes, but not much more than that,” Gilgaran said. “We’re still too close to those damnable creatures.”

“Assuming they’re not even closer, following us,” Arthalion countered. “It matters not. Maglor cannot go on without rest. I think he’s becoming feverish again. I would like to check his dressings but I don’t think we have that luxury.”

“I’m fine,” Maglor protested even as Arthalion and Saelmir helped him to sit on a rock after they brushed off the snow. It had actually stopped snowing at some point and Maglor only just realized it as Saelmir handed him some water to drink.

He drank greedily but forced himself to take only a few sips, knowing the others would need some. As he handed the waterskin to Gilgaran, he felt something moist on his back and realized his wounds must be bleeding. He decided to say nothing about it because, in truth, what could any of them do? They dared not stop long enough to tend to him and he doubted they had any spare shirts to use as bandages. After a few more minutes, he struggled up.

“Let us go,” he said. “Already the day is waning. Do we run through the night?”

“We cannot stop to light a fire,” Gilgaran answered. “I fear those creatures will be tracking us soon enough now that the storm has passed. The more distance we can put between them and us, the better.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could go faster, but….”

“Save your breath for traveling, my friend,” Gilgaran said not unkindly. “Arthalion, spell Celepharn while he and I help Maglor. Saelmir, you have point.”

They switched positions with Saelmir loping off and Arthalion remaining where he was to give the other three time to make some distance before following. Maglor stifled a groan as he attempted to stand with Celepharn and Gilgaran’s help, his back throbbing with pain.

“I know you’re in pain, Maglor,” Gilgaran said quietly, his expression sympathetic, “but to stay here is certain death. You know this.”

“I do,” Maglor replied as they headed off, the other two allowing him to set the pace, which was excruciatingly slow. “I am just sorry that I’ve put you all in danger of your lives.”

“I’m sure you did not get injured on purpose, just to make our lives even more miserable than they already were,” Gilgaran countered, flashing him a grin.

Maglor couldn’t help giving him a supercilious look and sniffed disdainfully. “Little you know.”

Gilgaran and Celepharn chuckled and then they fell silent as they concentrated on their trail, attempting to choose a route that was as smooth as possible so as not to tax Maglor’s strength. But it was pure torture for Maglor and after a short while he let himself slip into a waking dream, losing himself in a memory of an earlier, more innocent time where all was green and the light was a blend of silver and gold, and he was oh so very young.

They did not stop when the sun sank behind the mountains but continued on, except to take short breaks every few leagues to attend to personal needs if necessary and to give Maglor time to rest. Maglor knew little of that, lost as he was in a nightmare of pain. He stopped when they stopped, drank water if someone pushed a skin into his hands, even chewed on some jerky that Saelmir carried for their sustenance, but he no longer spoke and his eyes saw nothing of the present. He lost himself in the deep past, beyond the pain of his wounds, now crusted over as the temperatures fell and the blood froze, offering its own kind of pain. He no longer heard what was said around him, if anything was said at all.

Somewhere in the early hours before the dawn, they stumbled into a fold of the hills where they convinced Maglor to lie down while three of them also rested as completely as possible while one stood guard over them all. Maglor actually slept, rousing to groggy consciousness as the sky lightened to true dawn. By then, everyone else had had at least an hour’s rest. Arthalion handed Maglor some water and then they were off. Maglor actually felt better for the short sleep and was more present during the next stage of their flight, able to move at a slightly faster pace than he had done previously.

“How far are we from the towers?” he asked Saelmir, who was holding him up with Celepharn’s help.

“At this pace, probably two days more,” Saelmir answered. “We’re making for the Cleft. That will put us about fifteen miles as the craban flies to the towers, but we probably have another twenty or so miles to go before we get there.”

Maglor nodded. The Cleft, as the Elves called it, was a crevice that began a few miles southwest of the towers and extended down to the plain, widening as it went along. It had been formed by a long-ago quake and ran nearly straight, as if some giant had cleaved the land with a sword. There was evidence of a waterfall and a stream running through it sometime in the distant past, but now it appeared to be a dry gulch, though some speculated that if the climate ever warmed again, the water would flow. At any rate, it was the most direct route back to the settlement, though they would not be able to travel its full length, for the walls steepened further in, but they could climb the northern face and move across the ridge that had formed with relative ease.

So they ran as quickly as Maglor’s wounds allowed and he hoped that their luck would hold, for there had been no sign of the creatures following them and for that they were all grateful, but their luck turned when the sky, which had been blue, darkened to gray and clouds piled up.

“We’ll get snow soon,” Gilgaran muttered in disgust when they stopped around noon for a quick break. They thought that they were nearly halfway to the Cleft at this point but weren’t really sure.

“It will hide us from those creatures if they are following us,” Arthalion pointed out as he chewed on some jerky and swallowed some water.

“I am just surprised they haven’t caught up with us by now,” Saelmir said. “Surely they cannot believe we are still hiding in that cave.”

“Who can say?” Gilgaran rejoined with a shrug. “Perhaps they simply went back to their lair.”

Even as he spoke, they heard a snarling roar echoing through the hills to their right. It was difficult to tell just where or how far the source of that roar was, but Maglor thought it was not as close as it sounded.

“Or not,” Gilgaran added with a grimace, even as he began issuing orders. “If we can reach the Cleft we will have better protection and can stand our ground. I do not wish to lead these creatures to the settlement.”

“Let’s get going then,” Maglor said, knowing that, ultimately, he would not be fighting, wounded as he was, and that he was putting the others at risk. He was almost tempted to tell them to leave him there and make a run for it, but knew that it was a futile gesture. They would not leave him behind and in truth he had no desire to end up in the belly of any beast if he could possibly help it.

Even as they resumed their run, the sky continued to darken with clouds and before long the snow began to fall in earnest, though it was not the blinding blizzard of before. Still, its rapid fall made it difficult for them to see too far ahead and they were forced to move slower than they wished. There was no further evidence of the creatures following them; all was silent, save for their own breathing.

The storm brought the daylight to an end early and they were traveling through the dark long before the sun set. Maglor found himself struggling to keep up with the others, his store of energy nearly depleted. Even with two of his companions holding him up, he stumbled more than once and even fell flat on his face at one point, forcing the other two onto their knees when his momentum carried them down with him. He lay there panting, feeling dizzy and hot and cold at the same time, his back throbbing.

“Get up,” Arthalion commanded, pulling at his left arm. “You have to get up, Maglor. Gilgaran, wait up. Maglor’s fallen. Celepharn, Saelmir, help me get him back up.”

Somehow they managed, but Maglor was swaying and his eyes would not focus on anything, not that there was much to see except the snow, so he closed them, hoping the dizziness would pass quickly.

“Where are we?” he heard Celepharn ask. “How close to the Cleft do you think we are?”

“Not close enough,” Gilgaran replied. “How is he? Can he move?”

“He’s nearly done in,” Arthalion answered. “I don’t think he’s in any condition to move.”

“Yet, we cannot stay here,” Gilgaran said. “It’s too open and I think those creatures are closer than we know. They run silently and in this storm and in the darkness, we cannot hope to see them until they are right on top of us.”

As if in answer, they all heard again the snarling roar and it sounded closer than the last time. Maglor opened his eyes, forcing them to focus on Gilgaran’s face as the ellon stood directly before him.

“We go on,” he said, speaking with some effort. “If we stop now we will surely die.”

Gilgaran stared at him for a few seconds and then nodded. “We stay together. Arthalion, can you carry Maglor for a time? We’ll switch off every once in a while so no one is unduly fatigued.”

“No, I can run,” Maglor protested.

Gilgaran shook his head. “We’ll make better time carrying you. Arthalion?”

Even as he continued to protest, Maglor found himself being lifted into Arthalion’s arms. “Stop squirming, Maglor, and just enjoy the ride,” the ellon said and then he was running and the other three stayed with him. Maglor subsided, feeling several kinds of idiot and silently castigating himself, the Valar, and everything else in between for putting him in this ridiculous position. He had never felt so embarrassed in his life, but he had to admit, however reluctantly, that they were making better time. Even weighed down with him in his arms, Arthalion was still moving at a pace that most Mortals would find difficult if not impossible to maintain after a few minutes. Arthalion was barely breathing hard.

The steady pace lulled him and he found himself slipping back into a waking dream, hoping to conserve his strength enough that he would be able to move on his own by morning. At some point, he felt Arthalion slowing and then stopping altogether. He heard soft voices and he felt himself being moved into someone else’s arms but he was too far spent to care, though in the process of moving him, his back flamed in agony and he hissed, biting his lips to keep from screaming.

“Sorry,” he heard Saelmir whisper and then they were running again.

By now, the snow had ceased to fall. Either that or they had run out of the storm. At any rate, when he opened his eyes, he could see stars again and somewhere to the east a crescent moon was rising though it would be hours yet before he would show himself above the hills. Twice more they stopped to change carriers, but even as Celepharn was helping Gilgaran to take up the burden, they heard the snarling roar of the creatures and this time it was very close.

“There,” Arthalion pointed, even as he was reaching for his bow. “Along the crest of that hill.”

“I see them,” Gilgaran said.

“Put me down,” Maglor insisted.

“We can still run,” Gilgaran said. “We are not far from the Cleft.”

“We’ll never make it and it is better that we take our stand here and now,” Maglor retorted as he struggled out of Gilgaran’s hold, swaying on his feet when he was finally upright again. “How many of them escaped your arrows when you came to our rescue?”

“We counted six that managed to slink off before we could kill them,” Saelmir answered. “They did not appear to be as large as those whom we did kill.”

“Probably females or younger males,” Maglor said. “They may be easier to kill, but they are still deadly foes.”

“Here they come,” Arthalion said calmly even as he lifted his bow and took careful aim. Saelmir and Celepharn were doing the same, while Gilgaran stood next to Maglor with his sword drawn. Maglor attempted to pull his own sword from its sheath, not wanting to be defenseless, but the very act of doing so brought excruciating pain and he nearly blacked out. Gilgaran grabbed him to keep him from falling on his face.

The other three, meanwhile, had not yet loosed their arrows, waiting for the creatures to come closer. Maglor silently counted the creatures and found himself blinking, thinking he was seeing double, for there were not six but ten.

“They waited for reinforcements,” he muttered. “That’s why they didn’t come at us sooner.”

Arrows suddenly arced across the night and two of the creatures stumbled to a halt, screaming in agony.

“Damn! I can’t believe I missed,” Saelmir muttered even as he was shooting another arrow and then a third. The creatures were running so quickly, though, that not all the arrows found their targets. Three more cats went down and the five that were left never slowed and now arrows were useless and bows were thrown aside, while swords were drawn.

“Don’t waste time protecting me,” Maglor told them, forcing nerveless fingers to pull his sword out in spite of the fiery pain coursing down his back. “That’ll just get us all killed. Concentrate on yourselves and let me worry about me.”

“Shut up, Maglor,” Arthalion said, then he screamed a battle cry as he lunged toward the nearest cat. “Arthad!”

The other three echoed him and each went on the offensive, choosing one of the cats to attack. Maglor, however, just stood there, forcing his sword up in an en guard position, trying not to black out, waiting for the fifth cat to come to him. In the dark, all he could see was a shadow running toward him then leaping from a good ten or so feet away, intending, no doubt, to crush him under its weight. In the few seconds he had left, Maglor started to back up, hoping to be out of range, but his foot twisted on a rock and he lost his balance, falling backward even as the cat came down on him. He attempted to bring his sword up in a futile effort to protect himself, but suddenly, the cat twisted in midair, yelping as in pain, and fell beside him, an arrow stuck in its belly. It was still alive and thrashing. Maglor ignored his own pain and forced himself to roll away to avoid being hit by the creature’s paws.

“Gurth an Glamoth!” Maglor heard and then suddenly he was surrounded by several Elves who ran to help his friends. Two of them stayed by him, helping him up.

“Maglor! Are you injured?”

“Denethor, what…?”

“Easy now. Damrod, give me a hand.”

Maglor found himself being led away from the field of slaughter, swaying in his friends’ hold, trying to keep from screaming. Behind him he heard yelling and snarling and not all the screams of pain came from the cats. He closed his ears to it all. They only went a few feet though before his knees gave out and with a whimper he collapsed, letting the darkness take him….

****

When next he opened his eyes, silence greeted him and there was a fire burning merrily, exuding light and blessed warmth. He was lying face down on furs and his back no longer pained him. He lifted his head to see where he was.

“So you decided to join us.”

He squinted, trying to see who had spoken. A dark figure approached, kneeling beside him, blocking his view of the fire.

“Here, see if you can sit up. I have some venison stew for you.”

“Denethor! How did you….?”

“Questions will have to wait, my friend. Can you sit?”

Maglor nodded and with a little help and a lot of muttered cursing, he managed to sit upright. Denethor handed him a bowl of stew and as there were no eating utensils, he sipped the broth, letting it warm him from the inside. Denethor shifted his position so he was sitting beside Maglor.

“What happened and where are the others? I remember screaming. Were any injured? Arthalion! Saelmir!”

“Easy now,” Denethor said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Everyone is well. Arthalion suffered a broken arm but that is the worst of the injuries. He’s sleeping at the moment. See?” He pointed to a dark shape on the other side of the fire huddled under furs. “Everyone else is busy getting rid of those creatures,” Denethor continued. “They’re dragging the carcasses away as far from here as possible. I imagine they’ll be back soon.”

“How did you come to be here, though?”

“When you were late returning, I decided to send a search party out, but we had to wait for the storms to pass first. Damrod wanted me to remain behind, but this time I decided to join in the search. I’ve stayed behind too many times while everyone else has gone out at least once, even the ellith. I think I’m the only one who hasn’t seen Mithlond yet.”

“Who’s left at the settlement then?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Denethor replied with a chuckle. “I left a few of the younger ellyn to watch over the ellith. We won’t be away that long, after all. Now, how are you feeling? I saw what those creatures did to you. It’s a wonder you’re even alive.”

“The pain seems to be mostly gone, but I doubt I will be moving too quickly for a while,” Maglor answered, picking out some chunks of meat from the bowl and shoving them into his mouth.

“Well, we’ll stay here at least until dawn, so get as much rest as you can. We’ll take it slow. I’ll send most of the ellyn ahead to let the others know that we’re on our way.”

Maglor nodded, handing the now empty bowl to Denethor. “I just need to get up for a moment and then I will try to sleep a bit more.” He glanced upward and tried to gauge the time, thinking that dawn was probably another two or three hours away. Denethor put the bowl aside and stood, holding out his hands to help Maglor up. Maglor stifled a groan.

“Take it slow, my friend,” Denethor said as he led him away from the fire toward the hills, stopping beside a couple of elf-high boulders. He stepped away to give Maglor some modicum of privacy and then helped him back to the fire. Just in that short distance Maglor found his strength depleted and he sank gratefully onto the furs and was asleep in minutes, unaware of Denethor covering him with his own cloak.

****

He woke to broad daylight and realized it was well after dawn, the sun already above the hills. Looking about, he saw Arthalion, his left arm neatly splinted, sitting across from the fire, staring into the flames. There were others milling about and he saw Denethor conversing with Gilgaran and Saelmir. He did not see Celepharn but Haldir was there, standing a little apart, staring out to the south and Maglor realized the young ellon was acting as a guard. Arthalion looked up as Maglor attempted to sit up and smiled.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“How’s your arm?” Maglor asked by way of greeting.

“It is fine,” Arthalion replied with a scowl. “At least it was a clean break, but I’ll be useless for anything for a couple of weeks.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage and we’ll all survive your grousing,” Maglor said with a smile. “Where’s Celepharn?”

“Gone back to the settlement with the others.”

Maglor looked up to see Denethor approaching with Gilgaran. “We’re the only ones left and as soon as you think you can manage, we’ll leave. I’d like to be back home before dark.”

“Home?” Maglor couldn’t help asking.

Denethor shrugged. “For now.”

Maglor nodded, understanding what the ellon meant. “Give me a little time to pull myself together and we’ll go.”

“Gilgaran, douse the fire while I give Maglor a hand. Arthalion, can you carry some of our supplies? Good. Haldir, take point. Come along, Maglor.”

Before the hour was half over, they were on their way back home.

****

Gurth an Glamoth!: ‘Death to the Din-horde!’ Tuor’s curse and battle-cry [see Unfinished Tales, ‘Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin’].

29: Recuperation

In spite of the rest he had gotten, the trip was still a grueling one for Maglor but he insisted that he could walk. “There is no hurry now, is there?” he asked them and the others agreed. So, Arthalion, with his one hand and Denethor with two helped him to climb the north ridge of the Cleft when they finally reached it about an hour after setting off. Haldir bounded ahead to clear the path if necessary. By the time he reached the top, Maglor was panting heavily and swaying, his back stiff with frozen blood again, for the exertion had opened up some of the wounds and they still throbbed.

“We had no real way of cleaning them,” Denethor told him when he asked. “We did check for infection and found none, else I think you would be in worse shape than you are. When we get back to the settlement we’ll see to your wounds.” And with that Maglor had to be satisfied.

Denethor handed Maglor a waterskin and told him to drink as much as he cared to. “We’re not that far from the encampment and I have no need for it.”

“We need to come up with a name for the place other than ‘Estolad’,” Maglor said after taking a long swig, feeling the world right itself as his thirst was quenched. Arthalion had his own waterskin and was also drinking and while there was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead, he did not appear to be in pain and was not unduly fatigued.

“But giving it a name smacks of permanence. Besides ‘Estolad’ was a perfectly good name for the Edain’s first settlement, you may recall.”

“But we are not the Edain,” Maglor said with a grin, “so I think we should come up with something more… elvish.”

The other three Elves just raised their eyebrows at that.

“Well, Loremaster, if you think of something, please let us know,” was Denethor’s response. “In the meantime, we had best be going, if you’re ready to move on.”

Maglor nodded and they set off, skirting the edge of the ridge that looked down into the ravine that was the Cleft. They made good time and as they went Maglor filled Denethor in on what he and Arthalion had learned about the cat-creatures and their lair.

“I have no idea how large the colony is,” he said at one point. “There was no way to count. I hope we destroyed the majority of them, or at least their males.”

“But if even one female was pregnant, that colony is still a danger to us,” Denethor said. “We need to either eliminate them completely or make them fear these hills so they never come to them.”

“Eliminating them would be easier,” Arthalion said, “though the thought of killing any creature to extinction, even these, does not sit well with me.”

“Nor with me,” Denethor said in agreement, “but if we must remain here for any length of time beyond a season or three, I want that particular threat to our continued existence eliminated. If these were any other creatures, I would not have a problem with them, but there is an intelligence there and it is inimical to us. It is very much like dealing with Orcs, as far as I am concerned.”

Maglor and Arthalion both nodded. “Well, I think for now we can leave them alone,” Maglor said. “We have decimated if not completely destroyed that colony and spring will be soon enough to deal with them.”

Thus, for the time being, the matter of the cat-creatures was dropped.

Maglor concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, wishing he could just lie down and sleep until spring, or whatever passed for spring in these northern climes. Arthalion had assured him that, as deep as the gashes from the cat’s claws were, they had not exposed bone or there would have been no hope of saving him, so he had to take what comfort he could from that thought. But as he trudged along, actually leaving tracks in the snow like some clod-plodded Adan, he was not entirely happy with that thought. He wanted to lose himself in memory, but he needed to stay alert, for their trail was treacherous at points and he felt guilty letting the others do all the work of leading him.

Still, they made good time in spite of Maglor setting the pace and a couple of hours past noon, as the sun danced upon the peaks of the Ered Luin, they climbed the last stretch of hills to see the three towers gleaming before them, or rather the one whole tower and what was left of the south one; from where they stood they could not see anything of the third tower. Maglor breathed a sigh of relief and was warmed by the sight of the others rushing to greet them, all of them asking after him, wishing to assure themselves that he was still among the living. Even Arthalion came under the attention of a couple of the ellith and Maglor watched with amusement as Amarthamíriel, especially, fussed over him, insisting on checking the ellon’s splint for herself.

Maglor cast Denethor a knowing smile, which the ellon returned.

“Maglor, come into the tower and let me look at your back,” Glóredhel said as she took him by the arm. “Here, Aerin, give me a hand, will you? This ellon is barely able to stand and I doubt he can see straight.”

“I’m fine,” Maglor protested even as Aerin came and offered him her shoulder to lean on.

“You mean, you will be fine once you’re lying flat on your face,” Glóredhel countered. “Now stop arguing and let us help you. We don’t have to go far and there are furs all ready for you to lie on.”

Maglor allowed himself to be led away. He was surprised, though pleasantly so, at Glóredhel’s forthright manner. She had been shy and retiring before, but once she began helping him with Arthalion, she had become more open and assertive. She might not know one end of a sewing needle from the other, but she was by no means incompetent and he was glad to see her acting so confidently.

They had entered the passage linking the west and south towers and were heading for the west tower when he pulled to a halt. “Ah, if you would excuse me, there is something I need to do first before I join you in the tower.”

Glóredhel actually scowled at him while Aerin just looked bemused. “And what is so bloody important that it cannot wait until you’re able to stand on your feet without assistance?” Glóredhel demanded.

“Well, actually, I won’t be standing, but I will probably need assistance,” Maglor replied, looking about to see if anyone else was about. “Ragnor, a little help please.”

Ragnor, who was actually heading for the south tower with Finduilas, turned around at Maglor calling to him. He gave Finduilas a look that Maglor could not quite interpret and came back to them.

“Yes, Maglor. What seems to be the problem? Is my daughter being fresh with you again? Or is Glóredhel not being fresh enough?”

Both ellith glared at him but Maglor just chuckled. “Don’t I wish on both counts, but in truth, I need your assistance to….”

“But we’re quite capable of getting you to the tower, Maglor,” Glóredhel protested with a huff.

“The west tower, yes, and even the south, but I’m talking about the north tower,” and Maglor had the pleasure of watching both ellith suddenly redden as they realized the implication of his words.

“Oh, well… er… perhaps we’ll just… um… stay here and… ah… wait,” Glóredhel said, releasing her hold on him and not looking at anything in particular.

Ragnor, now understanding what Maglor was all about, just snorted. “You ellith go along. I’ll bring him once we’re done.”

Aerin needed no further encouragement and was already striding purposefully away. Glóredhel stood there uncertainly and Maglor couldn’t help needling her a little. “Unless you wish to join us,” he said and watched as she reddened even further and without another word turned and walked away. Maglor gave Ragnor a grin.

“Come, let me help you,” Ragnor said, “or was that just an excuse to get rid of the fair ellith?”

“No. I do need to use the privy but I am at my strength’s end. I know I cannot make it unassisted even though the distance is not very great.”

“Then lean on me and I’ll get you there. You won’t need any further help, will you?”

“No, I can manage, thank you.”

“I’ll just wait at the entrance once you’re settled.”

Several minutes later, Ragnor was helping Maglor into the west tower and brought him to where a pile of furs was laid out beside the fire. Glóredhel was there, directing them. “Lay him down here, Ragnor. Wait. Let’s get this cloak and the tunic off first… Oh mercy, Maglor, your tunic is soaked with blood. Aerin, we’re going to need more bandages… Let’s get these off him and then scrub them out with snow… We’ll boil them later... All right, lay him down… Gently now… Where’s the salve? Oh, thank you, dear….”

All the while, Maglor remained silent as they ministered to him, though he hissed in pain when they began removing his clothes. He was never so grateful as when they helped him to lie down, the furs soft and warm and in spite of himself, he drifted off into sleep to the sound of Glóredhel singing a song of healing as she rubbed the salve into his wounds.

****

His recovery proved slower than he or anyone expected. “Almost as if you were a Mortal,” Ragnor had commented as he took his turn tending to him, changing his dressing. Maglor’s retort was short and very much to the point. Ragnor just grinned. In spite of everything, one particularly deep gash did begin to fester and he became feverish again. He lost any sense of time and was plagued by nightmares.

Most of them seemed to center around the Silmaril and he appeared to be hunting for it, searching across landscapes both familiar and surreal. There was a feeling of desperation in his search and he had the sense that time was running out, yet he could never find it. Then he would come upon the cat-creatures and discover them playing with the Silmaril much as a kitten would play with a ball of yarn, chasing it about, picking it up in their jaws and running with it while the other creatures bounded after. He would shout in anger and attack the creatures, yet he had no sword or even a bow. He was reduced to hitting them with rocks and once he even found himself wrestling with one of the cats for his adar’s jewel. Yet, in the end, the Silmaril would disappear and the creatures with it and he would have to start his hunt all over again.

Once, that he remembered, he woke screaming from one such nightmare and it took three ellyn to hold him down while someone sang soothingly at him, stroking his hair. He only realized it was Glóredhel comforting him as he felt the last tremors of the nightmare dissipate and he sank into a more restful sleep. Her sweet voice followed him into sleep and for a time the nightmares were held at bay.

When he finally woke clearheaded and no longer in pain, he found himself still lying beside the fire and he had no idea if hours or days had passed. He attempted to sit up.

“Here, let me help you.”

He looked to see Arthalion there and allowed him to help him. The ellon then went to the fire and began dishing up some broth from a pot heating over it. It took Maglor a few seconds to realize that the ellon no longer had a splint on his arm.

“How long have I been out?” he rasped and he wondered at the rawness of his throat.

“Long enough, as you can see,” Arthalion said as he handed him the bowl. “How are you feeling now?”

“I am no longer feeling any pain but I do feel weak.”

“That is easily remedied,” Arthalion said with a nod toward the bowl in Maglor’s hand and he dutifully sipped the meaty broth, reveling at its warmth and the feeling of well-being it evoked in him. For the next several minutes, neither spoke as Maglor concentrated on drinking the bowl dry. Finally, he handed the now empty bowl back and sighed in contentment.

“Would you like more?” Arthalion asked.

“Perhaps later. Right now I need to use the privy.”

“Well, we can help you there,” Arthalion said with a smile and he easily helped Maglor to stand.

“Where is everyone?” Maglor asked as Arthalion helped him out of the tower. He gasped almost in pain as the brightness of the sun on snow nearly blinded him and he was forced to stop and shade his eyes until they had adjusted to the light.

“Out and about,” Arthalion replied as he waited for Maglor to move again. “Most of them removed themselves to the south tower to get away from your thrashing and screaming when you were in the throes of a nightmare.”

Maglor stared at him in bemusement. “Was I really that bad?”

“Worse, but we took turns tending to you. Here, stop and catch your breath. Are you feeling dizzy or nauseous?”

“No, just incredibly tired.”

“Well, once we get you squared away, you can rest, perhaps have some more broth. I imagine you’ll be sleeping a lot to build up your strength again.”

Maglor could only nod to that as Arthalion continued to help him to the north tower. On the way back they encountered Denethor who gave him a searching look then nodded, apparently pleased at what he saw.

“Welcome back, my friend,” he said as he walked on Maglor’s other side and gave him his support. “How are you feeling?”

“Weak, but clearheaded. Arthalion said I was screaming?”

Denethor nodded. “Yes, at least a couple of times. Whatever nightmare assailed you had to be horrific given how you were acting.”

“I barely remember, but I think it involved those cat-creatures and the Silmaril was mixed up with it somehow.”

The other two ellyn remained studiously silent and Maglor grimaced. “I promise, I have no intention of going hunting for it. Wherever Ragnor hid it, it’s safe from me. I have no desire to ever lay eyes upon it again.”

“Yet, lay eyes upon it again you must, we all must,” Denethor responded gravely. “The Silmaril is too dangerous to just leave lying about. When we finally leave here, we must take it with us.”

“Do you think the Belain would allow us to return to Dor Rodyn with it?” Arthalion asked.

Denethor shrugged. “I cannot say, but I do know it cannot remain here in Middle-earth.”

“I thought I was done with it all,” Maglor whispered, stopping in the passageway and closing his eyes, feeling despair.

“Perhaps it is not yet done with you, my friend,” he heard Denethor say softly, his voice full of compassion. “But come, let us get you back to the tower and settled. Now that you are on the mend, the rest of us can move back in.”

Maglor thought he was expected to offer a biting retort to that statement, but still feeling a sense of defeat, he simply nodded and allowed Denethor and Arthalion to lead him back to the tower in silence. Almost as soon as he was settled on the furs again, he felt himself drooping and before Arthalion could offer him some more broth, he was fast asleep.

****

That was his routine for nearly a week afterwards: waking to eat and attend to personal needs and then sleeping the rest of the time. Yet, every day he stayed awake longer and ate more solid foods. By the end of the week he was actually taking short walks around the encampment, always attended by one of the others. The days stayed clear of storms though it was getting progressively colder and in his weakened state, he welcomed the warmth of cloak and fire more than he normally would.

“I still think we should give this place a name besides ‘Estolad’,” he said to Glóredhel one day as the two were taking a walk. The last few times he had walked, Glóredhel seemed to be always available to accompany him. Not that he was complaining, for she had a soothing presence and their conversations tended to be more technical than those he had with others. It reminded him of when he would hold similar discussions with his brothers or Lord Aulë’s Maiar as they gathered about the Earthsmith’s forge in Valmar. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed that time, and now here was someone who shared the same enthusiasm for a branch of knowledge that most could not bother with.

“Well, it already has a name, or have you forgotten that Gil-galad called it Elostirion?” Glóredhel responded.

“But do you see towers?” Maglor commented, sweeping a hand to encompass the plateau on which the three towers sat. “Two of them are no longer whole and indeed the north tower doesn’t even exist save for its foundation and what stone we didn’t cart off to build the walls that now encompass part of this place. It needs a new name, one that reflects its present reality.”

“Why do you even care?” Glóredhel shot back. “It’s not as if we plan to take up permanent residence here. If anything, we would just move to Mithlond instead. Even if we have to stay here through several ennin until the ice has retreated and trees return, we would still need to move to Mithlond, for that is where we would need to build our ship. This place is just a temporary place for us. I suspect Denethor will have us moving to Mithlond in the spring.”

Maglor gave her a rueful look, recognizing the truth of her words. “I guess I just felt it deserved another name.”

“And what name would you give this sorry excuse for a town with only thirty-odd people living in it and not even in proper homes?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something along the lines of Baradobel.”

Glóredhel’s response was a roll of her eyes. “I think we’ll just stick to Estolad.”

“What about Barad Harthadrim? Minas Glóredhel? Ow!” He rubbed the spot on his arm where she had punched him and grinned mischievously at her. She glared at him but he thought he detected a glint of amusement in her eyes.

“Well, it was just a thought,” he said, pretending to sound aggrieved. Then, seeing her begin to scowl, he wisely changed the subject. “So, what do you think are the chances that Arthalion and Amarthamíriel will declare their love for one another before spring?”

“Depends on which spring you mean,” Glóredhel said, giving him a sly look and he threw back his head and laughed as he had not laughed in a very long while, giving the elleth a hug, and he was unsure which was better: the sound of his laughter or the feel of his arms around her.

****

Estolad: ‘The Encampment’, the name of the land south of Nan Elmoth where the people of Bëor and Marach first settled in Beleriand.

Elostirion: Elf-Towers, but also called the White Towers in LoTR.

Baradobel: Tower-town [barad ‘tower, fortress, fort’+ lenited form of gobel ‘enclosed dwelling, walled house or village’].

Barad Harthadrim: Tower of the Harthadrim.

Minas Glóredhel: Tower of Glóredhel [minas can mean simply ‘tower’ or ‘city with a citadel/central watchtower’, as in Minas Tirith ‘Tower of Guard/Vigilance’].

30: The Long Winter

The days shortened and the nights became longer. Now the snow fell more constantly and there were few days where the sky was blue and the sun was visible. When it was, it was a pale, cold thing that gave little warmth. For days on end there were often grey skies with lowering clouds and much snow. The Elves were grateful for the fact that they had reinforced the towers, affording them shelter. They kept one fire going in the west tower and, except when desiring privacy, they congregated there for warmth and companionship.

Most of them began working on their ‘winter projects’, as Denethor called them. Animal bone was carefully carved, either into deadly arrow points or beautiful works of art, even musical instruments. Goat and deer skins which had been tanned were made into clothes to supplement their wardrobes. Others took up more cerebral projects, making plans for the spring, deciding where best to look for evidence of a forge in Mithlond, checking the inventory on Arthalion’s cave to determine the quantity and quality of metals that could be melted down and reforged into more useful items. There was also talk of returning to the valley of trees and harvesting seeds and saplings with the intention of setting up their own nursery in some sheltered area. Denethor also consulted with Damrod, Maglor and Arthalion about mounting an expedition into the mountains to first eliminate the danger which the cat-creatures represented and then to find possible ores, for they would need far more metal than was available to them from Arthalion’s collection.

“Those crevices Arthalion and I discovered might well have been part of the mines spreading from Belegost or the remnants of Nogrod after it was completely destroyed and the land changed,” Maglor stated and the others nodded.

However, such discussions did not take up much time and other interests were pursued. Maglor pulled out the pieces of wood he had harvested from the valley of trees and began making a new harp, carefully carving the posts. He wished he had paints to brighten the carvings but had to be content without them. The harp took shape slowly, for he was in no hurry. Gilgaran was not shy about telling everyone how Maglor had sung the Noldolantë while slaying the cats.

“I have never heard it sung so beautifully or in so dark a manner,” the ellon said. “It is why we were late in going to their aid. We were too stunned by Maglor’s singing to move immediately.”

Naturally, everyone wanted to hear him sing, but he refused, saying that he was not ready for an audience and that his singing when he did was more a need to signal to the others of their presence than anything else. Many were disappointed, but when they realized he was constructing a harp, they took hope that perhaps by spring they would have the pleasure of listening to the great Maglor sing for real.

And so the days and nights passed. Whenever the sky cleared and the stars shone, they would gather outside and sing praises to Elbereth and walk under moonlight. On those nights, as people walked together or separately, it escaped no one’s notice that, more often than not, certain people could be found keeping company with each other: Duilinn with Gwilwileth, Aerin with Saelmir, Arthalion with Amarthamíriel. Even Maglor found that he was more likely to pair with Glóredhel than with Denethor or to tag along with Ragnor and Finduilas.

Not that he thought there was anything romantic between them, certainly not on his part. He wasn’t sure about Glóredhel, yet for the most part they spoke little that could be labeled ‘romantic’. When they spoke at all during their walks, their conversations usually centered around some aspect of metallurgy or some other lore with which they were acquainted. Otherwise, they were more likely to simply walk in companionable silence, occasionally joining with others who would start an impromptu dance under starlight.

And they did not dance only with each other but took other partners whenever a dance required one. Indeed, when one of the ellyn complained to no one in particular that there were not enough ellith to go around, Maglor caused much laughter and merriment when he calmly took the complaining ellon as his partner, the ellith gleefully commenting on the nonplused ellon’s dancing abilities as he stumbled through the steps, reminding him to ‘dance backwards’, as Aerin called it. However, most of their dances perforce were circle dances where partners were not a necessity.

The solstice came and went and now the days began to lengthen, grudgingly so, but now Anor’s course was northward and in a few months would be the equinox and the coming of spring. Spirits rose and hearts were lighter with the hope of summer, however short the season.

Yet, for Maglor, the long nights were beset by a different darkness as dreams — nightmares really — of the Silmaril began to plague him some weeks after he had recovered from his injuries. More than once he dreamt of hunting for it and finding it being played with by the cats and in one such dream, one of the creatures actually swallowed the jewel. In other dreams, his adar came to him, demanding that he fulfill his Oath, or one of his brothers would appear begging him to reclaim their heritage on their behalf. Oddly enough, the worst dreams centered around Maedhros and he dreaded those more than any of the others.

He kept the dreams to himself, not wishing to burden his friends with his troubles, yet, whenever such dreams plagued him, he would fall into a dark mood and become unresponsive. The others learned quickly to leave him be to work things out for himself, most of them putting his dark mood down to the enforced inactivity which the winter brought to them all, and he let them believe that. Only a few, he suspected, knew the truth. Denethor certainly did and he had no doubt Arthalion and Glóredhel did as well, but they were wise enough not to force him to speak of it.

At one point he simply refused to sleep at all, spending the long hours of the night keeping sentry at the top of the west tower, more often than not taking all the watches, allowing himself to be relieved only at dawn. Then he would take a little sustenance and leave the tower to spend the day roaming the hills when the weather allowed, otherwise, he would huddle in the tower with the others and work on his harp. Yet, he could not go without sleep forever and while waking dreams could refresh him, he still needed to sleep occasionally, but only in daylight, hoping the dreams would not come to him then.

It was a futile hope.

“Maglor! Maglor!”

He felt someone shaking him.

“Where is he going?”

“I don’t know. Maglor. Wake up.”

It took him several seconds to realize that Arthalion was calling him. He blinked and blinked again. Hands were upon him and he tried to brush them off, but they were insistent and they would not let him go.

“Maglor, for the love of the Belain, wake up!”

His vision focused and he saw that he was no longer in the tower but was halfway down the escarpment that would lead to the eastern plains and the Shire beyond. He looked about and saw Arthalion on his right and Denethor on his left, both ellyn holding him.

“Wh-what?”

“Where were you off to, Maglor?” Denethor asked.

“Where?” He shook his head, trying to clear it of the cobwebs. “How did I get here?” he finally asked.

“You walked,” Arthalion replied with a grim smile. “You were sound asleep and then all of a sudden you seemed to wake and without a word you stormed out of the tower. I didn’t realize what you were about at first. I thought you might be heading for the privy, but when you did not return after a reasonable time I went hunting for you. It was quickly made evident that you were nowhere in the encampment and that’s when we came looking for you. We’ve got search parties in all directions.”

“I had better see about calling them back in,” Denethor said, clapping Maglor on the shoulder. “Will you be all right?”

Arthalion nodded. “We’ll be along soon enough.” Denethor nodded and headed back up. Maglor just sat there, trying to understand what had happened.

“I was asleep,” he finally said.

Arthalion nodded. “Apparently you were sleepwalking, something I thought only Mortals did.” He gave him a brief scrutiny. “Are you sure you’re an Elf?”

Maglor ignored the jibe, staring into the distance, trying to put the pieces together. “I was dreaming.”

“And that dream sent you off. Where were you going, do you know?”

“The Silmaril… I was hunting for it.”

“Ah…”

Maglor glanced at his friend. “Is that all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say, Maglor? Do you want me to tell you that you were heading in the right direction, that Ragnor hid it somewhere around here? I won’t do that. Whether you are near or far, you will have to determine that on your own. Now, will you return to the camp or will you stay here and freeze?” He stood up and waited for an answer.

Maglor sighed, his gaze on the horizon. “That damn jewel plagues my every waking moment and invades my dreams. I cannot seem to escape it.”

“Your own fault, taking that Oath as you did,” Arthalion said softly. “You need to deal with it before you destroy yourself… or us. The more I think on it, the more I am convinced that Arthad finding it was no coincidence. Somehow, the Powers knew you would come here, knew you would find me. I think they know what you are only just suspecting: you threw the Silmaril away, but you did not necessarily reject the Oath at the same time. I do not think you will be allowed to return to Dor Rodyn until you’ve resolved this issue to your and their satisfaction.”

Maglor looked up at Arthalion. “How? I don’t even know where it is hid and I am not about to torture anyone to find out.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Arthalion retorted gruffly. Then he relented a little, sighing as he crouched down, laying a hand on Maglor’s shoulder. “I have no real answers for you, my friend, except to say you have thirty other people who are willing to help you if you would let them. You do not have to do this on your own. Too long, even longer than I, you have been alone, but that time is over. Don’t shut us out, Maglor. Don’t deny us the privilege of helping you. That is what friends are for, after all.” He stood again and held out a hand, saying nothing. Maglor hesitated for a moment and then reached out and allowed the ellon to pull him up. “Let’s get back,” was all Arthalion said and Maglor nodded.

When they returned to the towers, everyone gathered around them, but no one demanded an explanation, yet Maglor could see the genuine concern in their expressions. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset anyone,” he said quietly, speaking directly to Denethor. “I apparently was caught up in a dream or nightmare and….”

“Well, at least you didn’t start screaming,” Damrod said with a grin. “I really hate it when people are screaming. Does nothing for my digestion.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow, staring at the ellon in disbelief. Others were less inhibited in their response. Ragnor actually swatted him upside his head; Denethor simply rolled his eyes. One or two even sniggered into their hands.

“Yes, well, screaming aside, I’m just glad we were able to find you, Maglor,” Denethor said, shooting a quelling look at Damrod.

“As am I,” Maglor said humbly and sincerely.

“You seem to be troubled lately, more so than usual,” Ragnor said, giving Maglor a scowl. “Do you know why? Perhaps your injuries….”

“I am sure that is part of it,” Maglor said, “for I was beset by nightmares while feverish and they seem to have followed me. Most of the dreams appear to center around those cat-creatures.”

There were understanding nods all around. Maglor hoped that they would be satisfied with that explanation, though he noticed Glóredhel did not look convinced, nor did Denethor.

“But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” Arthalion asked, giving him a significant look.

Maglor was tempted to deny it, but realized that if he did not tell them Arthalion would, not out of maliciousness, but out of a genuine concern for him and for the others. The Silmaril was dangerous to all of them and if he wished to rid himself of it, he knew he would need help.

“Yes,” he finally said, not looking at anyone. “Mixed in with the cats is… is the Silmaril.”

There were gasps from several throats and expressions of concern mutated to ones of wariness.

“That’s where we found him, looking for it,” Arthalion explained. “In his dreams he is hunting for the Silmaril and this time he went hunting for real.”

“Do you know where it is?” Ragnor asked.

“No, nor do I wish to, yet it calls to me, waking or dreaming. Ever since I was injured, I’ve heard it calling to me.”

“You did not hear it calling to you prior to that?” Denethor asked.

Maglor shook his head. “No, not that I recall. I think when I was injured my defenses were down and it was able to insinuate itself into my fever dreams and now I cannot shut it out.”

“What do you mean to do, then?” Denethor demanded.

“There is little I can do, is there?” Maglor shot back. “You will not tell me where it is hid and I will not force that information from anyone. I think I need to get away from here. Distance might help mute its call.”

“So where would you go?” Arthalion asked.

“Mithlond is the most logical place,” Maglor answered. “Or your cave might be even better. If I leave now I can be there tomorrow.”

“And how do we know you would stay there?” Denethor enquired. “How do we know that once out of our sight, you will not return by another way and look for the jewel?”

“And what if I did? Why do you care? Why do any of you care?” Maglor demanded, becoming angry all of a sudden. The Silmaril was his by right. How dare they keep it from him, deny him that most precious of jewels. He should just kill them all and be done with it. Make them pay, make them all pay for what—

The slap was hard and the shock of it brought his thoughts skittering to a halt. He stared in disbelief at Denethor standing before him and then realized someone was holding his right hand in a death grip. He stared at Ragnor and then at his own hand that was clenching his knife and at the sight of it, he released his hold on it, letting it drop. Ragnor, however, did not release his own hold. The silence surrounding them was complete.

“We cannot let you go, Maglor,” Denethor said softly, almost regretfully. “More important, we will not let you go. Whether you like it or not, you are one of us and your troubles are ours. We will help you if you let us but we will respect your right to refuse our help. In the meantime, until we feel we can trust you I will ask that you give over your weapons. You will remain within the towers and will not go beyond the walls unless accompanied by two others.”

“Then I am a prisoner,” Maglor stated in a flat tone.

“No, not a prisoner, just not free to wander unattended. It’s as much for your own sake as for ours,” Denethor replied. “We do want to help you, but only if you let us. In the meantime, we will guard your sleep as best we may so that the dreams do not trouble you. I think we were wrong to simply hide the Silmaril away, and come spring you will have to decide what you wish to do about it. For now, try to accept that we care enough about you to want to see you safe, and if that means keeping a guard on you, then so be it.”

“I’m sorry,” was all Maglor could think to say, a sense of defeat washing over him.

“I know you are,” Denethor said gently, then nodded at Ragnor who released his grip on Maglor’s wrist and stooped down to retrieve the knife, sticking it in his belt. As Maglor did not have his sword with him they went back into the tower where Ragnor claimed it along with Maglor’s bow and arrows. Maglor just stood there, not sure what to do or say and finally decided not to do or say anything, but huddled on his furs refusing to look at anyone.

For the most part, the others ignored him, though he could not help overhearing snatches of conversation as people wandered in and out of the tower. Most of what he heard was about him, but there did not seem to be anything acrimonious in what was said, merely comments about his behavior. That was nigh on embarrassing, realizing that they spoke of him much as one would speak about other people’s children and for the same reason.

Arthalion and Glóredhel hovered over him for a while, one trying to get him to eat something, the other trying to get him to talk. Both failed in their endeavors, and they finally left him to himself, for which he was grateful. Yet, left alone was not the same as left unattended. When need drove him to leave the tower for the privy, he immediately picked up an escort: Saelmir and Duilinn. Both ellyn looked uncomfortable in their roles as guardsmen, but neither backed away when Maglor stopped and confronted them.

“I am only going to the privy. Surely, prisoner though I be, I am allowed some privacy to attend to personal needs.”

“Denethor said you were not a prisoner,” Duilinn countered.

“He could have fooled me,” Maglor snarled, then shrugged and continued on. He was grateful though when the two ellyn stopped at the entrance.

“We’ll just wait here,” Saelmir said and Maglor nodded as he went inside.

And so his ‘prisoner days’, as he referred to them later, began. As long as he stayed within the enclosure he was ignored unless he himself initiated a conversation. Maglor realized that they were not being cruel, treating him as an outcast, but respecting his privacy. If he wished companionship, he had to make the first overture, for they would not intrude.

At first, Maglor was fine with that. But as the days and weeks went by, his initial chagrin slowly turned to anger, anger at himself, anger at his adar, anger at the Belain, yet never anger toward his fellow Elves. He spent the hours sitting on his furs, not even working on his harp, which was half finished. He would just sit there, staring at the ever-present fire. Denethor came to him later that first day of his confinement and spoke briefly with him.

“If you decide to sleep, let one of us know so we can be on watch,” the ellon said. Maglor nodded but otherwise did not speak nor did he look at Denethor. After another moment of awkward silence between them, Denethor sighed and left.

Maglor was determined to hold off sleep as long as possible, but he could not hold it off forever, and after two days he let them know that he needed to sleep. Immediately, Glóredhel, Arthalion and Damrod were there and sat beside him as he stretched out, the three softly singing. As he slipped onto the Path of Dreams, he hoped that he would not suffer any nightmares. That hope seemed founded, for he woke several hours later feeling refreshed, more than he had in a long while and he came to look forward to sleeping, especially when Glóredhel was there to sing to him.

Yet, it was only a reprieve and within a few weeks the dreams began returning. The storm that was presently raging in the outside world seemed to follow him into sleep and the howling of the wind became the snarling of the cats. He woke with a start, gasping for breath as if he had run miles and leagues, and he was drenched with sweat.

“Easy now,” Denethor said, for he was taking his turn watching over Maglor’s sleep. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

“The dreams are back,” Maglor panted. Denethor reached over and snagged a nearby waterskin and handed it to Maglor who took it gratefully, practically drowning himself with the water, as if trying to wash away any remnant of the dream.

“The same dream?” Denethor asked softly.

Maglor looked about and realized that the two were alone and gave Denethor a questioning look.

“As soon as you started thrashing about, I sent everyone else away to the other tower,” Denethor answered his unspoken question. “I felt you should have some privacy. The Belain know we’ve given you little enough of it these last few weeks.”

Maglor shrugged, for what could he say to that? Instead, he took another swig of water, not so much because he was thirsty but as a way of stalling. If Denethor felt any impatience, he did not show it. Finally, Maglor put the waterskin down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said in a whisper.

“Do what?”

“This,” Maglor replied. “Waiting for the dreams to come, dreading what I will do when in the throes of nightmare. You have taken away my weapons, but that does not mean I cannot hurt others. I do not need weapons for that.”

“Yet, what alternative do we have? I will not let you go off on your own. I cannot risk it or you. Maglor, whether you believe me or not, I do not do this out of hatred or to punish you. I do this to protect you and everyone else. That jewel is too dangerous for any of us, but you especially because of who you are. In another couple of months we will be entering spring and we will begin the various projects we’ve been discussing. That will be the time to deal with the Silmaril and deal with it we must. In the meantime, we will help you if you will allow it. We cannot lift this burden from you, only you can do that, but we can offer you our love and support so that you know that you are not alone in this.”

Silence fell between them as Maglor contemplated Denethor’s words and sincerity.

“When was the last time you went through your forgiveness list?” Denethor suddenly asked.

Maglor gave him a shocked look. “How—?”

“I overheard you one time,” Denethor answered. “You were standing watch and I had come to relieve you. You were standing there asking someone only you could see for their forgiveness. You paused, as if for an answer, which you must have received, for you spoke another name and asked that person for forgiveness. I realized what you must be doing so I did not interrupt, but waited. I think you spoke to a couple of more people before you stopped and looked up at the stars. I could tell you were gauging the time and wondering where your relief was and that was when I let myself be known to you, pretending that I had been delayed for personal reasons.”

“And you never said anything,” Maglor commented.

“I respect you too much to importune you in that manner. Now I think I understand why you wished to leave our camps at night when you first joined us.”

“It is a private thing and I did not wish to have to explain,” Maglor replied. He briefly told him about his conversation with the mortal Wisewoman and what his litany was all about.

“Well, you haven’t answered my question,” Denethor said once Maglor finished his explanation.

“Hmm? Oh, well, I suppose not since before I was injured.”

“As I suspected.”

“And what does that have to do with anything?”

“Perhaps nothing, but consider this: in your list, have you put your own name on it?”

Maglor stared at him, not understanding. “Why would I?”

“Why would you not?” Denethor countered. “Maglor, I do not consider myself to be among the Wise, certainly not by your standards, much less Master Elrond’s, but I do know that forgiving oneself is far harder than forgiving others. And only as we forgive ourselves can we truly forgive others, just as we cannot truly love others until we first love ourselves. I do not think you do either. I think there is much self-hatred and unforgiveness on your part, though you may deny it, bury it deep within you.”

“So you’re saying that my ritual has been for nothing, that I will have to start all over again but only after I’ve forgiven myself? Forgiven myself for what? For living when all others of my family have died?”

“That would be a start, but I think it is something more basic than that,” Denethor replied. “I think you need to forgive yourself for being you, for being Maglor Fëanorion, and not someone else. As for the rest, if you have been as sincere as you can be in asking these people for forgiveness, then that counts for something and I would not concern myself with them.” Denethor stood up. “If you are all right, I will let the others know they can return.”

Maglor nodded, his thoughts elsewhere. Denethor headed for the doorway. “You’re wrong about one thing, Denethor,” Maglor called to him. Denethor stopped and gave him an enquiring look. “You are very wise, wiser than I, if not wiser than my foster son.”

Denethor smiled. “I doubt anyone is wiser than Elrond, Maglor, except the Belain, and maybe not even they.” With that, he pulled aside the deerskin curtain hanging in the doorway to step out, letting the curtain fall, leaving Maglor alone for the first time in several weeks.

31: Of Harps and Other Matters

After that, things got a little easier for Maglor. He still was forced to endure being guarded, but he was now more willing to interact with those around him, helping with the daily chores of living, or rather, surviving in this white wilderness. He often found himself wondering if those who had survived the crossing of the Helcaraxë would think it poetic justice that he, at least, suffered a taste of the hell they had experienced in reaching Ennorath. Would Finrod, for instance, scorn him and his experiences? Others might, but he doubted his young cousin would. Finrod… Well, he would have to wait and see.

In the meantime, he spent hours seriously contemplating Denethor’s words, analyzing his own feelings about himself. Was he as full of self-hatred and loathing as Denethor intimated?  He was unsure. And how does one go about forgiving oneself for simply being? It wasn’t as if he had chosen to be born, to be the second-born son of the great Fëanor, rather than the son of someone else, anyone else. How could he forgive himself for that?

Yet, he suspected that that was the core of it. He had to forgive himself for simply being Maglor, forgive himself for all the wrongs he had committed and even for all the right choices he had made, if he had made any. He was unsure about that last. He could only think of a handful of times when he knew he had made the right choice: succoring Elwing’s two sons and adopting them, then giving them up when it was time, joining with Denethor and his motley crew. It was a woefully short list compared to all the wrongs he had committed against himself and others.

And at the very heart of it were the damnable Oath and the Silmaril.

Yet, for all his ruminations, he found no easy answers, only more questions, and he sometimes despaired of ever finding the truth in all of it. His sleep was still plagued by nightmares, but they were muted now, for Denethor insisted that they continue guarding his sleep and while he dreaded having to do so, he appreciated the effort of the others to help ease his sleep as much as possible and said as much to Glóredhel when she happened to be on guard duty, for they all took a turn at it.

“You’re welcome,” the elleth said. “Now, would you like me to sing to you?”

“Yes, please,” Maglor said as he settled himself into his furs. “Something about spring, perhaps. I weary of all this white and yearn for some green.”

“We all do,” Glóredhel said. She paused for a moment and then began singing a simple song often sung to elflings about flowers blooming and trees dressing up for summer and the forest animals dancing with delight for the return of spring. He had sung it himself to Elrond and Elros when they first came to him. The memory of that made him smile as he slipped onto the Path of Dreams and for the first time in a long time his dreams centered around his two foster sons when they were young and he would sing to them.

****

“You haven’t worked on your harp lately,” Arthalion commented one day when the two were helping to repair and replace some of the animal skins that were being used as a roof over the enclosure. The weight of snow and ice had brought some of them down, leaving gaps in their cover. The Elves had to first dig the snow out before they could rescue the skins and Maglor welcomed the physical activity.

“I’ve not felt like it,” Maglor grunted as he scooped some snow into a cooking pot and then walked over to the south entrance and dumped the contents outside the enclosure. It was slow, laborious work, for they had no shovels, save for two small ones used primarily for digging privies. Everyone else on snow removal duty was using cooking pots, although Duilinn and Gwilwileth were rolling the snow around into a ball and collecting it that way, giggling like elflings with their endeavors.

“Don’t make it too large or you won’t be able to get it through the doorway,” Ragnor told them, shaking his head in amusement as son and possibly future daughter-in-law continued rolling the snowball. Maglor glanced up and smiled at their antics.

“You should get back to it,” Arthalion said.

“Back to what?” Maglor asked, having forgotten what Arthalion was talking about.

“Your harp. You should continue working on it.”

“Why? And why do you care?” That last came out more brusquely than he had intended and Arthalion stopped to stare at him in surprise. “Sorry,” he apologized and Arthalion nodded in understanding.

“I just think you should,” the ellon said. “I think that harp is important to you.”

“In what way? It’s just a harp, one of many that I’ve had over the long years.”

“Yet, I sense that this harp is different. I do not know in what way, but I think it matters that you finish it, and sooner rather than later.”

“These last few weeks….” Maglor shrugged, unsure how to express what he was feeling.

“Yes, I know. Here, I’ll take that.” Arthalion reached over and grabbed the pot Maglor had been filling and went to dump it. When he came back, he crouched down next to Maglor, handing him back the pot and idly scooping up some of the snow, packing it into a ball rather than throwing it into the pot.

“What are you doing?” Maglor asked.

“Hmm? Oh, I just thought Duilinn and Gwilwileth’s idea has some merit. If we roll this into a large ball we can get rid of more snow faster.”

“Well, go ahead. I think I’ll just continue filling the pot. I do not mind the work. It keeps me from thinking too much.”

“Well, I still think you should work on your harp when we’re all gathered together tonight. Everyone else is working on something and you just sit there staring at the fire.”

“And that upsets you.”

Arthalion shrugged as he began rolling the ball in the snow, making it larger. “I think it upsets everyone. You sit and you stare and you do little else. You barely speak to anyone. You don’t interact with us at all. You’re there but you’re not.”

“I’m a prisoner, after all, Arthalion,” Maglor said mildly, giving the ellon a brittle smile. “Oh, I know. There are no bars on my prison and no chains, but I’m a prisoner nonetheless no matter what anyone else says to the contrary. My comings and goings are monitored and the only time I’m left alone is when I go to use the privy. Why would I, a prisoner, bother conversing with my gaolers?”

Arthalion glared at him. “Was I a prisoner?”

Maglor reared back in surprise, not sure what the ellon was talking about. “When? Where?”

“Here, with you. Was I a prisoner?”

“Of course not! Why would you think so?”

“When I first joined you, my every move was watched. I was never left alone. There was always someone there.”

“We were only looking after you,” Maglor tried to explain but Arthalion cut him off with a brusque gesture.

“Yes, of course. I know that. I even appreciate why you did it, but the point I’m making is that even though I was guarded every minute, I was not a prisoner, and neither are you. You guarded me out of a genuine concern for my well-being. I was mind-damaged, after all and who knows what the mind-damaged will do?”

“I’m not mind-damaged and I doubt you are anymore,” Maglor protested.

“Mind-damaged, no. Soul-damaged, yes. And who is to say which is the more dangerous state for all concerned? Maglor, we all care for you. We all love you and only want your happiness, but you cannot be happy while you are chained to that Silmaril. If you are in prison, it is not we who have the key to your cell. It’s the Silmaril and until you can deal with it, you will always be in prison, though you walk freely under the skies of Ennorath.”

“And you think working on my harp will help?” Maglor asked.

Arthalion shrugged. “It’s a start. That harp is important to you, though you deny it. I have sensed it in the way you carve each piece. This is not just another musical instrument for you. What it is, I cannot say, only you can, but I think not working on the harp is wrong.”

For a moment Maglor crouched in the snow, gazing at nothing in particular as he mulled over Arthalion’s words. He came back to himself when he found a snowball in his face.

“Hey! I thought you were going to roll it, not throw it,” he protested, wiping the snow out of his eyes.

Arthalion just grinned at him and began scooping up more snow. Maglor threw aside the cooking pot and began scooping up his own. It was hard to tell who managed to throw their snowball first and soon others were joining in. It was some time before they remembered the roof needed repairing.

****

Later that evening, Maglor sat on his furs, sunk in thought, going over his conversation with Arthalion and what it might mean. He was still reluctant to continue working on his harp and he could not find the strength within him to pull the pieces of wood out and begin working. So he sat, half-listening to the low conversations of the others as people gathered about the fire to eat some stew.

“Venison yesterday, venison today, and no doubt venison tomorrow,” he heard Ragnor grumble as he settled down with a bowl.

“Unless it’s goat, instead,” Damrod said, sounding rather philosophical about it.

“Is there a difference?” Ragnor retorted.

“Shut up and eat, Ragnor,” Finduilas ordered, giving her husband a glare.

“Yes, dear,” the ellon said with a sigh.

Maglor smiled at the interchange and others chuckled.

“Goat good,” Arthalion whispered where he was sitting next to Maglor and then gave him a wink when Maglor looked at him. Maglor was hard put not to laugh out loud and occupied himself with eating.

Denethor took a few moments to discuss ‘affairs of state’, as Eirien put it, meaning he spoke of any concerns that needed to be addressed, such as organizing the next hunt, which they would need to do in a day or two. Maglor would have liked to have volunteered for that, but knew that Denethor would not allow it, so he contented himself with volunteering to check the walls for any structural damage caused by the weather while the roof was still being repaired. Denethor agreed and once everyone had been given an assignment — who would cook, who would take which watches, who would guard Maglor’s sleep if he chose to sleep that night and so on — the rest of the evening was devoted to singing, telling tales, and working on projects.

Maglor sat and stared at the fire, ignoring the others as they bustled about. He noted Saelmir climbing the stairs to take the first watch. He himself would take the dawn watch and did not think he would sleep this night. Perhaps tomorrow night or the night after. Denethor had convinced him that it would be better for all concerned if he did not try to sleep during the day, for there was too much that needed to be done to keep them all alive in this brutal environment and everyone’s help was needed.

Someone began singing. It was a lament, ancient and well-known to all. Maglor, only half-listening, continued staring into the fire, letting himself drift with the song, remembering that particular event, seeing it again in his mind’s eye. His brother Maedhros had been at the heart of it, as usual, and he himself had had little to do with it, but it had affected them all for good or ill. He had not bothered making a song of it; someone else had done that — Finrod, he thought, or possibly Fingon. After all this time, it was hard to remember who had composed which lament, there had been so many over the long years.

The singer stopped suddenly and a silence fell upon them all. Maglor did not notice at first, too lost in the music, but when he felt a hand on his arm, he blinked and realized that everyone was staring at him.

“What?” he whispered, fearing the answer.

“Maglor, what were you doing?” Arthalion  asked.

“Doing? I was listening….”

“No, Maglor, you were playing. Look at your hands.”

Maglor glanced down where he saw Arthalion’s hand on his arm. His own hands were crooked in a well-known position, the left slightly above the right as if—

“I was playing a harp, I mean pretending to….” He reddened in embarrassment as he realized what he’d been doing, following the music in his mind, accompanying the song with an imaginary harp. Why, he hadn’t done that since he was a newly minted bard, mentally practicing the notes for various songs his music master had assigned him. He glanced up at the faces of the others. Most looked sympathetic, a few looked amused. Arthalion squeezed his arm to get his attention.

“I really think you need to finish your harp,” the ellon said and then released his hold on him, returning to his own project, making a leather vest for himself, for he had been reduced to wearing borrowed clothing from those who could spare them and he wished for his own wardrobe.

After a few moments, the singing resumed. Maglor just sat there, staring into the fire, consciously keeping his hands clasped, determined not to air-play the harp again that night.

****

As it was, it was another three days before Maglor felt ready to take up working on the harp. In the interim, he continued to do whatever chore needed doing, finding the physical labor a welcome relief from his more cerebral activities. Yet, he caught himself one time as he stood watch air-playing the harp again when a particular piece of music lodged itself in his mind and, try as he would, he could not stop it. Why the harp was so important to him, he did not know, yet Arthalion, at least, was convinced that it was. When on the third evening he pulled the pieces of wood out of their storage place beside his furs, no one commented, but he saw Arthalion nodding and there was a knowing smile on the ellon’s lips, though he did not look at Maglor directly, still intent on his sewing.

Maglor, for his part, found something soothing in the motion of carving the various pieces, mentally imagining how he wished the harp to look.

“How long will winter last?” Sador asked as they all sat in companionable silence working on their projects. No one felt like singing that night for some reason. “By my reckoning, we’re well into Nínui and the season of Echuir is upon us.”

“I think it extends beyond the New Year, perhaps as late as the beginning of Lothron,” Arthalion answered, “though in truth I’ve long forgotten when any particular day or season arrives. I just knew that the warm season was very short and I would spend the long hours of daylight hunting and preparing for the next winter.”

“And we will have to do the same,” Denethor said. “We were fortunate that, as late in the year as it was when we came here, the weather held fair long enough for us to prepare for the winter as well as we have.”

“Do you see us removing to Mithlond in the summer and abandoning this place except perhaps as a watch post?” Neldorion asked.

“What does everyone think?” Denethor said in answer, gazing around at the group as they huddled around the fire. “Should we move on to Mithlond and make that our base of operation?”

“East Mithlond is less damaged than the other side,” Maglor said. “If we were to move there, we could each find our own place and that will give people more privacy. Also, we need a forge and a kiln and other things and there’s no point setting any of them up here. We’re better off in Mithlond, but I think using this as a watch post would not be a bad idea. We still need to keep an eye on those cat-creatures unless we mount an expedition to destroy them.”

“We’re going to have to do that anyway if we want access to the mines that are in the mountains,” Ragnor pointed out. “I agree with Maglor that moving to Mithlond would be best. We did see a few buildings that, with a bit of work, could be made snug and winter-proof.”

“What about our plans to harvest seeds from the trees in Tûm Ivon?” Finduilas asked. “There is no protected place in Mithlond for a nursery.”

“We might be able to find some deep valley in the mountains to the north,” Rían suggested. “Arthalion, do you know of such? Did you and Arthad ever explore the mountains themselves?”

Arthalion shook his head. “No. Except for the caves, we did not go into the mountains, so I cannot tell you if there are any suitable valleys for setting up the tree nursery. It certainly is something we should consider doing once we can. That cave system extends well into the mountain range. Arthad and I didn’t explore far, just enough of it to determine what could be useful for us in terms of shelter and having a supply of water.”

“It might be worth taking a look,” Damrod said to Denethor. “If we can find ore lodes to the north, we can ignore the southern mountains and those cats. We can also hunt in the north.”

“I agree,” Denethor said, “but I hesitate to abandon this place completely.”

“Doing so would not be wise,” Maglor said. “I am concerned about those cats. They have a level of intelligence that is most troubling and there is nothing that says they won’t follow us into Mithlond. We do not know how wide their hunting range is, after all.”

“Yet, we’ve decimated them to the point they should not be a threat to us, haven’t we?” Eirien asked.

“Decimated is not the same as eliminated and I would like to not have to worry about them at all,” Denethor replied. “I think our first order of business is to deal with those creatures once and for all before we do anything else. Once that threat is removed, we can concentrate on doing what we need to in order to survive over the years until we have the wherewithal to Sail.”

“So, you think we’ll be here for some time,” Voronwë said.

“It does stand to reason, does it not?” Denethor answered. “I do not see the Belain providing us with transportation. That’s up to us.”

“We should have just stayed in the South then,” Duilinn groused. “At least there we could have bought a ship.”

“True, but you’re forgetting one thing, two actually,” Denethor said, casting a meaningful look at Maglor and Arthalion. Maglor felt himself go pale at the implication of Denethor’s words and he noticed Arthalion looking equally nonplused. “And there is also this,” Denethor continued, casting his gaze around. “We could indeed have taken ship in the South. Certainly any of us could have traveled to the coast if we so desired, but none of us did, none of us even contemplated doing so. While the Seas are frozen here in the North, that wasn’t the case in the South; they were ice-free and we could have Sailed.”

“But we didn’t,” Damrod said.

“No, we did not,” Denethor echoed, nodding in agreement. “It took a dream and a commission from the Belain themselves for us to leave our lethargy behind and regain hope enough to believe that we could eventually reach Dor Rodyn. The Belain could certainly have instructed me to go to the coast and buy a ship if that’s all they wanted from us, but we know that is not so. Maglor and Arthalion are living proof of that. No. We were always meant to come here and we are meant to find our own way. The days when the Belain would provide us with a convenient island by which to transport us across the Sea are long over, my friends. It’s up to us and I believe if we remain true to each other, if we keep estel in our hearts, we will find a way. That it may take a few ennin to accomplish, what of it? It’s not as if we’re expected for tea on a particular day, after all.”

There were chuckles at that.

“I hope they serve us more than just tea when we finally get there, though,” Ragnor said and everyone laughed and the rest of the evening was spent in discussing what kinds of food and drink they hoped the Belain would feast them with once they did reach the Blessed Realm.

And all the while, Maglor sat in silence and continued to work on his harp.

****

Nînui: February/March in the Gregorian calendar; also called Nénimë.

Echuir: Stirring, which begins around 9 February in the Gregorian calendar; also called Coirë.

Lothron: May/June in the Gregorian calendar; also called Lótessë.

Note: The Elvish New Year fell on 6 April in the Gregorian calendar. See Appendix D for a discussion of the calendar system used in Middle-earth.

32: Moving On to Mithlond

Days and weeks passed. Winter still held sway and a blizzard came out of the north sometime in the month known as Gwaeron and forced them to remain inside for several days. All the entrances into the enclosure were blocked and it took most of the daylight hours to clear them once the storm moved on.

Maglor’s own situation did not change over much, for he was still guarded, but his own attitude changed slightly and he was less likely to withdraw into himself. He continued to work on the harp, though not all the time, so it was slow to take shape, but considering how much more winter they needed to endure, he could not see the point of finishing it too soon. Still, as Gwaeron made way for Gwirith, he finished carving the last piece and began gluing the separate pieces together, using the bones and skins of the deer and goats to create the adhesive. He would have preferred using the air bladders from fish to create the glue, but there weren’t enough of them to bother with, though he threw fish heads and the like into the mixture, not wishing to waste anything. Others also desired to have glue for their own particular use, so they made as much of it as they could with what they had, the smell of it sending everyone but those making it out to breathe fresh air.

“How soon will you play on it?” Glóredhel asked him as he carefully assembled the various parts.

“With this cold weather, it will probably take longer for the glue to set and I need to string it as well. I suspect it will be another week before I feel it is ready for playing.”

“We all look forward to that day,” she said.

Maglor cast her a knowing grin. “You mean you all look forward to hearing me sing, not just play.”

“Why are you so reluctant to sing? Except those simple lullabies you sang to Arthalion to soothe him, you have not really lifted your voice in song. Do you not yearn to sing? You are a bard, perhaps one of the best, yet you seem determined to deny your gift.”

Maglor paused in his work and stared pensively down at the harp taking shape. “I’ve tried, truly, but for some reason my throat tightens and I find I cannot sing. It was only out of desperation when Arthalion and I were beset by the cats that I sang to alert Gilgaran and the others of our presence and need for assistance.”

“When was the last time you sang for real before you joined us?” Glóredhel asked.

“Oh, I think well before I decided to come north to die,” Maglor admitted, giving her a faint smile. “When I accidently broke my harp while fighting off a bear, I mourned as if for a friend, but I realized soon enough how foolish such sentiments were. It’s not as if it was the one and only harp I’ve ever had. I’ve had to make too many over the long years to count.” He shrugged. “I guess its breaking symbolized for me how my own life was breaking apart. If I had died in truth, I would have had to leave the harp behind in any case. Perhaps, when this harp is ready to be played, I will find I can indeed sing again, for this is a harp created in hope and not in despair.”

Glóredhel nodded in understanding and she did not raise the subject again.

There was no way to judge what the true date was, but a day came when the air felt milder and the sun warmer. The snow on the ground was thinning and when they checked the cistern they found that it was no longer frozen. Denethor decided to declare a holiday.

“Let us celebrate the fact that we have survived our first winter in these regions and, while we will have to suffer many more before we can hope to leave for Dor Rodyn, we can take pride in the fact that we have not succumbed to despair.”

So, they put aside their usual daily tasks, save for cooking, and spent the day amusing themselves with dancing,  playing games and having races. Maglor was as enthusiastic as the rest and joined in with a good will, putting aside his own dark musings and sense of despair, for, while he had not been plagued by nightmares of late, the Silmaril still haunted his sleep and often enough his waking moments. More than once he unconsciously found himself attempting to leave the settlement only to have his guards stop him before he got too far. He would suddenly find himself waking from a fugue, unsure at first where he was or what he was doing, meekly allowing himself to be led back to the encampment, softly apologizing. No one ever took him to task, but he was embarrassed and it usually took a few days for him to recover from the sense of despondency that would take over.

Thus, he welcomed the celebration and all it represented, hoping that with the coming of warmer weather, he would be able to deal with the Silmaril once and for all. He still did not know in what manner he would do so, only that he could not let it go on. Something had to be done. He had to do something or he would never be free of it. As long as the Silmaril was in their vicinity, Maglor knew that Denethor would never allow him his freedom. But, they would have to wait a few weeks more before they could address the situation, for Ragnor, when asked, assured him that where he had hidden the jewel was now inaccessible with all the snow. They would have to wait until it was gone. In the meantime, he meant to enjoy himself this day and worry about the Silmaril later.

That evening, as they sat around the fire discussing the day’s events and what they would plan to do on the morrow, Maglor took up his harp and began stringing it, ignoring the conversation around him. He worked slowly but competently, testing each string before placing it in position, then once the last string was set, he began tuning the harp. All the while, the others continued their conversation, but Maglor knew without looking up that they were all watching him, wondering if he would actually play and even sing. He hid a smile as he bent over the harp and continued tuning it to his satisfaction.

He had thought about singing, wondering if he could. Perhaps he would simply play a tune or three and let the others sing. At the moment, he felt he had no reason to do so, or perhaps he was simply waiting for the proper time. He wasn’t sure.

“When we are sure that the winter is over with, I wish to journey to the Sea,” Maglor said all of a sudden when there was a lull in the conversation, not even looking up as he continued working over the harp. “I wish to see for myself how far the waters have receded.” He looked up to speak directly to Denethor. “And there is something else I need to do as well.”

For a long moment there was only silence. Maglor never flinched from Denethor’s thoughtful gaze and finally the ellon nodded. “We will all go.”

“Do you think that wise, Denethor?” Damrod asked. “Should some of us not remain here on guard or in Mithlond?”

“No. I think we all need to be there. We all need to witness what Maglor would do,” came the reply.

More than one person looked dubious but no one offered any argument and the matter was dropped, for in truth such a trip was weeks away. In the meantime, they would continue as they had. Maglor finished tuning the harp and lightly ran his fingers over the strings, listening to any flaws of sound, but the strings were perfectly tuned as he knew they would be. Without giving anyone a glance he began playing, softly at first, almost hesitantly. The tune was a familiar one, for they had often sung it.

Maglor closed his eyes, letting himself feel the music pouring out of the strings. The fingers of his right hand felt cramped and tight as they always did and he had had to switch to his left hand as the dominant playing hand. After all this time, it felt right and he rarely thought of it. As he continued to play, the tightness in his fingers eased somewhat and his playing smoothed out and became more sure. It had not been all that long since he had last played, after all.

But he did not sing.

He segued into a different tune, one that was also popular among the Elves and now someone raised their voice in song and soon others were joining in. Maglor continued playing one song after another while others sang. Finally, his fingers tired and he stilled the strings. The silence that followed was the silence as between companions, between friends. Maglor opened his eyes, having kept them closed the entire time.

“Thank you,” Denethor said softly, speaking for them all.

Maglor just nodded as he reverently put the harp away, then excused himself, deciding he needed some fresh air. Arthalion joined him unasked but Maglor barely acknowledged him. He made his way toward the privy and then afterwards stepped outside the enclosure to look up at the stars, the Coll Elbereth spanning the midnight skies like a river of jewels.

“You played beautifully,” Arthalion said softly.

“Yes,” Maglor replied, never taking his eyes off the stars, treating Arthalion’s comment as a statement of fact rather than a compliment. He had played beautifully and could not have played otherwise.

“You did not play any laments or ballads,” Arthalion stated.

Maglor shook his head, but did not attempt an answer.

“And none of the songs you did play are attributed to you, as far as I know.”

Maglor tore his gaze from the stars to stare at the ellon standing beside him. In spite of the darkness, he could see Arthalion’s expression well enough: it was not accusing, but it was curious.

“No, none of the songs were mine.” Not waiting for a response, he turned and went back inside and was soon settled on his furs. He did not sleep that night, just stared into the fire until it was time for his watch.

****

The weeks passed. Winter grudgingly made way for a short spring. Snow melted for the most part and tiny flowers peeped out, though mostly only hardy moss and a few low shrubs showed themselves. Preparations were made to remove to Mithlond and to that end scouting parties were formed to ascertain the best place for setting up their new camp, for Denethor had decided that they would try to stay together rather than go their separate ways, feeling that there was safety in numbers and no one disputed him on that.

Maglor joined the scouts along with Arthalion and Glóredhel, his most constant companions. Glóredhel especially wished to see if they could find a forge. Voronwë recalled there had been several smithies on both sides of the Gulf, but whether they still existed or were even usable was anyone’s guess.

“Building or rebuilding a forge and a kiln is our first priority after securing a residence,” Denethor told them all. “Also, we need to collect all the metal stored in Arthalion’s cave and decide how much more we will need.”

Thus, while Maglor, Glóredhel and Arthalion were charged with looking for a forge, others were sent across the Gulf to collect everything that was in the caves, including the jewels and other items that Arthalion had collected. “For we have no idea what can prove useful to us and why continue making trips back and forth?” Denethor had said and everyone had agreed.

Others scoured both sides of the city to find a suitable residence where all might reside yet offer people more privacy if desired. In the end, they found what must have been a factor’s warehouse and office in what had once been the wharf district on the east side that was still largely intact, though the upper floor was open to the sky. There were several small rooms adjoining a larger hall on the ground floor and people claimed them for themselves. There weren’t enough separate rooms for everyone, but families and friends doubled up and soon everyone had a space to call their own.

Maglor had been unsure where he would be welcomed and had not attempted to claim any of the storerooms for himself, content to remain in the larger hall if necessary, but Arthalion, Neldorion and Voronwë invited him to join them in their room.

“We Noldor have to stick together,” Arthalion insisted when Maglor started to demur and both Neldorion and Voronwë had echoed Arthalion’s sentiment, so he gratefully stored his meager belongings in the room which Neldorion insisted on calling Gódhelroth. There was much groaning and rolling of eyes when the others learned of it. Maglor wisely kept his own opinions on the matter to himself.

Once the question of residence had been resolved, Maglor, with Arthalion and Glóredhel in tow, began checking for signs of a forge, starting in the wharf district, thinking that, logically, one had to be in the vicinity as part of Círdan’s shipbuilding endeavors.

“He would have wanted at least one forge, possibly more than one, ready at hand,” Maglor explained.

“You never visited Mithlond?” Glóredhel asked as they walked along the quays, heading west from the building they had chosen as their residence, which Denethor had decided to call Bârwain, stating that, for the foreseeable future, it was indeed their new home.

“Just once or twice and I did not remain long,” Maglor replied. “There were too many who would have recognized me and I was never sure of my welcome anywhere among our people. If I needed supplies or someplace to stay when the weather became inclement, I went into the villages of Men and traded my songs for room and board. The Mortals appreciated my music.”

“Surely they knew you for an Elf,” Arthalion said.

“Oh, yes. I did not attempt to hide that fact. Rather difficult to do in any case, but I did not use my own name and after the first hundred years after the War of Wrath there were no Mortals alive who would remember my face. I was safe enough among Men. I am sure there were rumors about me, but no one was foolish enough to ask me outright if I were in truth Maglor. Here, what do you think? Could this have been a forge?”

“Looks more like a stable,” Glóredhel commented.

“And that would make sense, since blacksmiths would also create horseshoes and other tack when not engaged in other projects,” Maglor replied. “Won’t hurt to look.”

“It’s certainly close enough to the shipbuilding district,” Arthalion said. “At least where Voronwë says the ships were built.”

“It’s farther away from Bârwain than I would like, though,” Glóredhel countered, frowning slightly.

Maglor just shrugged and looked about for an entrance. It had indeed been a stable, of that there was no doubt, once they were inside and saw the layout of the interior. Maglor suspected that horses had been kept here for rent or possibly boarded here by their owners who lived in the district. He also suspected that at least one inn used its services given the size of the place. They wandered about, staring into stalls and storerooms. It was Arthalion who discovered the forge, or what was left of it. It had once had its own entrance that faced a courtyard overlooking a square rather than what would have been the Gulf. The furnace was mostly intact, though both Maglor and Glóredhel thought that some repairs were in order.

“We’ll have to create a new bellows,” Maglor said, wiping his hands of accumulated dust and debris that clogged the room which had been open to the elements for longer than even he wished to contemplate.

“Should we look for other forges and see if there’s one closer to our residence?” Glóredhel asked.

“It wouldn’t hurt to go look,” Maglor said. “There may be one that is in better shape than this one and closer, but I do not wish to use one that is too far from the quays. When we come to actually build our ship, we will want the forge to be close at hand.”

Both Glóredhel and Arthalion nodded. “Well, where do you suggest we look?” Arthalion asked.

“Let’s go back east and see what we can find,” Maglor suggested. “No sense going further west.”

The others agreed and they retraced their steps, stopping at Bârwain where they spoke briefly with Denethor to let him know what they had found and where they were going. Denethor nodded and wished them luck. “I have Duilinn and Haldir scouring the city for iron in any shape or condition.”

“Most of it would have rusted away after all this time,” Maglor said with a frown.

“Still, you need iron to build the tools we’ll need, will you not? And I know that our smiths used a process that kept iron from rusting completely, which is why our swords have remained in pristine condition even after all this time.”

“True,” Maglor averred. “Well, we’ll deal with all that when we must. For now, we do have one forge ready at hand though Glóredhel feels it’s too far from here to be practical.”

“Any place will be too far, if you think about it,” Denethor said. “We do not know if the Sea will reclaim the Gulf when the ice finally melts and releases the waters of the ocean.”

“I would think it would, though,” Arthalion stated. “The water has to go somewhere.”

“Perhaps, but we saw how the land has changed over the millennia and we have not yet visited the coast. That river down there is marshy and shallow. I doubt we can use it to float the ship down to the Sea.”

“So we either have to remove to the coast eventually or find a way to move the ship there if the Sea does not reclaim the Gulf,” Maglor said.

“Well, that is something that will not be decided today or any time soon, but we must prepare ourselves to accept any eventuality. The Belain only promised me that a way would be found, they did not promise me it would be easy.”

Everyone nodded and Maglor, Arthalion and Glóredhel took their leave, spending another hour or so scouring the area for another forge. They found evidence of one that was closer to their residence than the other but it was in worse condition and repairing it would not be worth the effort. They did, however, discover what might have been a kiln that was in reasonably good shape.

“We’ll have someone who is more knowledgeable about such things take a look,” Maglor said. “It looks as if it can be used but I am no expert in kilns.”

“They’re easy enough to construct,” Arthalion said, “but if this one is usable, it will save us the bother. Amarthamíriel would know.”

Maglor and Glóredhel exchanged knowing grins when Arthalion’s back was to them.

“Come, let us go back and let the others know what we’ve found and see what everyone else has discovered,” Maglor suggested and the other two agreed.

Later, when all parties had returned, reports were shared. Everything in Arthalion’s cave had been removed and was now stored in an adjacent building, neatly piled.

“Not sure what use those gemstones will be unless we want to decorate the ship with them,” Aerin said, having been in the party that had collected the items from the cave.

Others chuckled. “We’ll just have to see,” was Denethor’s only comment.

Maglor told them about the forge and the kiln and Amarthamíriel, who had been part of the fishing party, said she would look at the kiln in the morning and see if it could still be used.

“What about the towers?” Sador asked. “Will we abandon them completely?”

“No,” Denethor answered. “That would be foolish. Once we are secure here, I would like to set up a rotating schedule of watches there. Two people for one week. Yes, I know it will be lonely and dull and it will feel more like a punishment detail than anything, but I hesitate to abandon the place entirely. We know there is game there for the taking and there are those cat-creatures to deal with.”

“We still need to decide if we should just leave them alone or seek to eliminate them completely,” Damrod stated.

“And if we wish to hunt for ores in those mountains, we’ll need to eliminate them,” Ragnor added. “I would not risk anyone in those mountains otherwise.”

“And that’s assuming that there is only that one colony of the creatures there,” Finduilas said. “Don’t forget the ones that attacked us on the Downs. They were a separate group entirely.”

“All things that we must consider in the next few weeks,” Denethor said with a nod. “However, there is one thing that we need to do first before we can concentrate on anything else.” He glanced at Maglor, who nodded.

“We, or at least, I need to go to the Sea,” he said. “There is something I need to do there and it would be a good idea for us to see just how far the water has receded. Also, as did Arthad and Arthalion, we might find things of use to bring back.”

“We will plan to leave in a week’s time,” Denethor said. “I wish to secure this place more before we do and we’ll need to ready supplies and such for the trip. I estimate that it will take at least a week to reach what used to be the coast.”

Maglor nodded. “At least that long. I would plan our being away for at least two weeks but I suspect it will be closer to a month, especially if we end up scavenging for things.”

“Do you know what you will do when we get there?” Arthalion asked.

“No. Not yet. I only know that that is where I must go.”

“Then we will devote the next week to preparing for the trip,” Denethor said and they moved on to other matters of concern with Eirien asking if an expedition to the valley of trees would be undertaken sometime in the near future and it was agreed that a suitable place for a nursery would need to be found or constructed first.

“We have time,” Denethor said after a few minutes of discussion. “Those trees are not going anywhere but I agree we should consider collecting as many seeds and even saplings as we can as soon as we can. When we return from the coast, we will see about setting up an appropriate nursery. Perhaps one of the valleys in the Emyn Beraid will prove suitable. Those who are assigned to tower duty could then occupy their time with keeping watch over the trees, making sure the goats and deer do not destroy them.”

Everyone agreed to that idea and the rest of the evening was spent in song and storytelling.

****

Gwaeron: March/April in the Gregorian calendar; also known as Súlimë.

Gwirith: April/May in the Gregorian calendar; also known as Víressë.

Coll Elbereth: Elbereth’s Cloak, what we would call the Milky Way. The term is noncanonical.

Gódhelroth: Noldo-cave. While Golodh is the actual Sindarin cognate of Quenya Noldo, according to Tolkien, the Noldor themselves apparently found this form unpleasing and preferred the word Gódhel (WJ:379).

Bârwain: New Home.

33: Journey to the Sea

Once it was decided to make the journey, Denethor sent Ragnor back to the tower along with three others to retrieve the Silmaril from its hiding place. When they returned the day before they were due to set out for the coast, Maglor was grateful for the fact that Ragnor removed himself to Gil-galad’s tower, as everyone called it, situated in West Mithlond. Even so, Denethor asked the other three Noldor to guard Maglor that night, for he needed to sleep while he could; he did not think he would do so during the trek, not with the Silmaril so close at hand. As it was, his dreams were plagued by nightmares of his adar and brothers calling to him, begging him to fulfill his Oath, and he woke yelling, drenched in sweat, and had to be held down until he calmed himself.

Dawn saw them all gathering what supplies they needed. Maglor was subdued and barely spoke. They made their way down to the valley where Ragnor and the three who had accompanied him waited. Arthalion had assured Denethor that traveling the valley that had once been the floor of the Gulf would prove the best way to go, for the cliffs further west were too dangerous to climb. Plus the river would provide them with water and fish and possibly some succulents.

So, they headed west, staying to the north, which Arthalion told them was less marshy than the south side of the river. The day was fair and the air warmer than it had been all week. The breeze coming at them from the west was pleasant and smelled faintly of the Sea. Maglor strode in front along with Denethor and Arthalion, who had the pleasure of acting as their guide. Ragnor stayed well to the back and Maglor patently ignored him.

“When the Sea receded too far, Arthad and I used this route rather than following the shoulder of the mountains,” Arthalion explained to Denethor when he asked him about it. “We ended up creating semi-permanent campsites along the way, spaced out more or less evenly and it usually took us six days to reach the coast.”

“Will those campsites still exist after all this time?” Denethor asked.

“Possibly,” Arthalion answered. “We constructed these circular stone walls that are barely two feet high and camped inside them. They should still be there, though in truth I have not been this way for a very long time.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Denethor said philosophically and Maglor silently agreed, prepared to find no trace of the campsites. Thus, he was pleasantly surprised when a couple of hours after noon, they came upon a circular stone structure that was perhaps ten feet in diameter and about two feet high. There were no breaks in the circle and they simply climbed over the low wall. In the middle was a smaller ring of stones that turned out to be the fire pit.

“Well, obviously, we can’t all fit in here,” Denethor commented, “though it’s certainly large enough for us to sit on the wall with the fire in the middle.”

“We can take turns sleeping or sleep outside the circle,” Damrod suggested. “It’s warm enough even at night that we would not be too bothered by it under our furs.”

“That would certainly work,” Denethor said, “and I would also have sentries, just to be safe.”

No one protested that idea and Maglor volunteered to be part of the watch that first night, silently promising himself that he would be on watch duty all night and every night until they had reached the coast. He still did not know what he would do once they were there and decided to wait until he had seen for himself what it was like. In the meantime, he helped get the fire going while others went to the river to fill their pots for the fish stew that would be that night’s dinner.

“I’m surprised that we came to this camp so early,” Denethor commented to Arthalion as everyone busied themselves with setting up the campsite.

“Arthad spaced the camps so that we could easily reach each one before it became too dark when we were hunting during the winter months.”

“You went to the coast even in winter?” Maglor asked in surprise, looking up from his labors at Arthalion standing nearby.

“No, but we did hunt. You can see that the valley is somewhat protected and sometimes larger game would make its way down here during the winter.”

Maglor and Denethor nodded.

They settled into a routine during the rest of the journey, waking at dawn and setting out an hour later, going only as far as the next stone circle even if it meant stopping hours before sunset. As Denethor pointed out when one or two others complained of the slow pace, to ignore ready-made camps was foolish and it wasn’t as if they were on a schedule.

“The Sea will still be waiting for us whether we get there two days from now or two weeks from now,” he told them and they had to be content with that.

Maglor did not care. He was in no particular hurry even though the entire journey was for his benefit. He would have preferred to have gone with only a few people to keep him company but appreciated what Denethor was doing in insisting they all accompany him. Too much was at stake for them all.

He did whatever chores were required of him when they stopped to camp and made no complaint as at least two others followed him wherever he went and made sure that he and Ragnor never spoke to one another and stayed as far from each other as possible. Maglor understood the necessity and applauded it, but sorrowed that it was so, for he and Ragnor were good friends and he missed the ellon’s company and quiet wit.

Still, it was only for a few more days and once he was freed of the Silmaril….

And there, of course, was the sticking point: how was he to free himself from the damnable jewel? He still did not know, did not even know how to renounce the Oath that had haunted him for so long. He could only hope that once they reached the Sea, he would be inspired. In the meantime, he stood his watches at night, refusing to sleep, forcing himself not to listen to the Silmaril calling to him, though it was hard and on the third night he had to call to Arthalion and others to hold him back from attacking Ragnor, screaming as they did so, cursing them all for keeping the Silmaril from him, promising death and destruction upon them all for denying him. It was hours before he succumbed to unconsciousness and in the morning when he woke he refused to look at anyone and never spoke the entire day.

Denethor had him set off with Arthalion and Glóredhel an hour before the others, hoping the distance would help. When the rest of the company reached them at their next campsite, they found that Maglor had crossed over to the south side of the river and refused to return even to eat. He remained there the entire night, huddled against the cliffs on that side, returning only at dawn. This time Denethor had Ragnor go on ahead, refusing to allow Maglor to leave until he had eaten. Maglor refused to eat until Ragnor was out of sight, staring the entire time at the ellon’s retreating figure. Arthalion and Voronwë stood on either side of Maglor, ready to hold him back if he tried to follow.

His weapons, perforce, were taken from him and he was not allowed to stand any more watches, but huddled near the fire, sunk in apathy, ignoring, or trying to ignore, the whispers and looks of pity cast his way.

By the sixth and presumably the last day of their journey, Maglor was nearly comatose and he had to be led by Arthalion and Voronwë, else he would simply stand there staring at nothing. He ate whatever was put in his hands and he was capable of attending to his personal needs, but beyond that he was unable or unwilling to respond to anything or anyone.

And he was constantly clenching and unclenching his right hand.

“I hope this is resolved when we reach the Sea,” Denethor said softly as they went about breaking camp.

“Something has to happen,” Damrod said. “None of us can go on like this, Maglor least of all.”

“That Oath will destroy him if he doesn’t renounce it,” Arthalion added. “He may actually force us to kill him.”

Denethor gave the ellon a sharp glance. “Do you think so?”

“He may give us no other choice,” Arthalion answered as he stared sorrowfully at the son of Fëanor sitting on his haunches with his left arm wrapped around his knees and his right hand extended before him constantly clenching and unclenching. He rocked back and forth and his eyes were blank. Arthalion crouched beside him. “Time to go, Maglor. Neldorion, help me with him please.”

“I find it interesting that he lets only Arthalion, Voronwë and Neldorion touch him,” Damrod commented. “He won’t even let Glóredhel near him anymore.”

“Or any of us Sindar,” Denethor said with a nod. He gave Damrod a wry look. “I don’t think he trusts us.”

“Or himself,” Damrod countered.

“We’re ready, Denethor,” Arthalion said.

“Go ahead, we’ll follow,” Denethor ordered.

Arthalion and Neldorion started forward, keeping Maglor between them while Voronwë followed. Denethor allowed them to get a good distance away before giving the order for the rest to set off. Ragnor and his two sons had already left an hour or so earlier. Arthalion had told them the night before that they were only half a day from where the Gulf originally opened to the Sea, so Denethor had asked Ragnor to leave at first light and wait for them to arrive.

All along, the days had been fair, with blue skies and a warming sun, but this day was cooler and there was a sharp breeze with a slight tang to it that smelled of rain though Arthalion assured Denethor that he had never known it to rain even in the short summer season.

“Perhaps it will now that the ice seems to be receding,” Denethor commented, and Arthalion just shrugged.

The river, they noticed, was widening and becoming more marsh-like though Arthalion promised that the ground they were treading was solid enough and they need not fear quicksand so long as they stayed close to the cliffs.

“Though it does look marshier than the last time I was this way,” he added with a frown.

“Another sign that this age of ice is finally coming to an end,” Damrod said.

“You may be right,” Denethor replied. “We can only hope that it is not a false sign. There have been times in the past when we thought the world was warming again only to find that it was at best a short reprieve.”

“Long or short, we would be fools not to take advantage of it as best we may,” Damrod countered.

“Absolutely,” Denethor said with a nod, “which is why we’re here. This entire thing with Maglor and the Silmaril needs to be resolved if we ever hope to be able to survive. That jewel will destroy us all if we don’t do something about it now.”

“Let us hope then that Maglor does indeed do something,” Damrod said. “My heart tells me that if he does not, none of us will be able to. The Silmaril is not our destiny, but his, yet we may well suffer because of it.”

Neither Arthalion nor Denethor disputed the ellon’s words.

As they had journeyed down the valley they had noted how it had widened, especially after passing the bay at Harlond, and indeed, at its widest, it was nearly a hundred miles before narrowing again to a mere thirty miles just before one reached the sea. As the party approached the entrance of the straits, they saw Ragnor and his sons had already set up a camp against the northern cliffs, a merry fire burning. The three ellyn waved in greeting and the others hailed them, but their voices died when they came abreast of the camp and stared out into the distance.

Of them all, only Arthalion was the least affected by what they saw. Even Maglor blinked several times, as if coming awake, and stared in awe at what was before them.

It was a graveyard of ships.

They were scattered across the floor of the Sea, which was now dry land, stretching several miles in all directions. The Sea, itself was a distant grey-blue smudge on the horizon. Many of the ships were barely recognizable as such, the wood of their hulls having long since disintegrated or been crushed by the ice, leaving behind rusted metal and the occasional thick spar that was not completely rotted away. Yet, there was enough evidence that ships had foundered in heavy seas sometime in the distant past.

“Arthad determined that these ships were all made by Men,” Arthalion said, breaking the silence that had fallen amongst them as they stared in wonder at the sight. “We never found any Elvish-made ships here.”

“Well, naturally,” Damrod said with a snort. “No ship built by Círdan would dare do something so crass as to sink.”

There were quiet chuckles among them, though Maglor remained silent, staring, not so much at the wreckage about them, but further out.

“I have to go there,” he whispered and more than one person started at the sound of his voice, for he had not uttered a word for nearly three days.

“Where do you have to go?” Denethor asked.

For an answer, Maglor started walking away, heading west.

“Wait, Maglor!” Arthalion called out, running after him and grabbing his arm, forcing him to stop. “You cannot go yet. You need to do something first, remember?”

Maglor frowned. The sight of the wrecks had brought him momentarily out from where he had hidden deep within himself as they had traveled to the coast. He realized he could not have said how long they had been traveling, and that realization disturbed him, as did Arthalion’s question.

“What must I do?” he asked, feeling very confused. There was something he had to do, he now knew, but just what still eluded him.

“The Silmaril,” Arthalion said gently. “Have you forgotten the Silmaril?”

Maglor started at that, his expression becoming wary, his eyes turning cold with calculation as he stared at one he thought of as a friend who might still be an enemy.

“Where—?”

“It is safe,” Arthalion assured him quickly. “We only wait to know what you plan to do with it.”

“Do… I… I have to do something….” He remembered now. The Oath. He had to do something about the Oath. He stared about, taking note of the wrecks and where they were in relation to where the coast had been. Now his expression was calculating in a different manner.

“You do not know where your brother found it?” he asked.

“No. He did not describe the place to me,” Arthalion answered. “Certainly, it had not been found in any of these wrecks though perhaps a wreck was near where it was found.”

Maglor nodded. “Yes, that would make sense. I wish I could remember just where we were camped at the time. It would make things easier.”

“In what way?” Denethor asked as he came up to them with everyone else following.

Maglor turned his gaze upon the Sinda. “I had thought to return it to where it was found. I had thought to simply leave it here on the strand, perhaps even bury it. Eventually, the waters of the Sea will be unlocked as the ice melts and all this will once again be covered and no one will be able to find it.”

“Yet, until that day comes, we will know, and more important, you will know. There would be nothing to stop you from returning here to retrieve it before the Sea returns. There must be another way.”

“I do not see any other way,” Maglor said, his shoulders slumping and a look of defeat crossed his fair visage as he continued to clench and unclench his right hand.

“Why don’t we have something to eat and discuss it amongst ourselves?” Glóredhel suggested. “Perhaps you are too close to the situation to see anything clearly, Maglor. Perhaps one of us can find a solution to your problem.”

“An excellent idea,” Denethor said. “Come. We will have something to eat and think about it.”

“Well, it will take an hour or so for us to get a stew together,” Finduilas said. “Why not spend the time exploring? Perhaps we will find things that can be of use to us, more so than gemstones.”

Arthalion blushed slightly. “I do not know why my brother was so insistent about collecting them,” he offered by way of apology. “I can only say that I’d always trusted him and did not question him as to his reasons.”

“It is of no consequence now,” Denethor said in a kind voice. “However, we certainly should take advantage of the fact that we are here and see what else might be available for us to take back with us. We will split into groups. No one is to explore alone. We still have several hours of daylight left to us, so let us get started. Maglor, you are welcome to explore as well, but only if Arthalion, Neldorion and Voronwë are with you and you are not to approach Ragnor.”

Maglor nodded his understanding and raised no objections. “I am not in the mood to explore,” he said. “I will sit beside the fire and watch the stew while everyone else explores.”

“I will watch with you, if I may,” Glóredhel said.

Maglor raised an eyebrow. “I do not need anyone guarding me while I watch over the stew. It’s not as if I plan to poison it. I don’t have any poison anyway.”

“And I never said I was guarding you,” Glóredhel retorted, looking angry. “I said I would watch with you.”

“I cannot believe that you, a loremaster, would pass up the opportunity….”

“No more than you,” she shot back. “Now, let us stop arguing. You and I will tend to the stew while everyone else explores.” She headed back toward the campsite then stopped after a few paces and glared at him. “Well? Are you coming or not?”

Maglor wisely said nothing, but meekly followed her and allowed her to direct him in preparing the stew. Soon enough, the two were sitting side-by-side watching as everyone else wandered in groups of twos and threes, sometimes staying only for a moment at a wreck before moving on, sometimes taking time to explore more thoroughly. They could see Arthalion with Denethor and Damrod, enthusiastically waving his arms as he pointed to one wreck or another, apparently telling them something about what they saw about them.

“What is the real reason you are not out there with the others?” Maglor finally asked, speaking softly as he leaned over to give the stew a stir and add more dung to the fire.

“I meant what I said, Maglor,” Glóredhel answered just as softly. “Besides, you’ve been ignoring me for far too long and this is as good a time as any for you to stop ignoring me.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “I’ve been ignoring everyone,” was all he could think to say as a way of apologizing.

“Yes, I saw that,” she retorted, giving him a rather unlady-like snort of disgust. “We’re your friends, even your family, and you refuse to let us help you.”

“What help could you possibly give me?” Maglor asked. “There is no help and no hope. Not for me. Not so long as I am bound to the Silmaril and my Oath.”

“Then unbind yourself.”

Maglor snorted. “Easier said than done.”

“Perhaps, but I can tell you that if you don’t find a way, no one will. If you do not renounce your Oath and the Silmaril, I think Denethor will simply leave you here with it and will not allow you to return with us to Mithlond.”

Maglor gave her a sharp look. “He has said this?”

She shook her head. “No, not in so many words, but think about it. That jewel is a danger to us all and Denethor cannot afford to allow it to remain in our vicinity. If you do not somehow find a way to renounce it so that it no longer has any hold whatsoever over you, then I think he will leave you behind when we return to Mithlond. You will be given your weapons back and some supplies to see you through a few days and then you will be on your own.”

“And if I followed you?”

“We would be forced to kill you, for we could not allow you to taint us with your darkness. It would sadden us but if you gave us no choice we would do it to preserve our own future. We want to Sail. I have never been sure if that was your desire as well or if you simply came along because you did not really want to die, at least not alone.”

For several minutes, silence fell between them as Maglor contemplated Glóredhel’s words.

“It is true that at first I did not care if we Sailed or not,” he finally said, speaking almost to himself. “No, that’s not entirely true. I did not believe we would ever find the Straight Road.”

“But you came with us anyway, even though you had no belief in what we would do.”

Maglor shrugged. “As you say, I found I did not want to die alone. I figured the only way any of us would reach Dor Rodyn was to die. That thought did not bother me. Yet, the closer we came to the Sea, the more I began to hope that a way would be found. The last thing I ever expected was to be confronted with the Silmaril and my own sordid past.”

“Perhaps this was the only way,” Glóredhel offered. “Perhaps the Belain knew that you could never return home unless you had renounced your past, all of it, especially that part that is tied up with the Silmaril.”

“Which just about covers much of my life,” Maglor retorted with a wry grin.

Glóredhel shrugged. “A large part, no doubt, but not the all of it. There was a time before the Silmaril, wasn’t there?”

“Yes. A happier time, a more innocent time. But one cannot go back to one’s first innocence.”

“No, but one can certainly go forward to a different kind of innocence, an innocence that accepts what has been and looks forward to what can be again. I don’t think you’ve really accepted what has been. You’ve allowed the past to haunt you, to control you. You need to take control of it, accept it and allow it to have no hold over you. Then and only then can you hope to rediscover your innocence that is not born of naivety but is tempered with experience.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Nothing worth doing is ever easy, Maglor. You should know that by now. I think the stew is ready. Why don’t you call everyone back and I’ll start dishing it out?”

Maglor nodded and walked away from the fire, calling to the others and waving to get their attention. In minutes they were all gathered together to eat, but Maglor stayed away, sitting on a boulder and staring west, wishing to think about what Glóredhel had said.

34: Renouncing the Oath

For most of the next day, as the others hunted among the wrecks, Maglor did little but sit on a rock and stare into the west or follow Ragnor’s every move as the ellon joined the others in their explorations. On Denethor’s orders, everyone else left him alone, though he had people take turns ‘visiting’ with him.

“He is quiescent now, but I don’t trust him to stay that way,” Denethor told the others when he asked Damrod to be Maglor’s first ‘visitor’.

Maglor was not fooled and understood that his visitors were actually his guards. He patently ignored them. In the meantime, a quick inventory of what could be found in the wrecks was made to ascertain if anything was salvageable.

“Most of the metal that we’ve found is pretty rusted or crusted over but we might be able to salvage some of it for our use,” Glóredhel told Denethor the next afternoon.

All morning long, clouds had piled up and they feared rain or even snow. Denethor called a halt to the exploration shortly after noon when it became obvious that a storm was on its way, ordering people back to camp where they gathered their supplies and sought higher ground, fearing the flats might be flooded if it did rain. Now they were huddled on a rounded knoll that stood out from the headland, quickly putting together a hot meal even though it was early, for they feared they would not be able to keep the fire going once it began to rain, if it did.

“Transportation will be a problem,” Glóredhel continued. “Frankly, I don’t look forward to lugging any of it back to Mithlond.”

“We may have to mount more than one expedition to collect what we can,” Denethor stated. “We have plenty of time. The Sea will not reclaim this place overnight.”

“I cannot believe we’re standing in what once was Ossiriand,” Eirien commented as she began ladling out the fish stew, handing a bowl to her husband. “There are no landmarks whatsoever.”

“The waters would have eroded much of them and I’ve seen evidence of past cataclysms, underwater quakes and volcanoes, and that would have altered the landscape even more,” Damrod stated.

“My brother Caranthir ruled over these lands to the north.”

Everyone stared at Maglor, sitting beside the fire. He had dutifully joined them in moving the camp to higher ground, docilely gathering supplies when Denethor ordered him to, but he had not spoken a word to anyone all morning. Once they had settled in their new campsite, he had sunk back into an apathetic state and had ignored and been ignored by everyone. His speaking as he did surprised them all.

“Never liked Caranthir,” Voronwë commented diffidently. “Too moody and harsh toward others. The slightest thing would set him off and there was no living with him until he calmed down.”

Maglor actually smiled, though there was no warmth to it. “Adar used to say that Caranthir could give Lord Oromë lessons on wrath. I remembered one time when my brother was particularly angry over some trifling thing, Adar just picked him up and carried him all the way down to Finwë Park with my brother screaming and thrashing about and threw him into the lake there to cool him off. And he actually traveled through the city and not by way of the arbor that connects the palace with the park so most of the city witnessed it.”

“How old was your brother, then?” Sador asked.

“Well past his majority,” Maglor replied, actually chuckling. “Even as adults, none of us could best Adar.”

There was a thoughtful silence as the others considered the implications of Maglor’s words. Maglor sank back into himself, seemingly no longer caring to contribute to the conversation. There was a sudden rumble of thunder which surprised everyone.

“Looks as if we might actually get rain,” Denethor stated.

“It is a sign that the ice no longer has as firm a grip on the land as it once did,” Ragnor said, “though I don’t fancy getting wet. I wish we had better shelter.”

Everyone else agreed but there was little they could do about it but huddle under their furs and wait out the storm, for storm it was and the thunder was followed by flashes of lightning and then the rain came, pouring over them in sheets.

“We’re too exposed here,” Damrod shouted above the fury of the storm.

“That cannot be helped,” Denethor retorted.

Maglor came out of his fugue to pull his cloak over him and checked to see that Arthalion and Glóredhel who were sitting on either side of him were safe. Instinctively, he threw part of his cloak around Glóredhel, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She gave him a surprised but grateful look. He motioned to Arthalion to come closer as well and the three huddled together as the storm lashed at them, quickly soaking them through.

As quickly as the storm had come, it left, moving eastward up the valley of the Lhûn and in minutes the sun was shining and they were attempting to wring out the water. The flats had turned into a minor lake for the ground was still just frozen enough that the water could not drain immediately; the knoll had now become an island. Everything was a soggy mess.

“We need to find a better camp if we’re going to stay here for any length of time,” Damrod said to Denethor.

“How much longer will we remain here?” Finduilas asked, sounding frustrated. “We came here for Maglor’s sake, but he does not seem inclined to do anything.”

“We have only been here a day,” Denethor replied mildly, “and I do not wish to leave at any rate until we know for sure that it is safe to do so. See you how quickly the river has risen, flooding its banks? We cannot travel safely back up the valley if there is more rain in the offing. But I agree that we need a better campsite.”

“We’ll check the cliffs and see if there are any caves or perhaps a way up to the top where we can set up camp,” Arthalion offered, including Maglor in his statement when he gestured at him. Denethor agreed and the two set off to take a look. The water surrounding them was not deep, coming only to the tops of their boots, but it was hard going, the ground, now turning muddy, sucking at them.

“Look!” Arthalion exclaimed, pointing straight ahead. “We may be in luck. That looks like a cave.”

“It would be better if the entrance was higher though,” Maglor said. “You can see where the water laps it.”

“All we can do is look, right?”

As it turned out, what appeared to be a cave was not. It was a vent, only about ten paces wide and narrowing quickly until they could go no further. Disappointed, they continued their search.

“Did you and Arthad never have to seek shelter when you were here?” Maglor asked as they moved northward along the face of the cliff.

“Most of the time the weather remained dry,” Arthalion answered. “One time we were caught in a sudden storm but we were able to shelter in the wreck we were exploring at the time. They were in far better shape than they are now. I think the weight of the ice destroyed most of them.”

“Here. This looks more likely.” Maglor pointed upward to where they could see an opening. It was perhaps ten feet above them but the cliff was pocked and the slope up was shallow so they had little trouble reaching it. This time, they found an actual cave though it was not as large as they would have liked.

“It will be a tight squeeze, but we only need it if the weather sours again,” Arthalion observed.

“Let’s go back and tell the others,” Maglor said.

Denethor insisted on seeing the cave for himself and so they took him there along with everyone else and while they all agreed that it would be very cramped, they decided that they could at least store their supplies there. As long as the days and nights were fair, they were content to stay outside. So, some time was spent in transporting their supplies to the cave and drying out their cloaks. Once everything was set to their satisfaction, they went back to exploring and Maglor returned to his rock and sat in contemplation. Arthalion elected to ‘visit’ with him.

“And it is a visit,” he insisted settling beside Maglor on the rock, a large boulder that stood almost directly before the entrance to the Gulf. There were other such rocks scattered about and some of them were large enough to have been of concern to sailors long ago. “I have explored these wrecks and there is nothing new here for me. Have you decided what you will do?”

Maglor shook his head. “How do you renounce something as tenuous as words? Once spoken, they cannot be recalled.”

“Usually people apologize,” Arthalion answered.

“But the words are still there. They cannot be totally ignored.”

“True, but a sincere apology negates the words spoken in haste or anger or fear.”

“To whom would I apologize?”

“The one whom you most offended with your words,” Arthalion replied.

Maglor did not speak again and Arthalion seemed content to simply sit and watch the others move from one wreck to another. The water that had surrounded them was slowly dissipating so for the most part there were only large puddles and where the ground was exposed, it was soggy and muddy. Maglor frowned, thinking that there was something not right in what he was seeing.

“The water could not have evaporated so quickly and the sun is nearly setting so it’s not all that warm anymore. Where did the water go?”

“I suspect most of it has flowed into a chasm further out,” Arthalion said. “You can’t see it from here but do you see that wreck just beyond the furthest boulder over there?” He pointed somewhat to the southwest and Maglor nodded. “There is a chasm there, rather deep, for you can’t see to the bottom. It runs more or less north and south. I think it must be where the River Gelion once flowed.”

“Impossible,” Maglor protested. “That river was a hundred miles from the western-most entrance of the Dwarf-city of Nogrod and we’re about where that was before Beleriand was destroyed.”

Arthalion shrugged. “You may be correct. All I know is that more than likely the water has flowed into the chasm for the land slopes downward toward it though it’s not apparent from here.”

They lapsed into silence once again and Maglor kept an eye on Ragnor who was some distance away, staring into some wreck with Saelmir and Finduilas. He knew the ellon was carrying the Silmaril with him; he would have been foolish to just leave it lying about. His right hand spasmed involuntarily and he stirred himself, glancing briefly at the sun.

“I don’t think anyone has thought of dinner,” he said. “They’re too busy exploring.”

“Well, we can certainly do something about that,” Arthalion said, giving him a smile and climbing down from the boulder. “If you build up the fire, I’ll throw something together.”

Maglor nodded and leaped easily down and joined Arthalion on the knoll where they had decided they would remain unless the weather forced them into the cave. He busied himself with the fire and soon the two had a venison stew bubbling away.

“I wish we could supplement our meal with some greens or roots,” Maglor said. “Our diet is so very limited.”

“Is it different in the South?”

“Mostly. There are other types of game and, of course, vegetables, fruits and grains abound, though probably not as much as they did before the ice came. The South is very dry, almost drought-like, yet the Mortals have adapted to its conditions and seem to thrive. The civilizations of the Fourth Age are not even a memory to them and most are hunters and gatherers roaming in small bands, following their herds.”

“How sad,” Arthalion said.

Maglor just shrugged. “It is what it is. Someday when the ice goes away entirely and the world warms again, new civilizations may arise.”

“And will any of us be here to witness that, do you suppose?”

“There are those who did not join Denethor and his people,” Maglor said. “I suppose they will still remain, though perhaps not. I suspect that they will fade eventually unless they involve themselves with the Mortals in some manner.”

“Do you think they would?” Arthalion asked, looking skeptical. “I know that Arthad and I had little to do with them. Their lives are so brief that to know them and to lose them is a never-ending grief.”

“Perhaps,” Maglor said with a shrug. “I spent more time with them than most, I deem, avoiding the company of my kind as much as possible. I found the Mortals to be… interesting and very much alive. They are like fireflies, their light shining brilliantly for a season before dying. Yet, as brief as their light might be, they bring a certain beauty to the night.” He paused and gave Arthalion a sheepish grin. “Poor analogy, I know, but it’s the best I can come up with on short notice.”

Arthalion laughed. “It works well enough. Ah… I see the smell of this delicious stew has caught the attention of our fellow travelers.”

“Then I will leave you to serve them,” Maglor said and before any of the others reached the fire he had returned to the boulder which he had claimed for his own, studiously not watching Ragnor as the ellon crossed his line of vision but kept his eyes focused on the horizon where the sun set in glorious color. Soon, twilight enclosed them and Eärendil’s Star shone brightly just above the horizon as the night deepened and the other stars became visible. Maglor kept his gaze fixed to the west, though from the corner of his eye he could see the others huddled about the fire, softly conversing as they ate their meal. He was grateful that no one came to ‘visit’ with him. He wished only to be left alone to think.

He knew he needed to come up with a way of dealing with the Silmaril yet for some reason his thoughts wandered down strange paths of distant times, half-forgotten. Most of them centered round his childhood and young adulthood: sitting in his ammë’s lap as she brushed his hair and sang songs, playing with his brothers, working beside his adar as an apprentice, the journeys he had taken in exploring Valinor, being tutored by Lord Aulë’s Maiar, and a host of other memories in no particular order. They were good memories, memories of a younger, more naïve and innocent Maglor, and he wished with a wistfulness that surprised him that he could reclaim that younger self. His brothers, if any had been reborn, would have regained their own innocence and he envied them that. If only he had managed to die….

Lost in his thoughts as he was, it took a moment for him to realize that the night was brighter than it should be. There was a silver glow all about him and he turned to see the moon rising almost directly east. It was full and he recalled someone commenting on that as they traveled down to the coast. It was a glorious sight and he caught his breath as he watched it rise majestically above the horizon, casting silver beams. One such beam seemed to flow straight down the valley like a road and when he turned back to the west, it was as if it continued on.

Suddenly, he knew what he had to do. He leapt from the boulder and ran back to the knoll. “Ragnor! Bring the Silmaril quick!”

“Whoa, Maglor,” Denethor said, rising to meet him. “Slow down.”

“There’s no time. Where’s my harp? Oh, bother, I left it in the cave. I’ll be right back.” He did not wait to listen to anything anyone wished to say to him, but headed back down to the knoll and ran as quickly as he could toward the cave. In his haste and in the dark, for the cliffs blocked the moon’s light, he failed to notice a small rock and suddenly went flying as he tripped over it. He lay there gasping for breath and felt someone pull him up.

“Easy now, Maglor. You’re going to hurt yourself if you don’t take care,” Ragnor said. “We’ll go to the cave together, all right?”

Maglor just nodded mutely and turned to continue on, keeping to a steadier pace. In moments the two were climbing up to the cave entrance and Maglor had to feel his way for there was no light that penetrated the darkness of the cave. He remembered where he had placed his own belongings. He had not originally planned to bring his harp on the journey, but at the last moment, he shoved it into his haversack, though he had yet to play it.

Now he hunted for it frantically, fearing that time was running out. At last he found it and was quickly back outside. He looked about and thought the moonbeams were still showing him the way.

“Come. We don’t have much time,” he said and headed, not toward the camp, but across to where he could still see the moonlight like a road heading straight west.

Everyone else joined him and Ragnor as they trekked across the flats, detouring around or through wrecks. No one commented or complained. Maglor ignored them all, intent on following the road and forcing himself not to demand Ragnor give him the Silmaril. The ellon was walking beside him and they had not been this close to one another since the journey began. Maglor shut his mind to the seductive call of the Silmaril, keeping his focus straight forward.

And then they were forced to come to a complete halt, for directly before them was a wide gash in the earth, the chasm Arthalion had told him about earlier. Even in the chancy light of the moon he could see that it was too wide to cross and there was no bottom that he could discern. He stood for a long moment staring first into the chasm and then directly west where he could still see the road of light.

“When the time comes, that is our path,” he said, startling everyone.

“We know this already, Maglor,” Denethor said with the patience of an elder humoring a child.

“No, you don’t understand,” Maglor said as he turned and pointed to the moon and then up at the stars. “Mark this night and the position of the stars. When the moon is full and rising directly in line with the Gulf and the stars are as you see them, that will be when we must Sail. That will be when the Straight Road will open to us.”

“How do you know this?” Ragnor demanded, sounding somewhat angry. “How can you possibly know anything of the sort? Did some Maia come and whisper in your ear or one of the Belain?”

“No. No Maia or Balan has spoken to me. I do not know how I know. I only know that I do. But that is not why we are here. Ragnor, you have been guarding the Silmaril and I thank you for your diligence, but your guardianship comes to an end this night. Of your courtesy, would you give me the Silmaril so I may give it to the one to whom it should go?”

There were gasps from more than one throat and Finduilas whispered something in her husband’s ear, but Ragnor ignored her, staring intently at Maglor who did not flinch from the ellon’s gaze.

“What do you mean to do?” Ragnor finally asked.

“There is no time to explain,” Maglor replied impatiently. “See you, already the Road begins to fade. I need to do this now before it is too late… for all of us.”

For another eternal moment, Ragnor continued staring at Maglor and all the others remained silent, then, he pulled off the carrysack that never left him and reached in to remove the Silmaril still wrapped in cloth. Maglor felt his right hand spasm and the pain forced him to grit his teeth to keep from screaming. Even covered, the light of the jewel could be discerned and its seductive song heard, though Maglor suspected that only he heard it. Ragnor held the jewel out and Maglor took a deep breath, briefly closing his eyes, suddenly unsure as to whether he could do what he knew he must. Then he reached out and took the jewel, careful not to let any part of it touch his skin, knowing that the fire of its purity would burn him.

There were stifled gasps from more than one throat and several people even took a step or two back and more than one ellon put hand to sword as if anticipating an attack. Maglor noted all this but ignored it, though the part of his mind that was not focused on the Silmaril was pleased to note that Glóredhel neither stepped away nor sought for a weapon, but stood beside him unflinchingly. Indeed, her expression could almost be said to be one of professional interest and if the situation wasn’t so grave he would have smiled at that thought and teased her about it.

Instead, he bowed to Ragnor in deep respect, something that the ellon had not expected, for his eyes widened in surprise. Maglor then turned to face west and bowed just as deeply before speaking, never taking his eyes from the West and Those Who abode there.

“Once, I took an Oath, one that should never have been spoken. It was an Oath born of madness and though its very words seared my soul, I joined with my brothers to utter it. It was wrong. I was wrong and I have paid for it ever since.” He paused to take a deep breath, knowing that what he was about to do would most likely destroy him.

“Once, you asked my adar if he would relinquish the Silmarili to you that the Trees might be saved. He refused and the Trees are forever gone. He was wrong. I know that what I do now cannot begin to change all that has followed from that refusal, but in humility and in contrition for all the crimes I have committed because of my Oath I offer you this Silmaril and beg for your forgiveness.”

He bowed again, then knelt, holding the Silmaril up, still covered, though its light peeked out here and there, illuminating the night. Maglor took a deep breath and when he spoke again it was in Quenya. He vaguely heard Voronwë whisper a translation into Sindarin for the benefit of the others.

“I, Macalaurë Fëanárion, confess to you who sit upon the thrones of the West and to the One who is above all thrones, that I have sinned in deed and in word most grievously in what I have done and what I have failed to do. I hereby solemnly and of my free will renounce all claims to this or any other Silmaril for all the ages of Arda that may remain and beyond. I humbly ask for your forgiveness and accept whatever punishment is my due for my crimes.”

He then placed the Silmaril gently upon the ground, carefully removing the covering to allow it to shine in all its glory. The others exclaimed in wonder at the sight as Maglor rose shakily to his feet, feeling suddenly weak for some reason. Arthalion was immediately beside him to lend him his support and he gave the ellon a grateful smile, then bowed once again to the West. When he straightened, he removed the bag in which lay his harp and removed the instrument, tuning it to an ancient mode known as Silmë Mornë Neninnar, a minor mode that had been popular in Aman but rarely played in Ennorath even among the Noldor.

He played several arpeggios, getting the feel of the strings and the sound, making sure he had tuned it correctly and when he was satisfied he struck a dark chord and then lifted his voice in song.

The entire world went still at the sound of it as Maglor sang a song newborn from the very depths of his fëa. He sang in Quenya and it was the song of his life, all of it, all the good and the bad, all the beauty and the ugliness of his long existence. He sang of his dreams and his regrets; he sang of his hopes and his despair. He did not spare himself and tears began to flow but he never stopped singing, pouring his heart out, opening himself up in a way he had never done before as he sang of his life.

And all the while, the Silmaril glowed with preternatural beauty.

Intent as he was on his song, Maglor paid little attention to anything else and he was unaware at first as to what was happening around him.

“Look!” he heard Aerin cry out. “Look at the Silmaril and Eärendil’s Star!”

Maglor felt his concentration falter as he glanced down at his feet. The jewel was shining brighter than he ever remembered it doing and belatedly he realized that some of that brightness was coming from above and as he lifted his eyes he saw Eärendil’s Star seeming to flame, doubling in brightness.

“Watch out!” someone cried in alarm and Maglor felt more than one hand grabbing him and pulling him back away from the chasm. He gasped in wonder and terror as a dark wave rose from out of the depths and fell upon them, inundating them, and several people fell to the ground for the weight of the waters, though Maglor managed to remain erect, quickly covering his harp to protect it. When the waters receded, the Silmaril was gone and Eärendil’s Star dimmed to its normal brightness.

Amazingly, none of them were soaked and the ground was no wetter than it had been. It was as if the wave had never been or was but a phantom image, yet the Silmaril was gone and so was the moonlit road, for now the moon was high above them.

For a very long time no one spoke or moved. Maglor stared at the spot where the Silmaril had been, trying to understand what he was feeling at that moment. Was it relief or regret or a mixture of the two? He was not sure, but he felt something freeing within him, some sense of rightness. He glanced up at the stars bathing them all in benediction and a sense of peace washed over him, leaving him feeling weak. Tears still flowed and they felt cleansing as if they were washing away all the filth that had darkened his life and soul.

“Remember this night,” he whispered, still staring at the spot where the Silmaril once was, swaying slightly and feeling lightheaded. “Remember the stars and the position of the moon. Someday the waters will return and we will Sail and the Straight Road will open for us. Remember…”

It was Arthalion and Ragnor who caught him before he fell senseless to the ground, but he never knew it.

****

Silmë Mornë Neninnar: (Quenya) Starlight on Dark Waters. The mode is in reference to Cuiviénen, the Waters of Awakening.

35: Aftermath

Maglor woke to darkness and confusion, unsure what had happened. His last conscious memory was of falling and—

“My harp!” He started thrashing about, throwing back the furs covering him, looking for his harp.

“Shh… it’s safe. See you. It’s right here.”

He was not sure who was speaking, but he felt something being placed in his hands and felt the contours of the harp. He sighed in relief and lapsed back into unconsciousness, unaware that Glóredhel sat beside him readjusting the furs.

When he woke again, it took him a moment or two to remember what had happened. He was clutching something to him and realized it was his harp safely in its carrysack. Shadows flickered above him and he realized they were being cast by a fire and he was in the cave. Beyond the cave he could hear a storm. Gingerly sitting up, being careful with the harp, he saw Denethor and Arthalion sitting nearby. Denethor looked at him and smiled.

“Awake at last?”

Maglor did not answer immediately, staring out to see snow flying, though oddly there was thunder in the sky and a bolt of lightning that caused him to flinch.

“How long have I slept? Is it winter again?” he cried in dismay, feeling confused still.

Denethor gave him a surprised look but Arthalion just threw his head back and started laughing. Maglor stared at him, wondering what was so funny. He looked to Denethor, and the ellon smiled sympathetically.

“No, you have not slept that long, my friend. It is only the second day since you renounced your Oath. This is merely a spring storm. It came up yesterday afternoon. I suspect it will wear itself out before long. It’s not even noon yet.”

By now Arthalion had gotten himself under control. Maglor felt embarrassed and wasn’t sure where to look. Arthalion saved him from having to apologize by speaking first. “You must be starving. Would you like some stew?”

Maglor nodded. “Yes, though that will have to wait as I need to… um… get very wet first.” He gave them a resigned sigh, realizing that he would have to brave the storm if he wished to relieve himself.

Denethor grinned. “Arthalion, go with him and make sure he doesn’t slip or anything. The ground is treacherous,” he added for Maglor’s benefit when Maglor looked to protest. “I’ve made it an order that no one goes out in this alone if they need to.”

Maglor nodded and then realized that the three were all alone in the cave. “But surely the others are not out in this? Shouldn’t they all be crammed in here with us?”

“We found two more caves further along this cliff face while you were asleep,” Denethor explained. “I sent everyone to fend for themselves until this storm ends. Now, you go do what you need to and I’ll have the stew ready for you when you return.”

Maglor nodded and making sure the harp was safe, he stood, feeling a bit shaky and shrugged on his cloak which had been used to cover him. Arthalion helped him cross the short distance to the cave entrance and they went out. By the time they returned to the cave they were both thoroughly soaked but in minutes they were dressed in dry clothes and Maglor was sitting beside the fire warming himself with the stew.

“So what’s happened?” he asked at one point.

“Nothing much,” Denethor said. “Most of us spent as much time as possible yesterday exploring, though there was always someone watching over you.”

“I remember waking and worrying about my harp. There was someone there. I never saw who but I think it might have been Glóredhel.”

Denethor nodded. “She would have stayed, but I convinced her to go with Ragnor and Finduilas to one of the other caves. I thought you should have more privacy and Arthalion and I were quite capable of tending to your needs if necessary.”

“Thank you,” Maglor said sincerely. “So, what now?”

“Well obviously we’re not going anywhere until this storm passes, but I think we should return to Mithlond sooner rather than later. We will plan several expeditions to retrieve as much of the metal as we can though Glóredhel thinks that most of it is worthless and cannot be salvaged.”

“I have not seen any of the wrecks myself, so I cannot say yea or nay to that,” Maglor said, “but I trust her judgment. She is very knowledgeable about metals. I think we must look to the old Dwarf mines for our ores.”

“Assuming we can find them and they are accessible,” Denethor said.

“I suspect that the cave system north of Mithlond where Arthalion lived may once have been the mines of Nogrod,” Maglor stated. “We did not explore them as much as I would have liked, concentrating on inventorying what Arthalion and Arthad had collected. I think they deserve a closer look.”

“I agree,” Denethor said.

“How are you feeling, Maglor?” Arthalion asked.

Maglor gave his friend a brief smile. “Warmer, inside and out.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Arthalion retorted.

“I know, but, in truth, I’m not sure how I feel.” He glanced down at his right hand, suddenly aware of something missing. “It doesn’t hurt,” he whispered in awe and he held his hand up and opened it wide, wider than he had been able to for too long. “There’s no pain. Why is there no pain?” He flexed his fingers and there was indeed no pain, no spasming of tortured muscles and tendons. The scars on his palm were still there, white scars in the shape of a diamond where a facet of the Silmaril had lain, but the fiery pain was gone.

He looked at Denethor and Arthalion in wonder. “How is it possible?”

“You are asking us?” Denethor retorted with a grin. “Do I look like Lord Manwë to you? You’ll have to ask him when you see him, for I have no more idea than you and I suspect the same is true for Arthalion. Accept that the pain is gone. Accept it as a sign that you’ve been forgiven and do not dwell overmuch on it or on what that pain cost you all these ages. The pain is gone and you seem to have full use of your hand again. Rejoice, therefore, and be glad.”

Maglor put aside his bowl and reached for his harp, removing it from its cover and, tuning it to a bright mode called Nén Lálala Áressë, began singing, his voice raised in joyous praise:

“Á lirë vinya lindë Erun, á lire Erun ily’Ambar. Á lirë Erun, á laita esserya, ar á nyarë pa rehtië Eruannary’ aurello auren. Á quetë alcarya ímica i-nóri, alcarinquë cardaryar ímica i-lië.…”

He continued singing joyfully for some time, unaware that even those huddled in the other caves could hear his song above the storm and smiled at one another in gladness.

****

The storm ended shortly after noon and everyone crawled out of the caves and went to greet Maglor as he exited his cave, the ellyn giving him warrior salutes and the ellith kisses. He smiled warmly as Glóredhel came to offer him a kiss and whispered a thank you in her ear. She just nodded and stepped away to let Aerin have a turn.

“We heard you singing,” Ragnor said once everyone had greeted him. “Even with the storm, we could hear you.”

“Look!” Maglor exclaimed, holding up his right hand and flexing it. “The pain is gone.”

Everyone gasped in surprise and then there was a babble of voices with everyone wanting to know what had happened. Maglor held up both hands, calling for silence.

“I do not know how or why,” he said, “I only know that I woke to find full use of my hand and there is no longer any pain. Denethor said I must wait until we reach Dor Rodyn to ask Lord Manwë about it, otherwise, I should just be grateful and move on.”

His delivery was so deadpan that for a moment everyone just stared at him and then Damrod started laughing and soon everyone else joined him. When they had calmed down someone asked what they should do next. “Now that Maglor has done what he set out to do.”

“We’ll stay another day or two and see how the weather goes,” Denethor informed them, “but I don’t think we need linger. The warm season will be short and there is much we need to accomplish before winter sets in again.”

There were many sighs among them.

“I keep thinking that now that Maglor has renounced the Oath and the Silmaril is back where it belongs, that somehow the way would be miraculously opened and we could continue on,” Aerin said, looking wistful.

“It would be nice,” Denethor said, giving her a sympathetic look, “but that sort of thing only happens in tales told by Mortals. Lord Ulmo is not about to offer us a ride on an island nor is a rainbow bridge going to suddenly appear, but do not give up hope. We’re here together and we have the means and the will to find our own way home and that is miracle enough when one remembers what we were before we started on this impossible journey.”

There were murmurs of agreement among them.

“Well, I for one would like to look at the wrecks,” Maglor said. “Everyone’s had a chance to explore but me.”

“Your own fault for being so moody,” Arthalion said with a sniff.

“Moody? I wasn’t moody,” Maglor protested. “I was…contemplating my options.”

“If you say so,” Arthalion retorted, looking less than convinced.

The others grinned. “I’d rather eat than explore,” Sador said. “There’s not much left of the old wrecks anyway. I say, the sooner we return to Mithlond, the better. I want to explore those caves where Arthalion lived. They’re more interesting.”

“We’ll give Maglor a chance to look around,” Denethor said, “and if the weather is fair tomorrow, we’ll head home.”

“Home,” Finduilas said, sounding wistful as she gazed westward.

“Only for a time, my love,” Ragnor said, giving his wife a brief hug and a kiss. “Someday we will be home indeed.”

The others nodded and, as people began drifting away in pursuit of their own pleasures, Maglor stood uncertainly, not sure what he wanted to do. Arthalion looked to keep him company, but then Amarthamíriel asked if he would like to walk with her. He gave Maglor an apologetic look and Maglor just grinned as the ellon went off with the elleth.

“I think they will come to an understanding soon.”

Maglor turned to see Glóredhel standing there watching after the couple with a satisfied look.

“It does look like it,” Maglor said in agreement. “I am glad. Arthalion deserves some happiness after all he’s suffered.”

Glóredhel gave him a considering look. “And you? What about you? Do you not deserve happiness as well?”

Maglor shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking. “I gave up any right to happiness a long time ago.”

“Perhaps,” Glóredhel retorted, looking unconvinced, “but you’ve suffered enough for it, haven’t you? And now your hand is healed. I would think that would be a sign that all is forgiven and you have as much right to happiness as any of us.”

“I do not know,” Maglor muttered, staring at his right hand, flexing the fingers and marveling that there was no pain.

“I do.”

Maglor looked up into Glóredhel’s eyes, so full of warmth and tenderness and… love.

“I believe you deserve to be happy, Maglor, no less than the rest of us.”

“I’m not sure I know how to be happy anymore,” Maglor whispered.

Glóredhel gave him a wistful smile. “Then, why don’t I show you?” she said, almost seductively and she reached out and took his hand. He thought she would lead him back into one of the caves, but instead she led him toward one of the wrecks and he wondered at that but remained silent. She gave him a coy look.

“I thought you wanted to explore the wrecks,” she said.

“I do, but I… um… that is….”

Her laughter was light and gay and there was no malice in it. “Why don’t we spend a little time getting to know each other better before we do anything… um… rash?” she suggested once she had calmed down.

“Rash?” Maglor couldn’t resist saying, giving her a teasing look. “When have I ever done anything rash?”

She stopped and stared at him in disbelief.

“No, seriously,” Maglor said, feigning hurt. “When have I ever been rash in all the time you’ve known me, which has been, what, less than a year?”

Glóredhel rolled her eyes and Maglor grinned. “So are you going to show me the wrecks or what?”

“I’ll show you wrecks,” Glóredhel growled and lunged at him, but Maglor half-anticipated her move and skipped out of her reach, laughing, and then he was running and she was chasing him and those who saw them laughed and cheered and offered rude comments indiscriminately. He finally let her catch him and as they fell laughing into each other’s arms Maglor knew that all was well in the world.

****

They ended up staying two more days and then on the third day, the sun shining brightly in their eyes, they headed back up the Gulf singing as they went. The journey back was done at a leisurely pace, for the days remained dry and the nights were fair. Eventually, though, they saw the ruins of the city before them and crossed over to climb the cliffs into East Mithlond and made their way to Bârwain.

“It’s good to be back,” Maglor said to Arthalion, Voronwë and Neldorion as the four Noldor made their way into the room that was theirs, dropping their haversacks on the floor.

“Násië!” Voronwë exclaimed fervently. “Though, mind you, I did enjoy the trip, but if we’re not Sailing immediately, I just prefer to remain here and sit out the rest of the age until we can Sail.”

“Well we won’t be doing too much sitting around,” Neldorion offered. “There’s too much to do. I think we should mount an expedition back to that valley where we found the trees and gather as many seeds and saplings as we can and bring them back here and see if we can’t create our own nursery. We’ll need the wood eventually for building the ship and we might as well start sooner rather than later.”

“I agree,” Maglor said, “and I’m sure Denethor does as well. And speaking of Denethor, we should get going or we’ll be the last ones at the meeting.” The others nodded and headed out to the main hall where Denethor had asked everyone to meet once they had gotten settled. Most were already congregated in the hall when Maglor and the other ellyn arrived. Denethor came shortly thereafter accompanied by Damrod as his second. When all were gathered, Denethor spoke.

“I know that we’ve had many discussions over the last several days as to what we should do next. Some of our plans by necessity cannot be implemented immediately but others I think can be. The caves to the north need to be explored to see if we can extract any ores and the cat-creatures to the south need to be dealt with so we can live safely. I know some wish to return to Tûm Ivon and collect seeds and saplings and set up our own nursery, though we will need to find a suitable place first. The warm season is short so we need to do as much as we can in that time before winter sets in again. To that end, I think we need to deal with the cat-creatures before all else. That threat needs to be dealt with before we can concentrate on other matters.”

“To that end,” Damrod said, “I’m asking for volunteers to go with me to deal with the creatures. We will also check to see if there are any viable mines there as well.”

“How large an expedition?” Ragnor asked. “We cannot all go. That would be foolish.”

“Agreed,” Denethor said. “I think no more than six or eight should go, but Maglor, you and Arthalion have had more experience in fighting the creatures. What do you think?”

Maglor took a moment before answering. “Against those creatures I would wish for a hundred warriors at my back, but as that is not an option, I would say that ten would be better and at least half should be our best archers. The more of the creatures we can kill from a distance, the better. We’ve been lucky so far, certainly I have, but luck is a chancy commodity and cannot be relied on, except to suddenly disappear at a critical time, so we must be wise in our selection of who goes to ensure our success.”

There were murmurs of agreement all around and in the end it was decided that ten would go and six of those going were their best archers. Maglor, as a matter of course, included himself in the group, but suggested that Arthalion remain to lead the group that would be exploring the caves while the hunters were gone. He did not like it but understood the logic, for he was the only one who actually knew anything about the caves.

“When do we leave?” Sador asked.

“Sooner rather than later,” Denethor replied, “but certainly no later than a week from now. Rest up and check your weapons.”

“I will plan to lead anyone who is interested to the caves on whatever day the hunters leave,” Arthalion said and Maglor was not surprised when Glóredhel was the first to express an interest in joining him. In the end, six volunteered to go to the caves with Arthalion, all of them having some knowledge of ores and mines, though only Glóredhel could properly be considered a loremaster in the field.

Thus, the next few days were a flurry of activity and on the fourth day after returning to Mithlond, both parties were ready to leave. Maglor took Glóredhel aside to speak with her privately.

“You will take care, will you?” Glóredhel asked before Maglor could speak. “You won’t do anything foolish, will you?”

“Only if you promise the same,” Maglor said.

She gave him an arch look. “I’m not the one who feels he needs to prove himself.”

“Is that what you think?” Maglor retorted with a frown. “Would you rather I remain here or go with you to look at some caves while others risk their lives so we can live secure?”

“No, of course not, but you always seem to put yourself out in front of any danger, as if you are trying to prove something to someone or to yourself.”

“That has always been the case,” Maglor said with a wry grin. “Oh, not the proving part. I have nothing to prove to anyone, least of all to me, but I take my oath as a warrior seriously. Do not forget that once I was a leader among the Noldor. Oh, I did not style myself a king like my cousin Finrod, but I did rule a portion of our people and I took my duties as a leader seriously. This is no different. When I joined with you, I took you under my protection.”

“Rather full of yourself, aren’t you?” Glóredhel demanded somewhat angrily. “As if we needed the protection of the great Maglor.”

“Perhaps you are correct,” Maglor replied mildly. “One thing I share with others of my clan is an over-developed sense of pride and arrogance, or so I’ve been told.” He shrugged. “I cannot help it. When I joined with the Harthadrim, they became my responsibility, whether they knew it or not, or even appreciated it. Denethor, I think, understands, though I have been careful not to overstep bounds. He is our leader and I respect him for it.”

“Well, we seem to have gotten off track from our original discussion,” Glóredhel said. “You will be careful, won’t you? I don’t want you returning in worse shape than the last time you fought those creatures.”

“And I do not want to hear that you’ve managed to fall into a chasm because you were too busy looking up instead of minding where you were putting your feet.”

“Fair enough,” she said with a grin, then her expression softened and she leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “The Belain go with you, my love,” she whispered and before he could respond, she fled and he stood there staring after her.

“And with you… my love,” he whispered.

“Maglor! We’re leaving.”

“Coming, Damrod,” he said and, gathering his supplies, he joined the other hunters. Everyone wished them good fortune as they set out. Maglor did not look back, afraid that if he did so, he would not wish to leave. The future lay ahead and, while it was still fraught with danger and uncertainty, it was also full of hope and, yes, even love. He knew that when he returned he would need to examine that feeling more closely and what it might mean for him and Glóredhel but for now he would concentrate on the task at hand, of helping to keep them safe so that when the day came, they would all be there to Sail.

As the hunters left the bounds of the city and headed toward the Tower Hills which they would use as a base of operation, Sador began singing a song, a spritely tune in praise of sunlight and flowers. Maglor gave the ellon a smile and joined in and soon they were all singing joyously under a fair sky.

****

Words are Quenya:

Nén Lálala Áressë: Water Laughing in Sunlight.

Násië: Amen.

Note: Maglor’s song is based on Psalm 96 (NRSV version):

Sing to the LORD a new song, sing to the LORD all the earth. Sing to the LORD, bless his name, and tell of his salvation day to day. Declare his glory among the nations, his marvelous works among the people.

The literal Quenya translation is as follows:

Sing [a] new song Eru-to, sing Eru-to all the World. Sing Eru-to, bless name-his, and tell concerning saving grace-his day-from day-to. Speak glory-his among the nations, glorious deeds-his among the people.

36: The Journey Continues

500 years later:

Maglor stood looking out upon the bustle of activity surrounding the ship. Or rather, the two ships. Standing on the quay, he watched the loading as people stowed away any personal items they wanted to bring along. Even after nearly three-and-a-half yéni, that wasn’t much. As he watched Denethor and Damrod direct the others he thought back over those yéni and all that had been accomplished and smiled.

It had not been easy and there were times when even he despaired that they would ever accomplish their goal of building a ship and Sailing to the Blessed Realm. The stars and the moon had positioned themselves as they had on the night he had renounced the Oath many times, but the Seas remained locked in ice and it was only in the last hundred years or so that the earth had warmed enough for the waters to return. Denethor had wisely placed an outpost at the headland at Harlond to keep watch on the waters and to warn them of their approach.

Now, the Gulf truly was a gulf and the only way to reach the west side of the city was in small coracles for they never bothered to replace the bridge that had once connected the two parts of the city. It was too great an engineering feat for them and ultimately it did not matter.

Maglor sighed as he looked back into the city. His gaze fell upon the small gardens that had sprung up here and there as the climate warmed. Trees now shaded some of the avenues and several of the nearby buildings had been rebuilt out of the ruins that the city had been when they first came, turned into living spaces and workshops. It had been their home for long enough that leaving it would be hard for most of them. He reflected on that for a moment and accepted that even he was finding it hard. He had made a good life here with the Harthadrim, and he had long ceased to consider himself an outsider. He was one of them and he belonged to them in ways that he had never belonged elsewhere, not even among his own family.

He glanced at the sky. The sun was several hours from setting but they would need to set sail within the hour if they wished to clear the Gulf for the open Sea before moonrise.

“Ada,” a voice called behind him and he turned and greeted his oldest son with a smile. “Nana says to get your lazy hraw moving and come help.” The ellon gave him a cheeky grin.

Maglor laughed and hugged his firstborn. “Tell your nana that I’ll be right there.” He gazed fondly after his son, whom he and Glóredhel had named Estel. He had been added to their household about ten years after he had renounced his Oath. Estel had shown a talent for creating in gemstones, capable of capturing the light of sun and moon in crystal, providing them with light that never dimmed or went out. Maglor marveled at the similarity between his son’s creations and the Silmarils, though the light created by Estel was not as bright or as pure. Yet, unlike his grandfather, he gladly shared his creations with all and delighted in lighting the city with emerald lamps that cast a warm, green glow upon them all.

“All those gemstones my brother had me collect finally came in handy,” Arthalion had commented when Estel produced his first lamp and Maglor had simply nodded, pleased that someone had found a use for those worthless baubles.

Maglor nearly laughed at the memory as he headed for the ship in which he and his family would sail. He spied his two younger children checking the sails. His daughter, Míriel, had been born about a yén after Estel and had inherited Maglor’s love of music, but also Glóredhel’s pragmatism and she had proven to be an accomplished sailor and shipbuilder. Their youngest, Russandol, so named for his red hair, was just now reaching his majority. He did not seem to have any particular talent for crafting but he was an excellent hunter.

Over the years, several children had been added to the Harthadrim. Duilinn and Gwilwileth had actually been the first to declare their love for one another and now were the proud parents of four children, and others followed: Saelmir and Aerin with two children, Arthalion and Amarthamíriel with three, even Voronwë had married an elleth named Nimloth, a shy child of mixed ancestry, and they had two children and a third on the way who would be born in Aman. Thus, they now boasted a population of forty-six.

Maglor smiled at that thought as he reached the gangplank and silently helped Ragnor with loading barrels of water onto the ship. It was a fine ship, they both were, though Maglor knew that Círdan would probably have shaken his head at the sight of them. None of them had any knowledge of shipbuilding and they had discovered the secret of the craft through trial and error — lots of trials and plenty of errors. He almost laughed out loud at the memory of the first real boat they had managed to build and how it had sunk almost immediately. There had been much cursing and many chagrined looks that day. Denethor had merely nodded as Celepharn and Gilgaran swam back to shore.

“Well, now we know how not to make a boat,” their leader had said philosophically as he gave Gilgaran a hand.

So they had gone back to trying to figure out how to make a ship seaworthy. Maglor felt a sense of pride to think that it was his own daughter who had come up with the design that proved the most viable. He was looking forward to introducing Míriel to Círdan and hoped the ancient Elf would appreciate her talents.

True, these ships were nothing like the ones for which Círdan was famed, but Maglor thought they were fine nonetheless. They had been built by people with no previous knowledge of shipbuilding, only with the knowledge that it could and had been done before. And, of course, they had to create the tools with which to build the ships and that had not been easy, for they had had difficulty finding and mining the necessary ores. The ancient Dwarf mines had been played out long before and Denethor had declared that going into the deeper shafts too dangerous. But they had managed, however crudely made the tools might be.

All-in-all, Maglor thought they should all be proud of their accomplishments. They had nothing to be ashamed about. Those of Aman might sneer at their efforts, but what of it? Maglor doubted any of them could do better given the same circumstances.

He paused and contemplated that thought. He was returning to his ancient home and yet knew that it would never be his home nor would those residing there be his people. Mithlond, or rather, that part of Mithlond they had renamed Bârwain, was his home, more so than any other place and the Harthadrim were his people.

“Everything all set?”

Maglor turned to see Denethor standing at the top of the gangplank and nodded. “All set. We just have to stow these last barrels. How is the loading coming along on the other ship?”

“Still a few more barrels to go and your daughter is rechecking the sails,” Denethor answered. “I’m still not sure these sails will work, though.”

Maglor shrugged. “Míriel thinks they’ll do. They’re not canvas, but we’ve made the leather as thin and supple as possible. They really just have to catch the wind. I have a feeling Lord Ulmo will do the rest.”

“Do you think so?” Ragnor asked dubiously. “None of the Belain seemed particularly anxious to aid us in reaching Dor Rodyn after sending Denethor that dream that set us on this course.”

“But I suspect that was all they needed to do,” Maglor replied. “The Belain help those who first help themselves, or so my naneth used to say. For myself, I’m glad they did not show up with the solutions for our problems. I think these ships prove that we are worthy to return to Dor Rodyn for we built them with our own effort. We will not be returning as beggars at the door hoping for scraps from our betters.”

“Well said, Maglor,” Denethor exclaimed with a nod of approval. “Well, finish up. We have less than an hour before we must Sail.”

“Yes sir,” Maglor said with a grin, giving Denethor a salute before helping Ragnor with the last of the barrels. Even after all these years, Maglor had not once attempted to take over the leadership of the Harthadrim, though even Denethor had tried to convince him to do so. While he was willing to provide advice and his sword to the betterment of all, he was not willing to take over as leader.

“The Belain chose you to lead us,” he had pointed out to Denethor more than once. “To you came the dream. I gave up all rights to rule by my own actions. I will always be willing to offer you my thoughts and I will wield my sword for the protection of us all, but you are our chosen leader unless some other is willing to take the burden from you.”

But of course, everyone agreed with Maglor on that score, and so Denethor had remained their leader with Damrod as his second. Maglor was content to act as one of Denethor’s advisors, but then, in a sense, they all were. The population was still small enough that they all met in council and offered their opinions on matters. Even the children, once they reached their majority, were allowed a voice. But ultimately Denethor had the final say and over the yéni he had proven to be a wise and canny leader.

Maglor hoped that those of Aman would recognize the ellon’s worth and not be dismissive of him or any of them. He suspected that he would be looked upon with some disdain for who he was and accepted that possibility, but he feared that the others, especially the children, would also be dismissed by the Amaneldi as rude and untutored, little better than primitives, and that thought saddened and angered him. As the only recognized loremasters among them, he and Glóredhel had taken on the responsibility of designing a curriculum of studies for the children and teaching them the lore of their people. Maglor was proud of the fact that none of the children were ignorant of their history and all had acquired the skills needed to survive in what was still a harsh environment, though it was less harsh and unforgiving than it had been, especially once they had eliminated the cat-creatures that had threatened them, a task that had taken longer than any had anticipated. No, none of them had anything to be ashamed of. They might be unsophisticated in the eyes of the more cultured Amaneldi, no better than the mysterious Avari who had disappeared into the mists of the ancient past, but they had every right to be proud of their accomplishments and he, Maglor, would make sure that those snobs of Aman knew it.

He caught himself up short at that thought and almost laughed. They hadn’t even set sail yet and already he was deciding how he would respond to imagined slights against him and the others. Shaking his head, he looked about to see what else needed doing but it seemed that everything was in order. He saw Glóredhel speaking with Finduilas and Eirien, her two closest friends, as the three stood by the railing apparently taking a short break from their work and smiled fondly at the sight. She was more beautiful than ever, his beloved, and he gave thanks once again that he had found her, marveling anew that she had consented to be his wife and the mother of his children. He gave Ragnor a nod and the two headed for the ellith and greeted them.

“How are we doing?” Glóredhel asked.

“All set,” Maglor replied, giving her a hug and a kiss. “We’ve stowed the last of the water barrels and I think Míriel is finished checking over the sails. We could leave anytime and indeed we must leave soon if we are to reach the open waters before moonrise.”

“It’s hard to believe that we are finally Sailing,” Finduilas said, looking about. “I never thought I would miss this place, but I will.”

“We all will,” Eirien responded. “We’ve invested so much of ourselves in this place, more so I suspect than we have done anywhere else.”

“We always knew that this was but a temporary camp,” Maglor said, “yet, I think because we knew that someday we would leave, this place has become dear to us in ways that no other place where we may have resided ever has. We built upon the ruins of another age and we built with hope."

“And now that hope is about to be realized,” Glóredhel commented.

“Hey!”

They turned to see Damrod on the quay gesturing to them. “Denethor wishes everyone to gather together before we leave.”

“Shall we go see what our fearless leader wishes to say?” Maglor asked and the others laughed as they headed down the gangplank and were soon joining all the others on the quay where Denethor stood on a block of stone so all could see him. Maglor put an arm around his youngest son’s shoulders even as he wrapped his other arm around Glóredhel’s waist and listened to what the ellon had to say.

Denethor gave them all a fond smile. “And so it comes to this: that at last we are ready to Sail. It has been a long road for some of us and I know that there were times when even I thought that this day would never come, and yet it has. I do not know what adventures lie ahead of us on the sea-road. I do not know what we will find when we finally come to Dor Rodyn. Maglor is the only one who can tell us about that and his information, I fear, is woefully out-of-date.”

There were chuckles among them and Maglor just shrugged, giving Denethor a merry look. “At any rate,” Denethor continued, “I wish only to tell you how very proud I am of all of you and all that we have accomplished here. We have nothing to be ashamed of. Others may look down at us as latecomers to their shores and disparage our feeble attempts at shipbuilding, but I think, given the circumstances, we did well enough and none of us need hang our head in shame. Well, the tide is turning and it is time to board. You all know which ship you are on. Míriel, I’ll leave you to direct the crews. Anyone who has not been chosen to be a sailor should congregate toward the prow and stay out of the way. The Belain go with us all.”

He stepped down and everyone spent several minutes hugging each other as they separated to go to their respective ships. Maglor and his family boarded the Mir Aear while others boarded the Aearloth. Estel and Russandol stayed with their sister, who was acting as captain, while Maglor escorted Glóredhel to the prow along with the others who were not acting as sailors.

“I wish we could all be together on a single ship,” Glóredhel said as she waved to Finduilas who, along with Ragnor and their children, were on the other ship.

“As do I,” Maglor responded, giving his wife a brief hug, “but I think we were wise to build two ships. Even splitting us up, we’re still going to be in crowded conditions and who knows how long the journey will last?”

“I just hope the ships are able to stay together,” Arthalion said as he and his wife, Amarthamíriel, joined them. “Ivorwen, stop distracting Estel with your chatter and come over here.” Maglor looked to where the elleth was standing next to Estel, who sat on the rowing bench with Russandol, the two waiting, along with the other rowers, for Míriel’s signal. Arthalion gestured to his daughter, who pouted a little as she obeyed. He grinned at Estel’s longing looks and Russandol rolling his eyes in disgust as Arthalion continued gently chiding his daughter. “There will be plenty of time for speaking when he’s not on duty. Now sit here with your nana and don’t get in the way.”

“Yes, Ada,” Ivorwen said with a sigh as she sat beside Amarthamíriel, who gave her a sympathetic smile and a hug.

Arthalion exchanged amused smiles with Maglor. “So how much do you want to bet that they declare themselves as soon as we come ashore?” Arthalion asked.

“They’re both too young for that,” Maglor said with a grin. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if they did.”

“Cast the lines!”

Everyone turned at the sound of Míriel shouting her commands and watched as the lines were cast.

“Rowers!” Míriel called and those who had been chosen as sailors began to row in unison with the beat of a drum. There had been a long discussion about the need for rowers but given the uncertainty of what they would find upon the open waters, it was decided that they would be necessary, so the ships were more like the galleys built by Mortals, though much smaller and with fewer rowers.

The two ships made their way slowly away from the quays. Many looked back at the city that had been their home for so many years but Maglor was not one of them. He kept his eyes ever westward, refusing to look back.

They rowed down the Gulf, the tide helping to speed them on their way. As the ships reached the Harlond, Maglor and Arthalion, along with others, spelled the rowers, so he was rowing when they finally reached the Straits and the open sea.

“Rowers stop!” came the command and Maglor gratefully shipped the oar but did not immediately get up to see what was happening. “Raise sails!”

He watched as several people began pulling on the lines and the main sail was raised. The leather had been bleached and a sun-in-glory had been painted on it. For a long moment, nothing happened, but then the sails billowed slightly as the evening breeze quickened and they began moving. There were shouts of joy and clapping on both ships.

“Well, we’re away,” Arthalion commented to no one in particular.

By now, the sun had set, though the moon had yet to rise. The sky deepened into a midnight blue and the stars shone out in splendor with Eärendil’s Star outshining them all. Maglor rose from the bench and stretched aching muscles, gratefully accepting a cup of water from Glóredhel. He made his way to the prow where the rest of his family, except Míriel who stood by the wheel with Saelmir at the helm, were gathered.

“How long do you suppose the journey will take, Ada?” young Russandol asked him.

“I do not know, iôn nîn,” he replied. “When we crossed over from Dor Rodyn to Beleriand it was at the narrowest point between the two lands and it was not a long journey though it was certainly frigid enough. Here, the distance between Ennorath and Dor Rodyn is greater, even more so for we must tread the Straight Road and there is no way of knowing when we will find it.”

“Yet, you were convinced that night when you renounced your Oath, that when the stars and the moon aligned themselves as they did that night that the Straight Road would open for us,” Glóredhel said.

“Yes, and I still hold to that, but again, I have no real certainty as to when that will happen. We may have to sail beyond sight of all land before that happens.”

“Well, we will see soon enough, I think,” Arthalion said.

They fell into silence, each lost in his or her own thoughts. Maglor wondered what his children were thinking, for they were leaving the only home they had ever known. Indeed, for most of them, that was true. He had never thought to ask them and that troubled him. For so many years his one goal was to see this day come round when they would finally Sail and he would go home at last.

And yet, was it truly his home? He had lived longer in Ennorath than he had ever lived in Valinor. He knew the Mortal lands more intimately than he knew even the city of his birth. To what, really, was he going home? What truly awaited him there? On one level, he hoped that he would find his brothers waiting for him; on another level, he feared that very thing.

He snorted quietly in derision at his ambivalence, but he knew it to be true. His feelings about what they were attempting were very ambivalent, yet, this was the entire purpose of their lives and had been these last three-and-a-half yéni: to obey the Valar’s summons and seek the Straight Road. For he had no doubt that it was indeed a summons, one that could not be ignored however long it took for them to accomplish it. He had no doubt that when the Valar had sent Denethor the dream that had set the Harthadrim north in search of him, that they knew that their arrival would not be immediate, yet it was assured. Of that, he had no doubt.

“Look! The moon rises!” someone exclaimed.

Maglor came out of his reverie to see the moon rising behind them, large and golden, and as his light illuminated the night, a single beam, as if a road, spread westward.

“Stay the course!” he heard Míriel shout. “Denethor, make sure you stay directly behind us,” she ordered, calling out to the other ship where Denethor acted as captain.

They heard the ellon acknowledge Míriel’s words. Maglor found his harp where he had stowed it earlier and unlaced the bindings on its cover, quickly tuning it by feel alone to a mode called Milië Eldamar. He struck a chord and began singing an ancient lament of the Noldor:

“My soul's desire over the sea-torrents
forth bids me fare, that I afar should seek
over the ancient water's awful mountains
Elvenhome, the land of my youth…”

He continued singing as they sailed on, on, on over the sea, following the road of light; and it became very bright and very calm — no clouds, no wind. The sails drooped and yet they were still moving forward. Someone gasped.

“Look to the sea, the sea!”

Maglor’s singing faltered and he moved to stand closer to the railing and looked down. The water seemed thin and white below and then he suddenly saw lands and mountains down in the water shining ghostly in the pale moonlight. He looked up into the heavens and thought that Eärendil’s Star was brighter and closer than it had ever seemed since the War of Wrath when the Mariner had done battle with Ancalagon the Black. He quickly retuned his harp to the mode called Gilgalad am Nîn Ngail in Sindarin and began singing a far different song as the ships continued sailing, though no wind billowed the sails:

“O Shore beyond the Shadowy Sea!
O Land where still the Edhil are!
O Haven where my heart would be!
The waves still beat upon thy bar,
The white birds wheel; there flowers the Tree!
Again I glimpse them long afar
When rising west of West I see
Beyond the world the wayward Star,
Than beacons bright in Gondobar
More fair and keen, more clear and high.
O Star that shadow may not mar,
Nor ever darkness doom to die.”

And then it seemed almost as if the air had thinned and it became difficult to breathe and many gasped for air, some even succumbing to unconsciousness. Maglor stopped singing and thrust his harp into Estel’s hands as he reached out to catch Glóredhel who fainted and held her in his arms as they continued to Sail, crooning soft words into his wife’s unhearing ears. Then after a time that was timeless, it seemed to him that he smelled a marvelous fragrance as of land and flowers, a fragrance that he had long forgotten, for it had never been smelled in Ennorath. As the fragrance grew, they found that they could now breathe properly and Glóredhel and others came out of their swoon.

Maglor helped his wife to rise and they looked out to find that all was as before: they were still on the sea but now there was a stiff wind blowing them westward. And though there was no sight of land as yet, the fragrance of flowers never seen in Ennorath grew and Maglor smiled, knowing that their long journey was finally coming to an end.

They were home at last.

****

Hraw: body.

Russandol: (Quenya) Copper-top; a nickname first given to Maedhros for his red hair.

Amaneldi: (Quenya) Plural of Amanelda (sic): Elves of Aman.

Avari: (Quenya) The Refusers; those Elves who never left Cuiviénen.

Mir Aear; Jewel of the Sea.

Aearloth: Sea-flower.

Iôn nîn: My son.

Milië Eldamar: (Quenya) The Longing for Eldamar.

Gilgalad am Nîn Ngail: Starlight upon Bright Waters.

Edhil: Plural of Edhel: Elf.

Gondobar: City of Stone, literally, ‘Stone-Home’; according to Tolkien, one of the Seven Names of Gondolin. See Book of Lost Tales II and The Lays of Beleriand.

Notes:

1. Maglor’s first song is derived from a translation by Tolkien, with obvious alterations, of lines 36-38 of the Old English poem The Seafarer. See The Lost Road and Sauron Defeated, ‘The Notion Club Papers’.

2. Maglor’s second song is taken directly from a poem written by Tolkien entitled The Song of Ælfwine. See The Lost Road.

3. The description of the Straight Path is based on one given by Tolkien in The Lost Road, when he is describing the voyage of Ælfwine.

37: Arrival

They continued sailing straight west, having no idea where they would eventually end up.

“There is supposed to be the Shadowy Seas and the Enchanted Islands to trap the unwary,” Maglor said to the others as they gazed out into the star-spangled ocean, “but I do not know their extent, only what was told to me by those who came with Lord Eönwë and the Host of the West during the War of Wrath.”

“Well, it hardly matters,” Arthalion said. “We found the Straight Road and it opened to us and that means we are expected. I’m sure the Belain are even now arranging for a welcoming party.”

“Do you think they’ll have tea?” Ivorwen asked and everyone laughed at what had become a longstanding joke among them.

“What sort of reception do you think we’ll find, though?” Arthalion asked, looking more somber.

“I am sure all of you will be welcomed with open arms,” Maglor said with a smile, “and perhaps your loved ones who went before will even be waiting for you on the quay.”

Arthalion gave Maglor a shrewd look. “You do not include yourself.”

“No I do not. No, do not worry for me, my loves,” he said consolingly when his wife and children looked to protest, “whatever happens, I want you to know that I do not regret a single moment of our lives together. You have been my joy and I love you all dearly, but understand this: I am guilty of kinslaying and more and the Belain cannot ignore that. There will be judgment, of that I have no doubt. What is in doubt is the outcome of that judgment.”

“They won’t demand your death, though, otherwise, they would have left you to kill yourself the first time you tried,” Arthalion pointed out.

“No, they won’t demand my death, though others might,” Maglor said. “The worst they will do is exile me away from Eldamar, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. Valinor is a large continent and my brothers and I never saw all of it. There may be places untouched by elven hands where they may bid me to go.”

“Well, if they do, we will go with you,” Arthalion said, gesturing to include all who stood with them at the rail and there were many nods.

Maglor shrugged. “That is your decision, of course, but all this is theoretical until and unless the Belain actually do sentence me to exile. Let us not spoil the moment with what may never be, but rejoice in the fact that we have found the Straight Road and are going home at last. That is what is important, not what may or may not happen to any of us when we arrive.”

“Well said.”

There were gasps of surprise and shock and everyone turned to see a stranger standing on the deck smiling at them. He was wearing a white ankle-length tunic over which was a sleeveless surcoat that appeared to have a fountain of a woman weeping embroidered on it. Maglor started at the sight of the warrior braids the stranger sported, for they were of the same pattern as he had worn so long ago. Several of the ellyn went for their swords and the stranger raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“Peace, my children. There is no need for panic. I am Nyéreser of the People of Nienna bid to greet you in the Elder King’s name. Your coming has been long anticipated.”

“You… you’re a Maia, aren’t you?” Ivorwen asked timidly.

“Yes, child, I am,” Nyéreser said with a warm smile. “Now, the waters you are sailing into are a bit treacherous with shoals. You’re further north than you need to be, so my brother and I will lead you into safer waters.”

Suddenly, shouts of shock and fear came from the other ship and they all ran to starboard to see what was happening. Nyéreser laughed. “Fear not!” he called out. “Your comrades are safe enough. I believe Salmar is introducing himself to Denethor and the others. Now where’s Míriel? Ah, good. There you are. If you will permit me, my dear, I will take over command of your ship for the duration.”

Maglor was pleased to see that his daughter was not intimidated by the Maia’s presence as she graciously nodded her head. “You have the helm, my lord.”

“Thank you,” the Maia replied gravely, all levity aside. “Saelmir, turn the wheel three degrees to port.”

“Three degrees, my lord,” the Sinda replied, deftly turning the wheel.

“Steady, now. Another quarter turn. That’s it. Maintain this heading.”

Maglor watched as the Maia scanned the heavens, as if in search of something. Whatever he was looking for he seemed to have found it, for he nodded to himself and there was a look of satisfaction on his face. “Yes, we’re on course,” Nyéreser said, more to himself than to the Elves standing around.

Then the Maia looked about him, his eyes settling on Maglor. Maglor felt himself stiffen, as if bracing for a blow, as the Maia approached him. He was grateful for Glóredhel standing beside him, lending him her strength, for he felt suddenly weak around the knees. Nyéreser stopped a couple of feet from him, his gaze intense, the light of love in his eyes so bright as to be almost blinding yet Maglor found he could not look away however much he wished to.

“You have naught to fear, Macalaurë,” the Maia said gently, speaking in Quenya. “The Valar are not out for your blood.”

“Perhaps not, but I doubt if the same could be said for others,” Maglor replied in the same language.

“But their judgment is not important,” Nyéreser countered, “and most forgave you long ago.”

“You wear warrior braids,” Maglor said, deciding to change the subject, “in the very pattern that I designed for my people.”

“And you do not,” Nyéreser responded.

“I stopped wearing them a long time ago.”

“And I never stopped wearing them. You do not remember me, but I fought beside you in the War of Wrath, adopting these braids. I have worn them ever since in honor of you and as a sign of hope that someday you would return to Aman and be reconciled to the Valar.”

“Can that even be possible after all that I’ve done?” Maglor asked, looking skeptical. “At least my brothers had the chance to be reconciled through death. I do not have that option.”

“You do not understand,” Nyéreser said. “The moment you renounced your Oath and willingly gave the Silmaril back to Lord Ulmo, you were reconciled to the Valar and Ilúvatar.”

“Yet, I suspect there will still be judgment,” Maglor retorted, though there was no bitterness in his tone, only resignation.

“The judgment is for your benefit and for the benefit of the Elves of Aman who will need to see in a public manner that you and the Valar are indeed reconciled,” the Maia said. “Now, worry not. The day of judgment is nigh but it is not now. We still have a way to go before we reach Eldamar and there is naught that you or anyone else can do either for or against that day.”

All the while, the others stood listening to the conversation. Neither Arthalion nor Voronwë bothered to translate since everyone understood and spoke Quenya, for the four Noldor had made the effort to teach the others the language while they waited out the age.

“We will not be landing in Avallónë, as is customary for any ship that comes from Endórë,” Nyéreser told them. “I have been commanded to bring the ship to harbor in Alqualondë.”

Maglor felt the blood drain from him and he was grateful that Glóredhel was there to steady him, encouraging him to sit on a nearby bench. Nyéreser gave him a sympathetic look. “You are already reconciled to the Valar, but there are others with whom you must be reconciled before the Past can be safely put where it belongs, in the past.” He glanced negligently at the stars. “Saelmir, another turn of the wheel to port then keep the heading.” This last was spoken in Sindarin.

“My lord,” the Elf said in acknowledgment as he did as the Maia bid.

“We will reach Alqualondë at dawn,” Nyéreser informed them. “Until then, be at peace.” And he moved away from them and stood beside Saelmir, quietly speaking to him, ignoring everyone else. Míriel also joined them, standing on Saelmir’s other side.

“Here, give him some water,” Maglor heard Arthalion say and someone thrust a skin into his hands and he drank.

Alqualondë!

Never in his wildest imaginings had he thought to see that place again, the site of his first and most terrible sinning. Always, he had imagined sailing into the port of Avallónë, though he did not know what it looked like and only knew of it through rumors from Elves who had been there, for there had been a time when ships did return from Tol Eressëa with news of kith and kin for those who remained in Ennorath. Only when Númenor had been destroyed had there been a cessation of travel between the two lands and all journeys to Tol Eressëa had been one-way. He had imagined coming to the Lonely Isle and then perhaps moving on to Tirion. He had no doubt that he would have been summoned to Valmar to face the Valar, but it had never occurred to him that he would do so through Alqualondë. It was the last place he wished to be.

Glóredhel brushed a hand through his hair. “It will be well, love,” she whispered to him. “You will not be alone in this. We will face what is to come together.”

“I… I am not sure I can….” To his utter shame he started weeping and Glóredhel wrapped her arms around him and gently rocked him.

“It will be well, Maglor… Hush, my love,” she whispered and then he heard her speaking to the others who were standing around them and her tone was one of anger. “This was supposed to be a joyous occasion and now, thanks to that Maia, it’s ruined and my lord is distraught. I would think he’s suffered enough.”

Maglor struggled to compose himself, to assure her and the others that it was well, but he felt suddenly weary as he had not felt for so long, not since before Denethor and his people had found him in the ruins of Imladris and convinced him to join them in their quest for the Straight Road. He wished it would all go away. Someone approached and then he was being pulled to his feet.

“Maglor, look at me,” he heard Nyéreser say and such was the power of his command that Maglor had no choice but to obey. He stared into the Maia’s eyes and felt himself falling into them, as in a pool of warm water and all the tension and weariness in his body seemed to float away, leaving him feeling fresh and alert. Nyéreser nodded, letting him go.

“I told you that you have naught to fear. You and those with you are under the Elder King’s protection and all know this. None will raise sword against you.”

“I doubt it is that simple,” Maglor retorted.

The Maia shrugged, giving him a faint smile. “Only you Children like to over-complicate things.” He paused and looked about, as if gauging how alone the two were and Maglor was surprised to see a conspiratorial gleam in the Maia’s eyes as he bent down to whisper into his ear, though he had no doubt everyone nearby could hear every word. “Do you know how many have importuned the Belain down the Ages on your behalf, begging my masters to forgive you your crimes and allow you to return?”

Maglor stepped back, giving Nyéreser an amused look. “Is that a trick question, my lord?”

The Maia laughed. “Nay, child, it is not. The answer is: more than you might believe and you would no doubt be shocked by who has done the pleading. I promise you, all will be well with you and yours. Judgment must be rendered, but more for the sake of propriety and for the record than for any real need for vengeance or retribution. As your lovely wife says, you’ve suffered enough down the Ages, and most of that suffering was self-inflicted. We are often our own worst judges. Now, it is still some hours before dawn. I suggest you rest. You have a busy schedule ahead of you, you all do.”

“That is what I don’t understand,” Glóredhel said. “I always had the impression that the distance was great enough that it would take some days to traverse the waters before reaching land, yet you say we will make landfall at dawn and we’ve only been on these waters a few short hours.”

“Ah… well, what you say is true and in the past we have simply allowed your ships to come through the Gate and then continue sailing.”

“The Gate?” Arthalion asked.

“The boundary between Ennorath and here,” Nyéreser answered. “I am afraid I can’t explain it better than that. The Straight Road crosses the boundaries and where the Mortal world meets with this one, there is a Gate. Suffice to say, that, in your case, my Lord Ulmo caused the physical space to contract somewhat so that you would be only a day out from Alqualondë instead of the nearly five days that it normally would take to reach it.” He gave them a merry look. “My masters are very anxious to meet with you all and chafe at the delay.”

He returned to stand by Saelmir, giving him some instructions, leaving Maglor and the others to fend for themselves as the hours progressed and the eastern sky began to lighten. They all gathered at the prow to catch their first glimpse of Alqualondë, Olwë’s Swan Haven. The stars faded as the Sun rose behind them, sending shafts of golden light before them, brightening both sea and sky.

“Look!” someone shouted. “I think that must be land.”

And it was. In the growing light of the Sun, they saw a dark smudge of greenish-grey on the horizon and there were glints of white that reflected back the Sun’s light.

“What is that?” Russandol asked, shading his eyes against the glare, and pointing southwest.

“You are seeing the Pelóri Mountains,” Maglor answered. “Or rather, I believe you are seeing the uttermost peak of Taniquetil where Lord Manwë dwells with Elbereth.”

The others gazed in stunned wonder at the sight and Maglor was suddenly reminded of the last time he had been to Ilmarin, before the exile to Formenos. He glanced across the waters to where the Aearloth was and saw the other Maia pointing at something and speaking to Neldorion who was at the wheel. He saw the Noldo nod and swing the wheel to the left and realized that their own ship was also angling slightly to port and then Nyéreser was issuing orders to ready the ship for entering the Havens and all the while they came closer to land and soon they were seeing the arch of living sea rock that marked the entrance into Alqualondë.

Maglor watched their approach with interest. He vaguely remembered seeing the arch as the ship he had helped commandeer had sailed under it, but at the time he was too busy trying to figure out how to get the ship beyond the bar. None of the makeshift crew actually knew what they were doing, not being sailors, but somehow they had managed to bring the ship out of the harbor and into deeper waters. His ship had survived the sea storm that had beset them almost as soon as they left the Haven, but it had been a near thing.

He shuddered slightly at that memory, so dark, so full of blood and madness.

“I don’t think they’re happy to see us,” he suddenly heard Arthalion drawl and pulled himself out of the past to see that they had entered the Haven and Nyéreser was directing Saelmir toward a particular quay where several people were congregated, waiting for them in silence.

“I suspect they are not happy to see me,” he said with a sigh. “Most of the rest of you can probably claim kinship with them.”

“Well, I can’t,” Arthalion retorted with a sniff, “nor can Neldorion or Voronwë.”

Maglor cast him a grin. “There are always exceptions to the rules.”

They fell silent as the ship made its way slowly across the bay, weaving between the various swan ships until it reached the quay. Maglor heard some of the younger Elves exclaim over the grace and beauty of the Telerin ships, comparing them to their own ships, which were rather clumsy and unlovely to look at.

“Looking at these ships, I’m surprised ours even floated,” Ivorwen whispered in dismay.

“Míriel did a great job designing our ships,” Russandol retorted, defending his sister.

Maglor hid a smile. “Yes, she did and we have nothing to be ashamed of. We came by these ships honestly through the sweat of our labors and they’ve served us well.” The others appeared to be somewhat mollified by his words as they turned their attention to the quay.

Nyéreser began issuing orders and Maglor joined the others in casting the lines which were neatly caught by some of those waiting for them. He saw the other ship coming to berth on the other side and waved when he saw Denethor and Ragnor, who waved back. No one on the quay shouted any greetings to them, and the only sound was the screeching of the seagulls above them. Maglor felt, rather than saw, the Maia come to stand beside him.

“There are some people who wish to meet you,” Nyéreser said softly.

Maglor nodded and looked at Glóredhel, holding out a hand to her. She smiled and took it. “Come along, children,” she said. “It’s time to depart.”

Estel and Russandol were immediately beside their parents. Míriel hesitated, looking to Nyéreser, who seemed to divine the reason for her reluctance. “Fear not! Your ships are safe enough. Salmar will see to them. So, shall we go?” He directed this last toward Maglor, who squared his shoulders and nodded. The gangplank was extended and made fast and Maglor took the lead, escorting Glóredhel with their children right behind them, followed by the others. Out of the corner of his eye, Maglor could see those on the other ship also disembarking and soon all of the Harthadrim were standing in a knot facing the Teleri who still had offered no greeting, merely watching in silence.

Nyéreser was the last to leave the ship and wended his way through them to stand by Maglor who had simply stopped and stared at the Teleri waiting for one of them to make the first move.

“What?” the Maia exclaimed in disgust, glaring at the Teleri. “Are you waiting for proper introductions? Very well. These good people are the Harthadrim and this is Denethor son of Mablung, their leader. Denethor, some of the good people of Alqualondë. And now that that bit of nonsense is out of the way, we have business elsewhere.”

“We came to see him,” one of the Telerin ellyn said, pointing at Maglor.

“Well, you’ve seen him,” the Maia retorted, then turned to Denethor. “Shall we go?”

The Teler gave a huff of annoyance and some of his companions began to mutter. “I meant, we wished to speak to him.”

“Ah, my mistake,” Nyéreser said with feigned politeness. When no one ventured to move or speak he threw up his hands. “Atar save me from fools! We do not have all day, my children. Either say something or go away. Olwë is no doubt wondering if we got lost along the way.”

“Why is he not here to greet us, then?” Estel demanded, looking belligerent.

“Hush, Estel,” Maglor admonished him softly, never taking his eyes off the Teleri ranged before them, trying to gauge their mood. “Kings do not come to you, you come to them.”

“Yes, Atto,” the ellon said, blushing slightly at the mild reprimand.

“Atto?” asked the Teler who had spoken before.

Maglor smiled and nodded. “Estel is my son, as is Russandol,” he nodded toward the younger ellon, “and Míriel, who designed our ships, is my daughter, and this is my beloved, Glóredhel.”

The Teleri began muttering amongst themselves and the one who appeared to be their spokesman grimaced, pointing at Denethor. “The Maia says this one is your leader.”

“Yes, he is,” Maglor replied, glaring at the ellon even as he reached out and grasped Denethor’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze, for Denethor had looked mortified at the Teler’s obvious dismissal of him.

“Why are you not the leader?”

“Why should I be?” Maglor retorted mildly.

“But you’re… you’re…”

“I’m what?” And he allowed his tone to go cold and his expression to darken. Several of the Teleri actually took a step back. Their spokesman visibly gulped but did not back down.

“You are of the House of Finwë,” the ellon pointed out. “I would think you would just naturally lead whatever group you were in.”

“Well, as you can see, I do not, and so if you have business with any of us, you’ll have to speak with Denethor first. Now, if I’m not mistaken, I believe Olwë is waiting for us.”

“Yes, let us hence, my husband,” Glóredhel said primly. “We do not wish to be late for tea with his Majesty.” The others among the Harthadrim started laughing, including Maglor, much to the consternation of the Teleri. Nyéreser, who had stayed out of the conversation, grinned and gave the Teleri a shooing motion, forcing them to back away and allow Maglor and the others to leave the quay.

“But we have not completed our business with him,” the Telerin ellon protested.

“You’ve had plenty of chances, my friend,” Nyéreser said, “but you squandered it with trivialities. You are free to follow us if you desire, but do not hinder us.” And as mildly as the Maia spoke, there was an element of threat to his tone and none of the Teleri importuned them. Nyéreser led the way, acting as a tour guide, pointing out certain architectural features of the city and giving them a little history of some important event or other that took place at certain spots along the way. Maglor had to admire the Maia treating the entire affair as if it were a Hobbit holiday. He grinned at the thought and for the first time since the Maia had appeared on their ship he began to relax a little and enjoy the experience.

All along the way, Teleri stopped and stared at their group as they passed. Even the boats on the various canals were halted by their pilots and those aboard watched in silence as the Harthadrim crossed over bridges. The silence was unnerving.

“I would feel better if they shouted at us and threw things at us,” Glóredhel whispered, echoing Maglor’s own thoughts.

“You mean shouted at me and threw things at me,” he said, giving her a knowing smile.

“If you are not welcomed, neither are we,” she shot back. “I would not remain among people who are so obviously rude, be they kin or no.”

Maglor would have commented, but by then they had reached a large plaza in the center of the city that fronted the royal residence and he saw Olwë standing in the portico leading up to the main entrance. Beside him was an elleth whom he assumed must be Olwë’s queen and on the other side was an ellon whom Maglor recognized though they had never met. There were others ranged behind these three.

Nyéreser stopped a few feet from Olwë and gave a nod of his head in greeting, gesturing toward Denethor. “Olwë, this is Denethor son of Mablung, who leads the Harthadrim, as they call themselves.”

For a moment Olwë did not speak, giving them a searching look. His eyes fell upon Maglor and Maglor forced himself not to look away. Olwë’s expression was unreadable and Maglor had no idea what the Telerin king thought or felt in seeing him. Olwë’s gaze shifted and he stepped forward, giving them a slight bow in greeting.

“Mae govannen, mellyn nîn,” he said in flawless Sindarin. “Dartho vi sidh govîn.”

Maglor was not the only one to gasp in surprise and Olwë gave them a knowing smile, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “What?” he exclaimed, still speaking Sindarin. “Did you think with all our Sindarin kin cluttering up the highways and byways of Aman, I wouldn’t have picked up a word or two of their language?” Those standing around him snickered, obviously amused.

“More than a word or two,” Maglor couldn’t help saying, speaking in Quenya. “And we are all quite conversant in the language of Aman, thank you very much, so you needn’t show off, Olwë. It’s unbecoming of a king.”

Olwë actually laughed. “Insolent as ever, Fëanárion,” he replied in Quenya. “But come. There is no need to stand out here while people gawk. Let us adjourn to table and break fast together. My Lord Denethor, I am very happy to meet you at last. You must introduce me to your people when we are seated.”

Before Denethor could protest, Olwë threw an arm familiarly around the ellon’s shoulders and led him away. Maglor and the others hesitated, but when the others in the delegation parted for the king, Nyéreser gestured for them to follow. “I will be around,” he said with a smile and faded from their view, leaving behind the fresh scent of lemon as Maglor took Glóredhel’s hand and they all followed Olwë and Denethor into the palace with the Telerin delegation bringing up the rear.

****

Mae govannen, mellyn nîn. Dartho vi sidh govîn: ‘Well met, my friends. Remain in peace (together) with us’.

38: Alqualondë

Whatever Maglor had thought would be his reception in Alqualondë, this was not it.

Once inside, Olwë began issuing orders and before they knew what was happening, servants were ushering them to where they could freshen themselves, though it took a while for them to actually reach the washing chambers for everyone, even Maglor, kept stopping to stare at a tapestry or an intricately carved pillar or even the marble tiles on the floor, gaping at the richness of elven architecture, which had only been hinted at in the ruins of Mithlond.

What the Telerin servants thought was anyone’s guess, for they kept their expressions neutral. When they finally reached the chambers, with the ellyn going into one and the ellith into another, Maglor hid a grin at the nonplused looks on his sons’ faces, and those of the other younger ellyn, when they were confronted with faucets. Maglor turned them on and Russandol actually jumped back in surprise. The ellyn were further shocked to find the water was actually warm. The older ellyn just grinned.

And that was not the only disconcerting thing they encountered. Even Maglor, long used to the primitive conditions that had been endured in Middle-earth, had to re-remember what it was like to live with such luxuries as running water or to eat with a fork.

And the food!

After so long a restricted diet of venison, goat and fish, supplemented with succulents and later with roughly cultivated grains that had begun to appear once the climate warmed considerably, the foods that were presented to the Harthadrim were almost too much, and Maglor was not the only one to sternly warn the younger Elves to take only small quantities.

“These foods are common here in Aman, but your bodies are unused to such richness and you can easily get sick and thereby ruin your experience of them,” Maglor said.

“And that goes for the rest of us, as well,” Denethor chimed in. “I’ve forgotten what fruit tastes like.”

“You had no fruit?” Olwë asked and he was not the only one to raise an eyebrow in surprise at that.

“Not in the north,” Denethor replied. “In the south, of course, the climate was more temperate, though drought conditions persisted. Still, fruit trees were plentiful.” He gave them a rueful look as he selected an orange from a bowl. “I stopped dreaming of them after the first hundred years or so.”

The Teleri had thoughtful looks on their faces as they took their seats and the meal began.

Now, sitting back after eating a sumptuous meal and sipping some small beer, Maglor watched Olwë interact with the Harthadrim, who, for their part, seemed unsure how to respond to the Telerin king or those whom he introduced: his queen, Lirillë, his heir, Lindarion, and especially, his brother, Elu Thingol. Maglor had recognized the former king of Doriath and so had many (though not all) of the older members of the Harthadrim and all were shocked when he addressed them in Quenya. He gave them a sardonic smile.

“In Mandos, all pretense and arrogance is shorn from your fëa, and you are left naked,” he told them. “When I was re-embodied, I had no real memory of myself as King of Doriath nor did I remember any of my decrees. By the time I did, it was too late, for I was speaking Quenya as fluently as I spoke Sindarin and it no longer mattered.”

For their part, the Harthadrim had become suddenly shy, especially the younger ones, and Maglor could tell that not a few were even embarrassed in the presence of the Teleri with their fine silks and velvets and glittering jewels. The Telerin courtiers and palace servants and functionaries gawked at them in their uncouth attire, for the Harthadrim wore deerskin tunics and leggings, even the ellith, though their tunics fell below the knees. The tunics were dyed in a variety of colors and, in lieu of gemstones, small beads were sewn on them in different geometric patterns. Most of the ellyn wore warrior braids, though Maglor did not.

Maglor, for his part, fell back on his earlier upbringing in his grandfather’s court and ignored the stares and concentrated on Olwë, trying to gauge the king’s intent from his words and actions. The king and his family seemed genuinely pleased to have them there, asking about their kin and insisting that every effort would be made to find them.

“Many have left Tol Eressëa and now dwell in Hyaraman,” Olwë told them.

“Hyaraman?” Denethor asked.

“It is the lands to the south of the Pelóri mountains,” the king explained. “There are a number of small enclaves, colonies, kingdoms, whatever you wish to call them. The largest city is Vinyalondë.” He looked at Maglor, giving him a smile. “Your cousin Findaráto’s son, Lórindol, rules there.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow but when he did not comment, Olwë shrugged and turned back to the others and began describing the lands in which the Elves dwelt. “There is also Aewellond to the north where Eärendil and Elwing rule. We have a road that connects their enclave with Alqualondë, though it is still faster to travel by ship. The road now extends southward to Vinyalondë, though again, it is faster to go by ship.”

“Then why the road?” Denethor asked.

“Because it is a physical link between the various kingdoms,” Olwë said. “The Sea Road, as we call it, meets with the road to Tirion, which in turn connects to the road that leads to Valmar and beyond. And there are many who prefer to travel by road rather than by ship.” Olwë glanced at Maglor as he lifted his goblet to drink. Maglor had not missed the emphasis on ‘road’ and smiled back, knowing what the king was really saying, but before he could offer a comment, Olwë spoke again. “Now, I know Macalaurë is anxious to know why he is sitting here breaking his fast with us.”

“Among other things,” Maglor muttered, though he knew they all heard him.

Olwë nodded. “I understand you were met when your ship docked.”

Maglor gave him a sardonic grin. “You mean those tongue-tied ellyn who just gawked at us as if we were some strange species of sea life they’d never seen before?”

“Nyéreser sure put them in their places,” Estel snickered.

“Lord Nyéreser,” Maglor corrected automatically, then shook his head and gave Olwë his full attention.

“Well, those tongue-tied ellyn were all Reborn, victims of the Kinslaying,” Olwë said, giving Maglor a significant look.

Maglor felt the blood drain from him and the goblet he had been about to raise to his lips fell from nerveless fingers, spilling beer on the floor. There were shouts of dismay but Maglor paid no mind to them, suddenly back upon that starlit strand as he struggled to reach the ships, his sword flashing red, the smell of blood and the screams of the dying filling the air.

Then the blood smell seemed to lessen as the air around him filled with the scent of lemons and he felt himself being lifted up.

“Maglor, look at me.”

Maglor blinked, trying to understand what was happening. The iron tang of blood and the fresh scent of lemon warred within him, the dark of the stars with the light of the sun, and he finally was able to pull himself out of the past to see Nyéreser staring at him with concern. Glóredhel was at his side, stroking his cheek and the other Harthadrim were gathered around, as if to shield him from the Teleri who stood about watching with interest. Maglor could see Olwë standing just beyond Ragnor and Saelmir, his expression unreadable. Elu Thingol actually looked sad, which surprised him.

“How are you, my love?” Glóredhel whispered anxiously.

“I’m not sure,” Maglor replied faintly, closing his eyes and sighing. “This was a mistake. I should have just stayed behind.”

“No,” Nyéreser said firmly. “Remaining behind was not an option. The Valar summoned you, though they were willing to wait until you could actually build a ship to sail in, but the summons was not idly given and it cannot be safely ignored. You were meant to return here, though I grant you that your welcome in certain circles will be less than warm, but you knew that.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, I think if that’s the way people are going to treat Atto, we’ll just go back to Endórë where we at least know we belong,” Estel said angrily. “I don’t need all these people gawking at me and laughing at me behind my back because I have no idea what to do with this.” He lifted up a fork. “I don’t even know what it’s called!”

“It’s called a fork, my son, and there is no going back. The Straight Road is a one-way trip,” Maglor said, some of his humor restored at Estel’s frustrated tone.

“Then let’s find an island or somewhere away from these… these high-and-mighty people and to the Void with them all!” the younger ellon exclaimed and Maglor wasn’t at all surprised when most of the children echoed Estel’s sentiment.

He sighed, giving Nyéreser a rueful look. The Maia just smiled back, releasing his hold on him and fading from view, filling the air with the scent of lemons.

Olwë moved around and gently pushed people out of the way so he could face Maglor, giving a still fuming Estel a sympathetic smile. “When I first brought my people here, we were looked upon with disdain by the Vanyar and even the Noldor, who named us Teleri, though we call ourselves Lindar. We were considered uncouth and rough in comparison to the more sophisticated Noldor and Vanyar with their cities and fine civilization, which they adopted from the Valar. You have naught to be ashamed of, child. You and your family have achieved a remarkable feat, surviving the brutal conditions of Endórë and building ships that brought you here.”

“And fine ships they are.”

Everyone turned to see an ellon standing at the doorway smiling at them. Olwë raised an eyebrow. “I wondered where you were, my son. Were you with the other Reborn?”

“Only by chance, Atar,” the ellon said, joining them. “I was more interested in the ships. Ol’ Nyéreser was in fine fettle, the way he handled those ellyn. Salmar and I had a good laugh over it as he showed me over the ships.”

Olwë smiled and turned to Maglor. “Let me make you known to my son, Falmaron. He, too, is a Reborn and a victim of the Kinslaying.”

Maglor stared at Olwë’s son in horror, feeling suddenly sick at the thought that perhaps he had been instrumental in killing a member of the Telerin royal family. Falmaron must have divined his thoughts because he gave him a heartfelt hug. “Do not fret,” he said softly. “I forgave you all a long time ago and bear no animosity toward any of you.” He moved back and grinned. “Now, who designed those ships of yours?”

“My daughter, Míriel,” Maglor answered with not a little pride, gesturing for the elleth to approach.

Falmaron gave her a courtly bow. “My dear, I found your design to be quite interesting. I have no doubt that Lord Ulmo inspired you.”

“It was the fourth, or no, the fifth design,” Míriel said shyly. “I did not think I would ever get it right.”

“Well, given what you had to work with from what Salmar told me, I am amazed at how well you did,” Falmaron said. “I’m not sure I could have done half as well. I must have Círdan come and see the ships. He’ll be astounded.”

“Well, there will be plenty of time for that later,” Olwë said, giving Falmaron a fond look. “Right now, we have other things to consider. Macalaurë, I promise you that your coming to Alqualondë was not meant to be a punishment, but I think you know that some things needed to be said between us so that we can both move forward.”

Maglor nodded. “A long time ago, I began what I called my litany of forgiveness, calling up in my mind each and every person I had ever encountered, asking them to forgive me for what I had done to them, or even what I had failed to do. It was a long list, and I never finished it, for as the years went by and we continued to thrive there seemed no need. I had begun the litany as a way to prepare myself for death, but the Harthadrim saved me in more ways than one and now….” He shrugged, not sure what else to say.

“It took all of the rest of the First Age and a good part of the Second for me to come to forgiveness for what was done,” Olwë said, “and I never blamed you or your brothers, only your atar, who, in his arrogance and madness, was beyond saving, I fear. Most of my people have also found their way to forgiving the Noldor and the Reborn among us led the way, for in sojourning in Mandos for a time they were stripped of any need for revenge or retaliation.”

Maglor looked at Falmaron who nodded. “I even ran away from home when I found my own family still hadn’t forgiven the ones who killed me.” He grinned. “It took Lord Eärendil and a certain golden-haired balrog-slayer to teach them the error of their ways so that we could finally be reconciled to one another.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow. “You’ll have to tell us the story someday.”

“In the meantime,” Olwë said, “I think a public ceremony where you formally apologize for your part in the Kinslaying is in order, but otherwise, no other demands will be made on you. I understand that the Valar are expecting you in Valmar in two weeks’ time. My family and I will take you to Rómenhopa, which is the mainland harbor across from Tol Eressëa. We will be accompanying you to Valmar. And Arafinwë is already expecting you in Tirion.”

Maglor sighed, feeling suddenly weary. Olwë gave him a sympathetic look. “I know this is not easy for you, child, but it needs to be done for all our sakes. Now, why don’t we see you to your rooms where you can bathe and rest. You and I will meet again at the fourth bell to discuss the ceremony. I will have my steward come and escort you.”

It was obviously a dismissal and Maglor nodded, thanking Olwë for his hospitality. Denethor also thanked him, asking if it would be permissible for him to join them in the discussion. “Macalaurë is, after all, one of us and what happens to him affects us as well,” he said and Olwë agreed. Then they were being escorted to a wing in the palace and shown to their rooms.

****

The ceremony, as designed by Olwë, Maglor and Denethor, was simplicity itself and was to be held in the plaza fronting the palace at sunset, before the evening feast. In preparation for it, Olwë provided the Harthadrim with new clothes. Maglor, joining his wife and children in their private suite, had accepted the king’s gift with actual relief, but Russandol, upon seeing the clothes laid out for him, burst into tears and when Maglor and Glóredhel sought to ascertain the reason for them, he exclaimed that he wished to go home and refused to change.

Maglor held his youngest and tried to reason with him, explaining that the clothes were a gift from the king and to refuse to wear them would be an insult but the youngster — and indeed he was a youngster, barely fifty years old — could not be comforted and continued crying. Maglor realized that his son was simply overwhelmed by the newness and strangeness of their situation and just wanted to hold onto something familiar even if it was only by wearing deerskin tunics and leggings that had seen better days.

Somehow, Olwë learned of the minor crisis and appeared at the doorway of their suite, much to everyone’s surprise, and gathered Russandol into his embrace. “Hush now, hên nín,” he crooned, speaking in Sindarin, rather than Quenya. “Would you like to wear your own clothes for now?”

Russandol just nodded, sniffing a bit.

“Then that is what you will do, and that goes for anyone else. Do not feel you have to give up everything that has meaning for you simply because you are now in Aman and not Ennorath. I offered these clothes not out of disdain for your own attire, which, frankly, looks far more comfortable than what I’ll be forced to wear,” — he grinned as Maglor chuckled, well remembering the wearing of court garb — “but to show you my respect for you as my guests.”

“And we appreciate the gesture, your Majesty,” Maglor said, “or, at least, I do. I have forgotten what even muslin, let alone silk, feels like against my skin, it’s been so long. But I think that if some wish to wear our own garb, then all of us should, at least for this ceremony. Afterwards, we’ll see.”

“I have no objections,” Olwë said, “and indeed, I think it wise that you do continue wearing your own clothes, to remind everyone, and I mean everyone, in Aman just where you’ve come from and what you’ve endured.”

“Thank you,” Maglor said, then turned to Russandol, who was still looking a bit glum. “Hear you, Russandol? We will put his Majesty’s gifts aside and take them with us. Eventually, we will need to wear them, but we need not do so now. Does that meet with your approval.”

“Yes, Ada,” the ellon said, sounding somewhat embarrassed.

Olwë exchanged knowing smiles with Maglor and Glóredhel. “Then I will leave you to prepare yourselves,” was all he said and left them to their own devices. Maglor asked Estel to go to the others and explain what Olwë had said about the clothes and then suggested that they take the opportunity to bathe before the ceremony. Even Russandol perked up at that, asking if the water would be as warm as that which had come out of the faucets and Maglor had assured him that it would.

Just before sunset, the Harthadrim, now bathed and dressed in fresh deerskin tunics, gathered in the portico with the Telerin royal family and Olwë’s nobles and minor courtiers. Maglor could not help feeling dull and uncouth in his deerskin tunic that had been dyed blue with yellow and red beads decorating it against the brighter Teleri in their court finery and resisted a sigh. He was feeling somewhat ambivalent about things. On one hand he felt a need to keep some identity of himself as one of the Harthadrim, but on the other, he just wanted to blend in with everyone else and disappear into the fabric of Amanian society, or disappear as much as possible. He feared, though, that that might not be possible, not immediately.

The plaza had been filling up with the citizens of Alqualondë for the last hour and as the sun began setting behind the forbidding peaks of the Pelóri, Olwë gestured for Maglor to join him, along with Olwë’s queen and their two sons, Lindarion and Falmaron, who were the only children of the royal couple who still called Alqualondë their home. Denethor also joined them, representing the Harthadrim. The others were crowded together to one side with Maglor’s family in the front.

Olwë looked out upon the crowd now gone silent and spoke. “First of all, We wish to formally welcome Lord Denethor and his people, who call themselves Harthadrim, to our city and to Aman, for they have long sojourned in the Outer Lands where we are told conditions are or were extremely hostile, even more so than at the time of the Great Journey, which some of us here remember. We hope that they will find their new home to their liking.” He gave Denethor a gracious bow, which the ellon echoed. Then Olwë looked at Maglor expectantly, and Maglor nodded.

“And so we come to the reason for this gathering,” Olwë continued. “Here is Lord Macalaurë Fëanárion, who has returned at the behest of the Valar to face Judgment for his deeds. We will accompany him and his family to Valmar to stand as witness to that Judgment. However, there is that which must be done ere we go. My Lord Macalaurë.”

Maglor took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, moving to stand before Olwë and kneeling. He kept in mind that his Uncle Arafinwë had done something similar, according to Olwë, when he turned back from the journey and if Arafinwë, who was innocent of any wrongdoing, could so humble himself, then he, Maglor, could do no less, for his sins were greater.

“I, Macalaurë Fëanárion, do hereby express my deepest apologies for all the pain I and my family have caused thee, Olwë Lindaran, and I humbly beg thy forgiveness. I have renounced mine Oath, so rashly made, and no longer lay claim to mine inheritance. I am but Macalaurë and am content.”

“And I, Olwë Lindaran, do accept thine apology, Macalaurë Fëanárion, on behalf of myself, my family, and my people. I declare that there is peace between thee and me, Valar valuvar.”

“Valar valuvar,” echoed Falmaron, smiling as Maglor stood. Maglor then exchanged kisses of peace with Olwë and with Falmaron, representing all victims of the Kinslaying, whether those who had died or those who had survived.

All the while, the crowd remained silent, yet it was not hostile, and as Olwë led Maglor back into the palace, someone in the crowd began spontaneously to sing and soon other voices joined him. Maglor paused to listen, recognizing it and gave Olwë a puzzled look.

“The Hantalë Valain?”

Olwë shrugged and gave him a grin. “It seems appropriate considering that today is Valanya, in case you were wondering.”

“What’s Valanya?” Russandol asked, seemingly confused.

Maglor rolled his eyes, suddenly realizing just how much the younger Elves did not know about their own culture and history, while Glóredhel quietly explained the concept of naming the days of the week, giving them the Sindarin versions as well, as they continued to the feast hall.

****

Hyaraman: (Quenya) South Aman.

Vinyalondë: (Quenya) New Haven.

Aewellond: Bird Haven.

Rómenhopa: (Quenya) East Harbor.

Hên nín: My child.

Lindaran: (Quenya) King of the Lindar, modeled after the attested Ingaran ‘High King’ and Noldóran ‘King of the Noldor’.

Valar valuvar: (Quenya) ‘The will of the Valar be done’, an attested phrase.

Hantalë Valain: (Quenya) ‘Thanksgiving to/for the Valar’, a popular hymn usually sung on Valanya, the ‘sabbath-day’ in Aman by the Elves before the mansion of Manwë and Varda in Valmar. The title of the hymn and its purpose is noncanonical.

39: Tirion-on-Túna

They left the next day with the morning tide, taking the royal ship. Míriel had been a bit upset at the thought of having to leave behind their own ships, but Falmaron assured her that they would be safe enough.

“I sent word to Círdan and he will come while we’re away. I have no doubt that he will wish to meet with you.”

“Does he live on Tol Eressëa?” Maglor asked as they boarded Olwë’s ship.

“No. He and his people have long removed themselves to the south and they reside in their own place north of Vinyalondë which they call Mithlond ’Wain, though most people in Eldamar proper refer to it as Hópa Ciryatano.”

Olwë’s standard of a swan was raised along with the sails and they left the harbor, swinging first west and then south once they passed the arch leading out into the open seas. The day was fair and the wind warm as it filled the sails. Maglor found himself standing at the prow enjoying the view, watching the coast for any landmarks that he vaguely recalled on the way north, but in daylight, nothing looked familiar and in truth he had not really bothered to pay much attention to the landscape at the time except to see where to put his feet.

“There’s Tol Eressëa.”

Maglor turned to see Olwë standing beside him pointing away from the coast. Maglor looked and saw a dark smudge of grey-green on the southern horizon stretching eastward. Along the western side he could see pinpoints of white and realized that he was seeing ships plying the waters between the island and the mainland.

“It was just a dark, empty rock when I left,” Maglor commented. “And now I am told there are many thriving communities on it.”

“Gil-galad rules there,” Olwë said, “though there was a time when there was no king and each of the three main cities governed themselves, but that caused some problems and we eventually persuaded them to form an Assembly with a cáno heading it. That seemed to work but when Gil-galad was released from Mandos, many on the island, including the cáno, wished for him to take up his crown once again.”

The king gave Maglor a wry look. “Of course, they had to wait almost another yén before he was sufficiently mature enough to do so and for some time he was more interested in illuminating manuscripts, a skill that had been taught him in Lórien, than in ruling anyone or anything.”

“We have something of his,” Maglor said.

“Oh?”

“Arthalion found it. It’s all that survived the destruction of Mithlond when the ice covered all. Círdan did not see fit to bring anything belonging to Gil-galad when he finally sailed. Arthalion found Gil-galad’s rooms untouched when he and his brother were living there. They had come too late, you see, and remained behind.”

Olwë shook his head. “I think there is more than one tale amongst you and I hope to hear them all someday.”

Maglor just nodded as he looked out upon the waters. By now, Tol Eressëa and the ships that dotted the Bay of Eldamar were clearly visible. Within an hour or so, they were approaching the mainland harbor and Maglor raised an eyebrow at the activity onshore.

“There was nothing here when we came north,” he commented to Glóredhel and his children and others who joined him at the rail. “This was an empty strand.”

“Empty no more,” Denethor couldn’t help saying with a laugh. “Well, why would you expect all time to stop even here, my Lord Maglor?”

“I shouldn’t, but I guess in my mind, Eldamar was… not as fully developed, and you can drop the ‘lord’ bit Denethor. I told you before, I gave all that up a long time ago.”

“But that was in Ennorath,” Denethor pointed out in a reasonable tone. “Here, it may be different.”

“Do you think your family will be waiting for you?” Glóredhel asked, apparently wishing to divert her husband, for Maglor, who had been about to offer a retort to Denethor, clamped his mouth shut and shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he said softly. “I have been afraid to ask Olwë about them.”

Glóredhel hugged him and Denethor and the others gave him sympathetic looks. Arthalion sighed. “I’ve been afraid to ask about Arthad as well. Do you think he or my parents even knows I’m here?”

“I’m sure if they have been released from Mandos, the Valar would have told them,” Maglor assured his friend. “They may even be waiting for you here at the harbor.”

“If our kin are scattered about, though, it may be some time before any of us are reunited,” Denethor pointed out. “Arthad and your parents could well be living in Vinyalondë or some other place.”

Arthalion nodded. “Yes, when I heard about all the various elvish enclaves, I realized that I could not expect Arthad or my parents to have simply sat on the beach waiting for my arrival. They would have been encouraged to go on with their own lives, at least, I would hope so.”

“And that holds true for all of us,” Denethor said. “Once we’ve had our appointment with the Valar, we can concentrate on finding our kith and kin.”

“You mean, once I’ve had my appointment,” Maglor said. “I’m the only one who’s been summoned. The rest of you could simply go your own way.”

“I doubt it is that simple, Maglor,” Ragnor said with a grin. “For one thing, none of us have a clue as to where we should live.”

“I still think we should just find our own island and forget about the rest of Aman,” Estel said with a glower. “We don’t need them anyway.”

“Hush,” Maglor admonished him. “Don’t speak nonsense, child. This is your home now and you need to acknowledge that. The Elves of Aman are like anyone else with their mix of faults and virtues. If you treat them with respect, chances are they will reciprocate. Do not shame me and your nana with your surliness.”

“Yes, Ada,” Estel replied, looking chastened.

By now, the ship was gliding into port and Maglor could see several people on the wharf grabbing the lines that were being thrown to them and soon the ship was secured and the gangplank put down. Olwë motioned for Maglor and Denethor to join him and Lirillë and together they descended onto the quay where they met with an ellon who introduced himself as the Noldóran’s herald.

“His Majesty thought it best that you not be overwhelmed by too many curiosity-seekers and has kept everyone away,” the ellon explained. “I have been commanded to bring you to the city where the Noldóran will greet you properly.”

Olwë nodded. “I see my son-in-law is as wise as ever. And someone’s told him our numbers, for I see there are plenty of horses for us all.”

“But none of the children know how to ride,” Glóredhel said, “and it’s been so long since I’ve ridden, I’m not sure I remember how.”

Maglor gave her a sympathetic smile. “I know. I feel the same way.”

The herald bowed. “Do not concern yourselves. These horses were specially bred by Lord Oromë. They will bear you well and will not allow you to fall.”

Olwë nodded in agreement and then there were a few confusing moments as the younger Elves were introduced to the horses, most of them needing help in actually mounting them. Maglor noticed that those particular horses wore saddles. His own horse, a blue roan, was saddleless and in fact it took little effort for him to mount and settle himself. The younger Elves all had looks of trepidation which they tried to hide, though Ivorwen gave a slight yelp when her horse started moving and clung to the headstall with a look of fear on her face. He was glad that none of the Amanians who escorted them smiled or sniggered at the awkwardness of the children. But then, he reflected, these were guards, no doubt handpicked by his uncle, and they were professionals.

The herald rode beside Olwë and led the way up the Calacirya while Maglor rode behind with his family, keeping an eye on his own children. After a few tense minutes, he saw them begin to relax and Estel was even looking about with interest.

“What are those towers?” he asked, pointing, and Maglor turned his attention to the landscape and saw round towers bordering the Calacirya on both sides, evenly spaced. They appeared to have no entrances and on the top of each tower stood what he recognized were Maiar in full armor.

“I have no idea,” he said faintly. “They did not exist before.”

Olwë’s heir, Lindarion, who happened to be riding nearby answered, “They were built by the Valar after the Noldor left.”

Maglor nodded, understanding the implications of what the ellon was saying and studiously kept his eyes to the fore, ignoring, or trying to ignore the cold regard of the Maiar as they passed each tower. He concentrated his attention on the road they were on, commenting that the last time he’d been this way there had been nothing but grass.

“And it remained so well into the Second Age,” Lindarion explained, “but eventually, when the Sea Road was extended southward it was decided to build a road linking it to Tirion.”

As their pace was not fast, it took them a few hours to traverse the Calacirya, stopping once where pavilions had been set up beforehand where they were able to rest the horses and people could stretch and refresh themselves before moving on. Maglor was not the only one to complain about feeling stiff and sore as they dismounted but when Damrod exclaimed that he, Maglor, must be getting old if riding a horse for a few hours made him feel like a mortal weakling, there was a great deal of laughter and ribald humor at Maglor’s expense. Olwë and the other Amanians in their party looked on with amusement as Maglor shot back with a biting remark that had them all in stitches.

Thus, it was mid-afternoon and the sun was well down the western sky before the white towers of Tirion came into view. Maglor brought his horse to a sudden halt as he spied the Mindon rising above the city of his birth and to his horror he found himself weeping and could not stop however hard he tried. There were exclamations of concern and he thought he heard Olwë giving orders but he was too lost in his own feelings to pay much attention, so it was with some surprise that he found himself being pulled off his horse and into Olwë’s embrace, the king rocking him gently as if he were an elfling in need of comfort. He now felt embarrassed, but the tears continued to fall.

“Shh… It’s all right, child,” he heard Olwë croon. “Take your time. It’s all suddenly becoming real to you, isn’t it?”

Maglor nodded, content to remain in the king’s embrace, vaguely remembering the feel of strong arms around him when he was young, his own atar holding him and comforting him. “I never thought I would ever see Tirion again,” he said faintly. “I had long given up any hope of….” But he could not continue, for the tears came again, though they ceased after another minute or so and he was able to pull himself together. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to….”

“There is nothing to be sorry about, hinya,” Olwë said with a sympathetic smile. “I think you are all suffering from too many changes too soon. You have all been isolated from elven society for too long and the strangeness is merely catching up with you.”

“I think we did well enough, considering,” Maglor couldn’t help saying in defense of himself and the others.

“I didn’t say that,” Olwë replied. “I said that the strangeness of your situation, even for you, is catching up with you. Now, if you’re ready to go on, we should not keep Arafinwë waiting.”

Maglor nodded and with another word of apology, mounted his horse and they went on. His family and friends cast him concerned glances, but he ignored them, concentrating on the road, which actually wound to the south rather than continue straight west and Olwë told them that it met the road leading to the Southern Fiefdoms and they would be entering the city through the south gate.

They passed through orchards and fields and the occasional gate marking the entrance to one of the estates belonging to the Noldorin nobility, but they met no one on the road, which Maglor thought odd, but Olwë shrugged when Maglor commented on it. “I suspect Arafinwë has ordered all traffic on this road to cease until our arrival,” he said and Maglor left it at that.

Soon they came to the south gate, which stood open and for the first time they saw some of the inhabitants who lined the street. Guards saluted them and waved them through. Olwë gave them a gracious nod and led the way. The street was just wide enough that they could ride three abreast and Maglor was amused to see Arthalion and Denethor moving up to ride on either side of him, effectively placing him in the middle of their party, for the Telerin royal family rode with Arafinwë’s herald and the rest of the Harthadrim followed behind.

The crowd watched them pass, many murmuring comments to their neighbors. There was no sense of hostility, merely curiosity, and if any recognized him, they gave no indication in word or deed, but remained respectfully quiet. Of course, Maglor reflected wryly to himself, that may have been because of the guards that were stationed along the route keeping order. The road followed the curve of the hill, skirting the lower gardens of the palace grounds before meeting up with the main avenue fronting the palace. Maglor heard gasps of surprise from more than one throat among the Harthadrim, for as lovely as Olwë’s palace was, the palace of the Noldóran was even more elaborate and the plaza before it was probably three times as large as the one fronting the palace in Alqualondë.

“It’s so huge,” someone whispered in awe.

“It’s the largest edifice in the city,” Maglor said softly, trying to remember where his own rooms might have been, but then he recalled that his family’s suite was in the back overlooking the orangery.

“It seems rather big for just a few people to live in,” Estel commented disdainfully.

Maglor shook his head. “The bulk of the palace consists of administrative offices, guest suites for visitors and servants’ quarters and the like. My family lived in a back wing and my room was probably no bigger than the room you slept in in Mithlond.” He forbore to add that his ‘room’ also contained a sitting room, a library and a separate bathing room and privy.

The plaza was full of people, but a wide space had been marked out leading from the gate to the front portico and they traveled along that. Maglor saw Arafinwë and his family standing on the steps and smiled when he saw his cousin Finrod standing beside him. Grooms came forward to take the horses as everyone dismounted. Olwë and Lirillë went and greeted the Noldorin royal family with much hugging and kissing between them while Maglor and the Harthadrim held back. Even Maglor was unsure how to proceed. He was saved the trouble of having to decide when Finrod, after having greeted his Telerin kin, came bounding down the steps and, ignoring the awed looks on the faces of some of the Harthadrim who recognized him, gave Maglor a bear hug.

“It’s about time you showed up, you sorry excuse for an orcmeal,” Finrod exclaimed loudly in Sindarin. “What took you so long?”

Maglor laughed, giving him a sly smile. “Oh you know how it is when traveling with children: constantly stopping to look at this and that, needing to use the privy every five leagues, wanting to be fed on the hour every hour… the usual delays while traveling.”

Finrod laughed, giving him another hug. “Well, I’m sure your minders took that all into account.”

“Hey!” Maglor retorted, giving Finrod a punch in the arm.

“You have no idea, my lord,” Denethor said, giving Maglor a wink. Maglor made a rude noise and everyone laughed.

“Well, come and say hello to the family,” Finrod said, pulling Maglor along. Maglor tried to protest but Finrod ignored him. “Atto, look who’s finally shown up and he’s brought friends.”

“Really, Findaráto, show a little decorum.”

That was Galadriel, who was standing to one side with Celeborn. The once Lady of the Golden Wood gave Maglor an imperious look; Celeborn simply looked amused. Finrod gave his sister a grimace.

“Careful, Brother,” Galadriel said, “or your face may freeze that way.”

“You wish,” Finrod said with a disdainful sniff.

“All right you two, enough,” came the mild retort from Arafinwë. “Artanis, stop annoying your brother. You should know by now that the Reborn have little patience with protocol. Findaráto, come here and bring Macalaurë with you.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow at the tone and gave Finrod a puzzled look. “He treats you as if you’re an elfling of twenty.”

“Camouflage,” Finrod replied with a wink.

Maglor had no time to respond to that for suddenly he found himself in another warm hug as Arafinwë took him into his embrace. “Welcome home, Nephew,” he whispered into his ear. “We have long waited for this day.” Then Arafinwë released him. “Now why don’t you introduce us to your family and then Findaráto will show you to your rooms. We’ll have a feast tonight and go on to Valmar tomorrow.”

Maglor just nodded and for the next several minutes he was busy introducing his wife and children and the Harthadrim to the Noldorin royal family. Some of the older Elves renewed their acquaintance with Celeborn and Galadriel, both of whom welcomed them warmly, though they were somewhat cooler toward Maglor, which did not surprise him. Still, there was no outright hostility between them. Eventually, when all the introductions were made, Arafinwë gestured for them to enter the palace.

“I’ve had your old rooms aired out,” he said to Maglor as they traversed the main hallways leading to the private apartments of the royal family, “and the rest of your people are housed in the same wing.”

“It’s been unused all this time?” Maglor asked in disbelief.

“No, but they haven’t been used in some time,” came the answer. “You won’t recognize them as they’ve been repainted and refurnished and most of your personal belongings were put into storage. When you’re settled, we can have them sent to you if you end up not living here.”

“And would I and my family be welcomed here?” Maglor asked.

“Certainly by me,” Arafinwë answered. He came to a halt, forcing everyone else to stop as well. The king gave Maglor a searching look, and Maglor refused to look away. “It took me a long time to forgive you and your brother for what you did at the end, turning our victory into bitter ashes, making all that we fought for pointless, or so it seemed at the time.”

Maglor was not sure how to respond to that and remained silent. Arafinwë sighed, giving him a rueful look. “It took a certain ellon of dubious lineage who came into my life to remind me that it was never about the Silmarils, but about the people. We went to rescue the people, not your atar’s jewels.”

“When the sea level fell, the Silmaril I had thrown into it was exposed,” Maglor said softly. “It came to me again. I half thought to simply bring it with us when we eventually Sailed, but in the end I gave it back to the sea, or at least, back to Lord Ulmo, and renounced my Oath.”

“The wisest thing you’ve ever done,” Arafinwë said. “I think had you kept the Silmaril and brought it with you your welcome here would have been, shall we say, less assured.”

“So, who was this ellon of dubious lineage of whom you spoke?” Maglor asked.

Finrod waved his hand, grinning. “That would be me.”

“And why would your lineage be in doubt?” Maglor enquired, giving them a confused look.

“Because I kept asking him, ‘Who are you and what have you done with Findaráto?’” Arafinwë replied with a chuckle. “The Findaráto I remembered from before was not the one who came forth from Mandos. It took a while to reconcile myself to the changes. At any rate, I learned how to forgive from his own example. Now, Findaráto will show you to your rooms. We will meet again tonight at the feast.”

He nodded to his firstborn and, with a gesture to Olwë, the two kings and their families continued down a different hall.

“Come,” Finrod said, “let’s get you all settled and you can tell me what you’ve been up to all this time.”

Maglor nodded and he and the other Harthadrim followed the haryon to the Noldóran to their rooms.

****

Mithlond ’Wain: New Mithlond.

Hópa Ciryatano: (Quenya) Círdan’s Harbor, or more literally “The Shipwright's Habor”.

Hinya: (Quenya): My child.

Haryon: (Quenya) Throne-prince, heir to a throne.

40: The Road to Valmar

Maglor stared at what had been his room, trying to recognize some aspect of it, but nothing was familiar except the view, which looked out onto the lower gardens and the orangery. Even the bed was not the same as the one he had slept in once he was old enough to leave the nursery.

“I thought you said your room was no bigger than mine,” Estel exclaimed. “The entire suite is twice as large as our house back home.”

Maglor just shrugged, not really caring to answer his son. He walked out onto the balcony and stared down onto the garden, his thoughts far in the past when the Trees still lived.

“Leave your adar alone, dear,” he heard Glóredhel admonish Estel. “He needs some time to himself. Now I believe we should see about bathing and readying ourselves for tonight’s feast.”

“Another feast,” Russandol groused. “Everything is so confusing, Nana. I don’t like it here.”

“I know, love, but we have to make the best of it for your ada’s sake. Now, do you think you could force yourself into these fine clothes just for the night? I think this green tunic will go well with your hair and Míriel, I can put your hair up in intricate braids like those the Lady Galadriel and Queen Eärwen were wearing. I think I remember how they should go….”

Maglor shut the voices out. He had already decided that he would wear the fine brocade tunic that Olwë had gifted to him. He was tired of looking so uncouth and barbaric in his leathers. Someone came out onto an adjacent balcony and Maglor saw it was Arthalion whose family had been shown to what had once been his brother Maedhros’ rooms.

“A lovely view,” Arthalion said, not looking at Maglor.

“Yes, it is. I’d forgotten how lovely. I remember how the scent of oranges and lemons wafted in the air, and the birds singing in the trees…. so long ago….”

“Are you going to be all right?” Arthalion asked, turning to face him, his expression one of concern. “I think this is more overwhelming for you than it is for us. You’re the only one who actually lived here. All the rest of us were born in Endórë.”

“Until I saw the Mindon rising over the city, I really did not think about it, but suddenly it all came back to me and… I am beginning to agree with Estel. We should just find ourselves a nice little island far away from here.”

“I can sympathize, but I do not agree,” Arthalion countered. “I think we need to do everything we can to fit in. Most of the people here may look down at us as latecomers, no better than the Avari who would not make the Great Journey, but two out of the three high kings have welcomed us warmly and I have no doubt that if Ingwë were here he would do the same. They are the ones who matter. They will set the tone for everyone else, they and the Valar, I imagine.”

Maglor nodded. “I’m sure you’re right about that. Well, we should go get ready. Glóredhel is trying to convince the children to dress appropriately and I should offer her my support in that, for I do not wish to appear at the feast in these rags.”

Arthalion grinned. “Beggars at the door are we and we should look the part.”

“Perhaps, but not tonight. Tonight I only wish to be Macalaurë of Tirion and not Maglor the Cursed.”

Now Arthalion frowned. “You were only cursed in your own mind, my friend. But, by all means, let us see what a prince of the Noldor you truly are. Do you think you might outshine even Finrod?”

Maglor chuckled. “One thing I know for sure is that no one can ever outshine Finrod.”

“Arthalion! Stop gossiping with Maglor and come get ready for the feast.”

Both ellyn grinned as Amarthamíriel came out onto the balcony and began pulling her husband back inside. “We’ll see you in a while,” Arthalion said and Maglor nodded, going back inside his own rooms where he found Glóredhel chivvying the youngsters toward the bathing room, reminding them not to use up all the hot water.

“Save some for your ada and me,” she admonished them as they trooped out.

Maglor came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. She gave a slight purr of contentment and settled into his embrace as he nuzzled the space between her ear and neck. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

“Hmm…. perhaps you can show me later,” she replied coyly and Maglor chuckled, knowing full well what she was implying. “So this is where you grew up,” she said.

“Hmm… yes. Once I reached my majority I was given this suite for myself. I had my own household of body servants and squires. Most of them followed me to Ennorath. Most of them died there.”

“I’m sorry. I know how painful this must be for you.”

“I still have not found the courage to ask after my brothers or my naneth or even Elrond,” Maglor said with a sigh, releasing his wife from his hold so she could face him. “At heart, I fear I am a coward.”

“No, love, you are not, but I think it wise of you to take things slowly. There will be time enough for reconciliations and learning what has happened to your family. I suspect that we will find many of your questions answered once we reach Valmar. What can you tell me about the city of the Belain?”

“It is not a city as we think it,” he replied. “There is a town to the northeast called Eldamas, where those Elves who pledge their service to the Belain live with their families. Valmar itself consists of eight mansions belonging to the Belain and there is a wide stone-paved avenue lined with mellyrn between the mansions. I would guess a good quarter mile separates Lord Manwë’s mansion from Lord Námo’s. To the west and south of the mansions rises Ezellohar, the Green Mound of the Trees, and beyond that is the Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom.” He gave a small shrug. “When last I saw Valmar, it was in starlight, for the Trees had only just died.”

“It seems odd to me that the Belain would even need mansions,” Glóredhel said.

“On one level I suppose they do not, for they are not as we, they are not incarnates, but they have voluntarily taken physical form and so they have built mansions to house themselves and their Maiarin servants, though most of them do not seem to take physical form except rarely. I only know the names of a few and I suspect that no Elf knows their number, for they do not interact with us all that much.”

“So what are the mansions like?” Glóredhel asked as she went out onto the balcony to look at the gardens. Maglor followed her. “Are they all the same?”

“No, they are different from one another, reflecting the personalities of those who dwell in them.” He proceeded to describe the various mansions, dredging up long-ago memories. Glóredhel listened with obvious interest as he spoke of his time at Aulë’s forge and speaking to the Earth Queen. He was describing the four gates that were the entrances into the city when Glóredhel interrupted.

 “I hear the children. They must be done with their baths. Why don’t we go bathe? The feast will be starting soon.”

Maglor nodded, giving her a brief kiss on the forehead, and together they left the bedroom for the sitting room where they found Estel and Russandol wrapped in robes, drying their hair by the fire which was lit, more for cheer than for comfort. Míriel was sitting in a chair, combing her hair while perusing a book she apparently had found in the small library attached to the suite. Maglor and Glóredhel exchanged amused smiles as they made their way to the bathing chamber.

****

Word must have gotten around among the Harthadrim, for when Maglor and his family joined the others in an anteroom off the feast hall, they found everyone else had eschewed their leather tunics for fine brocades and silks. The older Elves looked genuinely happy to be wearing the finery and complimented one another on their sartorial splendor, but the youngsters all looked decidedly uncomfortable.

“I feel ridiculous,” Estel muttered as he scowled down at the gold brocade tunic he was wearing.

“You look very handsome, my son,” Glóredhel said with an indulgent smile, “and see how lovely Ivorwen looks in her new gown.”

Maglor watched with amusement as his oldest son finally noticed the elleth standing beside her parents, looking the very picture of a shy young elleth attending her first adult affair. She was wearing a silver-shot blue silk gown that brought out the blue of her eyes, her hair intricately coifed in braids and blue ribbons. Estel just goggled at her and visibly gulped, apparently unsure just how to approach this vision of loveliness. Maglor and Glóredhel exchanged knowing smiles.

Before either could offer their son encouragement, the door opened and Arafinwë’s chamberlain entered and sought out Maglor. “If your Highness is ready, I will announce you,” he said with a bow. Maglor nodded, ignoring the raised brows of the others at the form of address. The chamberlain then turned to the others. “When I call your names, please exit through this door. Pages will escort you to where you will be seated. Remain standing until their Majesties arrive.”

“I hope my uncle is not going to insist that I and my family sit at high table,” Maglor said with a frown. “I refuse to be put on display.”

The chamberlain gave him a supercilious sniff. “Trust his Majesty to show a little sense, Highness. Now, if you are ready?”

Maglor grimaced slightly and nodded. The chamberlain bowed and went to the door, banging his staff on the floor. “My lords and ladies, Barahir and Hareth of Bârwain and their son, Halmir….”

Amazingly, the chamberlain apparently had memorized the names of all the Harthadrim and introduced them one-by-one without consulting any notes until only Denethor and Maglor and his family remained in the anteroom. Maglor expected the chamberlain to announce Denethor and was surprised when he heard his name being spoken.

“His Highness, Prince Macalaurë, and his wife, the Lady Glóredhel, and their sons, Estel and Russandol, and their daughter, Míriel.”

“Hey, that’s us!” Russandol exclaimed.

Denethor gave Maglor a grin. “I guess as leader of our people, I outrank you.”

Maglor pulled himself together enough to grin back. “Have fun at the high table.” He offered his arm to Glóredhel and together they went out with their children trailing behind. Maglor steeled himself and kept his eyes on the back of the page, an elleth of about thirty, who led them past the other feasters to a table situated just below the salt on the left side of the dais. He saw that the others had been seated at other tables nearby. He and his family were seated with Arathalion and his family but the others at the table were Amanians whom he did not recognize. He gave them a slight nod of his head in greeting but did not speak.

By now, Denethor had been announced and was led, as Maglor had suspected, to the high table where the ellon was all by himself, for none of the royals had been announced yet. The ellon looked decidedly uncomfortable but smiled in relief when Falmaron was announced and joined him. Soon all the other royals were announced. When Olwë and Lirillë came, everyone bowed or curtsied as they passed and they did the same for Arafinwë and Eärwen. Maglor and the older Harthadrim automatically followed suit, memories of earlier times in other courts coming to the fore, but the youngsters were very awkward and embarrassed looking.

Finally, they were all seated and Maglor took the initiative in introducing himself and his family and Arthalion and his family to the Amanians seated with them, learning that these happened to be members of Arafinwë’s privy council. Servers appeared with the first course and Maglor explained to the children what the dishes were, cautioning them to take only small portions.

“This feast will most likely have at least four removes, far more elaborate than what we were served in Alqualondë, so take your time. You are free to get up and move about if you wish between the removes. If you need to use the privy, one of the pages will show you where they are.”

“Do they do this all the time, Atto?” Russandol asked, looking about with wide eyes at the bustle of activity as pages went about pouring drinks or bringing more bread to the tables.

“No, thank the Valar,” Maglor said with a laugh. “This is a welcoming feast, not just for us, but also for Olwë and his family.”

“I am surprised that you are not sitting at high table, your Highness,” one of the Amanians said. His name, as Maglor recalled, was Lord Herendil, the grandson of Lord Herencáno, whom he remembered from before.

“Please, it’s just Maglor, or if you wish, Macalaurë, and I’m just bloody grateful not to be sitting there on display.”

The Amanians all laughed, assuring him that they felt the same. Herendil’s wife, Lady Vandacalimë, then asked about life in Endórë and the conversation went from there. As Maglor guessed, the feast involved four removes, followed by dancing. None of the Harthadrim joined in the dances, though, feeling shy and awkward. Maglor was content to visit with Finrod, the two of them sitting in a corner of the hall drinking spiced wine and reminiscing about Beleriand and the hunts they had had together and all that had happened between them.

“You have not asked after your family,” Finrod said at one point.

“I have been afraid to,” Maglor admitted.

“I assure you that they are well, but you are unlikely to see them anytime soon.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They are not here in Eldamar. They settled somewhere in Hyaraman and it will take them time to return, for they will need to travel to Vinyalondë before they can take ship. Even then, it will still take them nearly two weeks of sailing, longer if the winds are against them. They blow contrarily in the south; the seasons are reversed from those here. But I promise you will see them eventually.”

“Did… did my ammë go with them?”

“Yes.” Finrod gave him a sympathetic look.

“But they are well, even Maedhros?”

“Especially Maedhros,” Finrod said with a laugh. “He was very happy to find his hand restored to him when he was re-embodied. Kept running around Lórien shoving his hand into people’s faces and waving it at them. It took a while for us to convince him that he needn’t do that all the time.”

“Us?”

Finrod nodded. “Though I am haryon, I resided for long ages in Lórien overseeing those charged with caring for the newly reborn. And I and some others were also responsible for bringing healing to the Once-born, as we called them, for they were also in pain and some had never forgiven nor forgotten what was done to them when the Trees were destroyed and the Noldor essentially went insane.”

Maglor nodded. “What about the Valar?”

“You will have to wait and see,” Finrod said with a gentle smile. “I can tell you that they have been very anxious to see you and resent all this delay.”

“Delay? We’ve only just arrived. Unless you’ve found a way to simply think yourselves to Valmar, it will take a good three days to get there from here. In fact, I suspect it will take a bit longer than that with all who will no doubt wish to accompany us.”

“Oh, I know, but the Valar are like elflings wanting their treat now and not later,” Finrod replied.

Maglor snorted in amusement. “Do they know you think they are like elflings?”

“I tell them that all the time,” Finrod answered with a wink. “Of course, they just ignore me and continue to act as they please.”

“Sounds familiar,” Maglor said and the two laughed.

“So, tell me about you and Glóredhel,” Finrod said when they had both calmed down. “The last thing I expected was to find you happily married and an adar. Russandol could be Maedhros’ twin with that hair and Míriel reminds me of your own naneth.”

“And Estel?” Maglor asked, curious to know what Finrod thought of his eldest.

Finrod grinned. “He is definitely Fëanor’s grandson with that attitude of his.”

“He’s feeling out of his depth,” Maglor said in defense. “He is also a master craftsman. He has a way with gemstones that even my adar did not, for he does not hoard his treasures but offers them freely to all and sundry. He seems to have a special affinity for working with emeralds for some reason. I am hoping Lord Aulë will be willing to take him on as an apprentice, assuming, of course, he would ever want to have anything to do with me or mine.”

“I have no doubt Lord Aulë will look kindly upon your son, Maglor,” Finrod said gently. “So, just how did you and your wife meet?”

“Over Arthalion,” Maglor replied with a chuckle and then proceeded to explain. They were still laughing over some of the things Maglor was telling Finrod when their respective wives came and insisted that they join the final pavane. Finrod was willing but Maglor hesitated, stating he did not think he could remember the steps well enough, but in the end, he allowed himself to be led onto the dance floor and, as the musicians began playing, he found that he remembered more than he thought and stepped gracefully into the dance, ignoring the surprised and amused looks on the faces of the others, especially his children.

****

They left Tirion the next day, the size of their party doubling with the inclusion of the Noldorin royal family.

“We look like an invasion,” Arthalion said softly to Maglor as they rode together out of the west gate of the city. Maglor chuckled and did not disagree.

As Maglor had predicted they took four days to reach the city of the Powers. Along the way they came upon pavilions set up by the side of the road where they stopped for the night. When he asked about them, Finrod explained that they had been set up on the orders of the Valar.

“Once we set out in the morning, Maiar will come and take all this down and set it up again further along the road. Saves us time with so many of us in this cavalcade.”

“I am surprised that the land is so empty,” Maglor said. “I would have thought that after all this time villages would have sprung up along the road.”

“There are a couple of inns further on, as you probably remember,” Finrod explained, “but it was decided to leave these lands untouched. The Southern Fiefdoms supply us with all that we need for sustenance and people enjoy leaving the city on occasion to wander in the wilderness.”

It was midafternoon on the fourth day when Valmar came into view. Maglor saw the east gate of mithril and pearls shining in the sun like a beacon and he heard gasps of shock and amazement from the throats of the Harthadrim at the sight, for the gate, indeed, the city itself, had not been constructed with the Elves in mind and no Elf had had a hand in its construction. The Amanians, more used to the sight, continued on without concern and Maglor had to force himself to keep going. Until then, the meeting with the Valar had been theoretical, but now, gazing upon the gate leading into their city, it was becoming all too real again. He had a sudden urge to turn around and flee, but he squashed that instinct ruthlessly and urged his steed on.

As they reached the gates, they were met by two Maiar, one of whom Maglor recognized.

“Greetings,” Eönwë said with a slight bow of his head. “You have made good time and I bid you welcome on behalf of my masters. We have provided housing for you all. Lord Denethor, if you and your people, and I include you and your family, Macalaurë, would follow Olórin, he will show you where you will be staying. Arafinwë, Olwë, we assume you and your people will be staying at the royal townhouse.”

“I little like the idea of Lord Denethor and his people being separated from us,” Arafinwë said with a frown, “though admittedly the townhouse will be overcrowded as it is.”

“Some of us can find lodgings elsewhere, Atar,” Finrod said. “I would prefer staying at the Laughing Vala myself.”

Eönwë smiled at Finrod. “That is, of course, your choice, Findaráto. I assure you that there is nothing sinister in our separating the Harthadrim from your company for the night. It is Lord Manwë’s wish that they be accorded privacy and that they not suffer the gratuitous attentions of the good Elves of Eldamas.”

Maglor sighed. “You mean, you don’t want people staring at me. I’m willing to go with you, but I don’t think the others, including my own family, need to be punished on my account.”

Both Maiar raised eyebrows. “Rather full of yourself, aren’t you, Maglor?” Olórin said, speaking in Sindarin. “This has nothing to do with punishment. You and the Harthadrim are our masters’ honored guests. Now, we can stand out here at the gate all night debating the issue, or we can all find our way to our respective lodgings and enjoy the lovely dinner awaiting you. I understand there’s plum pudding for dessert.”

More than one elven eyebrow went up, but whether at the Maia’s acerbic tone or the mention of plum pudding was debatable. Eönwë grinned knowingly. “Please, be welcome, all of you, to Valmar,” he said with a bow and Arafinwë and Olwë both nodded, thanking him. Arafinwë turned to Denethor, who had been riding beside him.

“Have no fear! You will be well treated. We will see you on the morrow, then.”

“I will accompany you and see that all is done properly for your comfort,” Finrod said, giving the two Maiar an imperious look, as if daring them to contradict him. Neither rose to the bait and in a matter of minutes, Maglor and the Harthadrim with Finrod in their midst were alone at the gate. Eönwë had disappeared, leaving Olórin to act as host.

“If you would all follow me,” he said, and even as he spoke other Maiar suddenly appeared, the air full of the mingled scents of different flowers and herbs. Most of the Harthadrim started at the sight of them. “Fear not!” Olórin exclaimed. “If you will leave your horses and bags with my brethren, they will see to them. Come.”

Maglor dismounted and the others followed suit. He and Glóredhel held hands as they followed the Maia past the gate and into the city itself. It was empty of people though Maglor had a dim memory of earlier times when this late in the afternoon the avenue linking the various mansions would have been filled with Elves and Maiar. He suspected that the city was empty for their sake.

“That’s Lord Ulmo’s mansion,” Finrod said, acting as a guide, pointing to his left where they could see the mansion sitting on an island in the middle of a lake. “And there is the mansion of Lord Manwë and Lady Varda ahead of us.”

People oohed and aahed at the sight of the Elder King’s mansion rising before them, with its sapphirine walls, amethyst towers and amber colonnades.

“Are we going to spend the night there?” Finduilas asked faintly.

Olórin turned to address them, smiling. “No, indeed, my dear. We have much nicer quarters for you.”

“Nicer?” Denethor asked in disbelief.

Olórin laughed. “Well, you will have to judge for yourself.” He headed down the wide avenue, everyone exclaiming over the mellyrn lining it.

“Our own mellyrn are not so huge,” Míriel said in awe, speaking of the two mallorn-trees they had been able to grow in a valley in the Ered Luin north of Mithlond, one of two such valleys that had become tree nurseries.

“The oldest of those is only a few hundred years old,” Maglor told her. “These were here long before we Eldar ever reached these shores.”

“Even the ones in Lothlórien were never this large,” Ragnor said, sounding just as awed, and those who remembered the Golden Wood nodded in agreement.

They came to the Mindon Nyellion, the tower of bells, and Finrod told them how the bells had gone silent at the time of the Minglings of the Two Trees. Maglor nodded, remembering. They all gazed in wonder at the sight of the water falling into the fountain.

“Here we are,” Olórin said, gesturing to his left and Maglor recognized the mansion belonging to Lord Oromë and the Lady Vána with its great trees supporting the roof and in the center where there was an inner courtyard, a single mallorn rose majestically above them all. The gate leading to the front courtyard stood open and a Maia wearing Lord Oromë’s golden oak emblem on his green surcoat waited for them, introducing himself as Roimendil.

“Be welcome to my master and mistress’s home,” the Maia said with a bow.

“And here I will leave you,” Olórin said with a smile. “May you have a fair night.” Then he was no longer there.

“And here I will leave you as well,” Finrod said, giving Maglor a hug. “You are in good hands. I will see you all tomorrow.” With that, he gave them a bow and turned back up the avenue. Roimendil gestured for them to follow him into the mansion.

“The Valar thought you would enjoy spending the night among the trees,” he told them as he took them down a dim hall. Maglor looked about him with interest, for he had never ventured into this particular mansion when he had lived here before, though he knew his brother Celegorm often spent his time here visiting with the Lord of Forests and his spouse. Roimendil brought them into an inner courtyard where they saw the mallorn. White stairs wound around it and without a word Roimendil began climbing and everyone followed.

Eventually they came to where a series of flets on different levels had been built and Roimendil was showing them to various ‘rooms’ where they could sleep if they wished. There were even bathing rooms for their refreshment and on the largest flet was laid out a veritable feast with three long tables set up in a U to accommodate them all, and, as promised, there was plum pudding for dessert.

“Here you may rest,” Roimendil said to them. “In the morning, we will escort you to meet with the Valar.”

“We will not see Lord Oromë tonight, then?” Denethor asked, sounding a little disappointed.

Roimendel gave him a sympathetic smile. “My lord thinks that you would do better without his or his lady’s presence. If there is aught that you lack, merely speak out. One of us will hear and attend. Otherwise, I bid you all a fair night and may your dreams be pleasant. Lord Macalaurë, I am bid to tell thee that thou hast naught to fear. Thou art welcome here. The Valar have long anticipated thine arrival and rejoice that thou hast come at last. Until tomorrow.” Then he faded away and the Harthadrim were left to themselves.

****

Mellyrn: Plural of Mallorn.

Note: Herendil and his wife, Vandacalimë, are the parents of Aldundil and Vorondil (Vondo), and friends of Finrod. See The Findaráto Diaries and Elf, Interrupted.

41: The Halls of Oromë

Once they had finished eating, they wondered what they could do next, for none of them felt the need to sleep, at least not yet. It was too early for that, but few felt comfortable enough in their new surroundings to want to tell tales or sing songs. As they lingered over tea — “And no Valar in sight,” Arthalion muttered to everyone’s amusement, speaking in Quenya, which, by mutual consent, they were speaking rather than Sindarin, deciding they needed the practice — Denethor asked Maglor to describe what he remembered of the Valar. “For, except for Lord Oromë, whom some of us remember from the Great Journey, we know nothing of them save for rumors brought to us by the Noldor.”

“I fear my own memories of them are, shall we say, skewed,” Maglor said with a rueful look. “We did not part in friendship.”

“Yet, there was a time when you were in their good graces and knew only of their love for you,” Denethor pointed out. “Perhaps you could just tell us a little something about each of them as you remember them.”

“To tell you the truth, I had little converse with any of them save for Lord Aulë,” Maglor said. “I do not recall ever speaking to Lord Irmo, for instance, or his brother. I chanced upon the Lady Vána once as she danced across a field and flowers sprang up around her. She made me dance with her.” He felt himself turning warm with the memory and Glóredhel gave him an enquiring look, which he ignored.

“What about the Elder King?” Arthalion asked. “What is he like?”

Maglor shrugged. “I visited Ilmarin with Anatar Finwë a few times. He would go there occasionally to consult with the Valar and would take one or two of his grandsons with him if Atar was unable to accompany him. Lord Manwë was ever polite, taking the time to ask me how my studies with Lord Aulë were coming along or what new thing I and my brothers had discovered on our travels across the length and breadth of Aman, before speaking with Anatar on matters concerning the governing of Eldamar.”

Silence settled among them as the others contemplated Maglor’s words. After a minute or two, Estel gave Maglor a puzzled look, “Are we prisoners?”

“Why do you ask that, my son?” Maglor responded with surprise. “Do you see us in chains? Do you think if we were prisoners we would have been given such a fine repast as we’ve enjoyed or be housed in a luxury you have never experienced?”

“I meant, are we allowed to wander or must we remain here until summoned?”

“Where would you like to go?” Glóredhel asked.

“Lord Findaráto mentioned staying at the Laughing Vala. What is that? It sounds rather interesting and I was wondering about being able to visit Eldamas. Why are we being denied the company of others? Do the Valar fear we will taint them in some way because we come from Endórë and dress in leather tunics and leggings instead of in brocades and silks?”

“I have never heard of the Laughing Vala,” Maglor answered, “though I suspect it must be an inn of some sort, a place where travelers may stay to eat and sleep before resuming their journey or where locals may go to meet with friends over a meal. As for the rest, I do not know, Estel. Perhaps there is some truth to your words. I suspect that it is mostly for my sake that we are sequestered here rather than staying at an inn or even at the royal townhouse, which is certainly large enough to have accommodated us as well as the royal entourage.”

Ragnor spoke up then. “When we were in Tirion I spoke to someone who described how those who Sailed were initially denied entrance to Eldamar proper, but had to live on Tol Eressëa for a time until the darkness which had tainted their fëar had been replaced by the Valar’s Peace.”

“Darkness? What darkness?” Russandol demanded angrily. “Do they think we are evil, then?”

“No,” Maglor said. “Certainly not you or your siblings or any of you children born to us these last few yéni, but your elders have all lived through and experienced great times of darkness. Your Uncle Voronwë was a slave in the mines of Morgoth, for instance, and most of us fought in the wars against Morgoth and later against Sauron. I have shed the blood of other Elves and that is a crime that cannot be ignored. I do not know what punishment the Valar will mete out for that. Exile, most likely, I just don’t know. And I suspect that we have been brought here out of the sight of others for our own safety.”

“Yet, so far we’ve been treated well by the Amanians,” Estel insisted. “We were not sequestered in Alqualondë or in Tirion, so why here? Do these Valar trust us even less than the Amanians? It just seems unfair that we are denied our freedom to go where we please. And if we are doomed to be sent into exile because the Valar fear we will taint their precious pet Elves then why did we even bother to come here? We might as well have just stayed home and I am wishing more and more that we had.”

“All our lives, we were told that our destiny was to leave Endórë for Valinor,” Ivorwen interjected, “that the Valar actually summoned you to find the Straight Road, but I confess that until we actually built our ships and set sail, I did not believe we would ever desert our home.”

“And would you truly wish to return to live in a ruined city, my daughter?” Arthalion asked.

Ivorwen shrugged, looking uncertain. “At least we knew it and loved it, for it was home. I fear this place will never be home for me, just a place where I ended up because I had no choice in the matter, for you never gave us the option of remaining behind.”

More than one of the younger Elves, including Maglor’s own children, nodded in agreement. The older Elves looked as sad and troubled as Maglor felt at Ivorwen’s words.

“I don’t think any of us gave it a thought,” Denethor finally said with a sigh. “From the beginning, our goal was to find a way to come here, for we had indeed been summoned. It just never occurred to us to ask what you youngsters wanted, and for that, I apologize. Yet, I don’t think we could have borne the thought of leaving any of you behind.”

“I still resent being treated like a prisoner, though,” Estel groused, glaring at nothing in particular.

Before Maglor could address his son, there was a sigh that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, though not a single mallorn leaf stirred, and then they heard someone climbing the stairs and when they looked there was one who appeared to be an Elf standing at the entrance of the flet but Maglor knew it was no Elf and stumbled to his feet in shock at the sight of the Elder King. The others were slow to follow, unsure what the stranger’s presence portended.

“My Lord Manwë,” Maglor whispered as he belatedly gave the Vala his obeisance. There were gasps of surprise and dismay from the others who began to rise, but Manwë gestured at them.

“Do not trouble yourselves, my children. Remain seated and be at peace. Macalaurë, sit.”

Maglor reluctantly complied, trying to understand what Manwë being there might mean. Manwë, for his part, ignored them as he called up a chair of his own, setting it in the open space between the two side tables. It was somewhat more ornate than those in which the Elves were sitting, and while it was not exactly a throne, Maglor, who knew something of living in a royal court, thought it was close enough as to make no difference.

When they were all settled, Manwë addressed them. “I had hoped that you would enjoy yourselves this evening and not be overly concerned for what the future might hold for any of you. We are not punishing you, any of you, by having you spend the night here rather than in Eldamas. We truly thought you would be more comfortable. You are free to leave and wander where you will; none will stay you. If you make your way into Eldamas, continue on the main road past the third square and take the street to your left and you will find the Laughing Vala two blocks down.”

“You’ve been spying on us, listening to all that we’ve said?” Estel exclaimed, looking mortified and angry at the same time.

“Spying?” Manwë retorted mildly. “No, but you are in Valmar, the heart of our demesne where we hold all authority. Nothing happens here that is not known to us immediately. I am the Lord of the Breath of Arda and your words come to me upon the air just as my brother Ulmo hears all that occurs wherever there is water, be it an ocean or a fountain. It is simply the nature of things and you must not read into it any ulterior motive on our part.”

“So you say,” Estel retorted with a sneer.

“Estel! You forget yourself,” Maglor hissed angrily, feeling embarrassed by his son’s continued truculence. Estel was not the only one to cringe at his tone, for as loving as Maglor was toward his children, they knew well not to push him too far.

Manwë gave them a sympathetic smile. Before Maglor could formulate an apology for his son’s words, the room was filled with multicolored lights too bright to endure and one or two of them screamed for the pain. Some of them actually fell to the floor and cowered under the table in fear as seven other Beings clothed themselves and became visible. Maglor felt the blood drain from him as he recognized the other Valar — Aulë and Yavanna, Ulmo and Oromë, Nienna and Varda and finally Námo — and when his eyes fell upon the dread Lord of Mandos, he leapt to his feet and without conscious thought was halfway to the stairs when someone caught him. He screamed in terror and fought but whoever held him did not release him but held him close to them and let him thrash and yell to his heart’s content.

After a few minutes, gulping for breath, his thrashing slowed and then ceased altogether and he simply stood there waiting for doom to fall upon him, but when nothing happened and his breathing had slowed to something more normal he opened his eyes to find that he was being held by Lord Aulë who smiled down at him.

“Feeling better?”

Maglor could only blink at him, not sure how to respond.

“Don’t worry,” the Earthsmith said, giving him a wink, “my brother Námo often has that effect on people.”

“You’re not helping, Aulë,” Maglor heard Námo retort, sounding amused.

Aulë turned to face Námo, forcing Maglor to do the same. “We keep telling you, Námo, that black is not your color.”

“And so, what you are really saying is that these poor children take one look at my clothes and fall into despair at my lack of fashion sense.”

“Exactly,” Aulë replied, smiling down at Maglor and giving him another wink.

Maglor wasn’t the only Elf to gape at the two Valar. Manwë and the other Valar started chuckling. “Enough, you two,” Manwë said. “Macalaurë, come sit down, and you, too, my children. There is naught to fear. All is well.”

Aulë pulled Maglor back to the table and made him sit, then stood behind the chair as if to make sure he didn’t try to run off again. The other Valar ranged themselves in a circle around the tables with Varda standing next to Manwë and Námo facing them, standing directly behind Saelmir who looked as pale as Maglor felt. When everyone had resumed their seats, giving the Valar fearful looks, Manwë spoke again, his tone gentle and nonthreatening.

“I promise you, you have naught to fear. These are the Aratar, you might say my inner council, and I thought it would be well for us to meet informally, to assure you that you are all welcome here, including you, Macalaurë, though I know you are doubtful of this, expecting that you will be punished for your crimes and that your family and friends will suffer for them as well. Nothing is further from the truth.”

“Macalaurë,” Námo said, his voice dark and melodious, and Maglor looked at him. “Tomorrow, you and these others will come to the Máhanaxar and what occurs there will be only a formality for the sake of propriety and for the record. But what passes between us tonight is what matters the most.”

“So is Atto going to be punished?” Russandol asked, looking fearful.

The Valar sighed almost as one but Varda smiled at the young ellon. “Child, Judgment has nothing to do with punishment but with justice and only when there is justice can there be mercy for mercy flows from justice, not the other way around. We are not here to punish your atar. He’s been punished enough, as far as we’re concerned. We’re here to see that justice is done.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Denethor asked, frowning. His tone was respectful but there was a hint of something bordering on wariness in it.

For an answer, Manwë spoke a single name. “Eönwë.” Immediately, the Elder King’s Herald was there holding a blue-leather book in his hands. The Maia gazed dispassionately upon the Elves. Some of the older ellyn rose in salute. “Captain!” one of them exclaimed. Eönwë smiled, giving them a nod in greeting. Manwë glanced at his herald with an amused look, then addressed the Elves who were still standing.

“You can trade war tales with your captain later, but for now, please be seated and we will go on.”

The ellyn blushed in embarrassment, muttering apologies while the Valar looked on. Maglor could tell that some were trying hard to hide their amusement. Oromë even rolled his eyes and muttered something that he could not hear but Aulë actually snickered and even Námo’s mien seemed to lighten somewhat. Manwë turned his attention on Maglor, his blue eyes ringed with gold warm and sympathetic. “Tell me, my son, what you consider to be your worst sin.”

“Killing my fellow Elves,” Maglor said without hesitation.

“Yes, as I suspected,” Manwë said with a nod, “but you would be wrong.”

Maglor blinked, unsure what the Elder King was saying. “Murdering my kith and kin in cold blood or even in hot blood was not a sin?”

“I didn’t say that,” Manwë replied in a mild tone, “but the Kinslayings in which you participated were symptomatic of an earlier, more grievous, sin. Can you think what that might be?”

“My Oath,” Maglor whispered and Manwë nodded.

“How can mere words be more sinful than slaughtering people?” Russandol asked. “That makes no sense.”

“Russa, hush,” Glóredhel admonished him, but Manwë shook his head.

“No, my dear, your son has the right to ask, for it is a legitimate question.” He did not look at Russandol, though, but at Námo, who raised an eyebrow.

“Russandol,” Námo said and the ellon actually cringed, giving the Lord of Mandos a fearful look. Námo actually smiled, his amaranthine eyes brightening with amusement. “No, child, I’m not about to punish you for… um… borrowing your brother’s best bow and breaking it.”

“Hey!” Estel exclaimed, glaring at his brother. “You said you didn’t know how it got broken.”

“And I didn’t,” Russandol retorted. “I was too busy trying to stay alive to worry about your stupid bow.”

“Why you….”

“Enough!” Maglor nearly shouted, giving both his sons his best ‘atar-is-not-happy’ glare, as Míriel liked to call it. Both ellyn subsided.

“Where were we?” Námo asked rhetorically after a brief, uncomfortable moment. “Ah yes, words. Russandol, the killing of another person is indeed a grievous wrong and is to be avoided if at all possible, though we have legitimized the act in matters of warfare or self-defense, but the slaying of one’s spirit under any circumstances is a worse crime for it is an affront to Ilúvatar. When your atar uttered his Oath, though he called upon us and Ilúvatar as witnesses, we rejected that role for ourselves, for not to do so would have made us complicit to the terms of the Oath and they were against everything we stood for as Ilüvatar’s agents here in Arda.”

“And whether your atar knew it or not,” Manwë added, “in speaking that Oath he was destroying his connection with Ilúvatar, denying his status as an Eruhin, and in doing so, opening himself to other sins that he would never have contemplated committing otherwise, such as killing other Elves. So, let us hear thy words, Macalaurë Fëanárion.” The Elder King nodded to Eönwë and the book in the Maia’s hands opened of its own accord. Maglor watched in dread and fascination as the pages turned of themselves and then stopped. Eönwë glanced down at the page and began reading out loud.

“This oath I now swear: Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Moringotto or bright Vala, Elda or Maia or Apanónar, Nér yet unborn upon Middle-earth, neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall defend him from Macalaurë, whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth or afar casteth a Silmaril. This swear I: death I will deal him ere Day’s ending, woe unto world’s end! My word hear thou, Eru Ilúvatar! To the Everlasting Dark doom me if my deed faileth. On the holy mountain of Taniquetil hear in witness and my vow remember, Manwe and Varda!”

Maglor felt the world darken around him as if he were going blind and more than one of the Elves cried out, clapping their hands over their ears, shuddering at the words and looking pale. The Valar immediately raised their hands and a flickering light seemed to fall upon them like gold and silver raindrops and as the light fell upon Maglor he felt the darkness receding, his fëa washed clean of the filth that seemed to cling to it when Eönwë repeated the words of the Oath. He blinked a couple of times, as if waking. Aulë leaned over and picked up Maglor’s goblet and handed it to him.

“Drink, child,” the Earthsmith said in a kindly voice and even as Maglor accepted the goblet he noticed the other Valar were also encouraging the others to drink as well. Maglor took a sip or two and felt better.

Everyone stared at him in horror and disbelief and when his eyes met those of his children, they looked away, as if in shame or in fear. Even Glóredhel stared at him with something like horror in her eyes and when he went to embrace her she flinched. The sense of rejection even from his beloved unmanned him and he stumbled to his feet ready to flee, but Aulë reached out  negligently and grabbed him by the elbow, not letting him leave. Maglor remained standing, refusing to return to his seat.

“You… you actually said that?” Denethor whispered.

Maglor turned to face the others. “We were insane,” he replied harshly.

“Yet, not so insane that you did not know what you were doing,” Manwë interjected mildly before anyone else could speak.

Maglor sighed, casting his eyes down. “No, not so insane,” he whispered. Aulë pushed him back into his seat, patting his shoulder.

“But he renounced that Oath,” Arthalion said hotly, glaring at Manwë. “He renounced it, so why are you dredging it up now? What more does he need to do to expiate himself? Slit his own throat while you all watch?”

Even Maglor blinked at that, staring at the ellon in surprise.

“Well, the thought had crossed our minds,” Námo drawled, his voice sardonic.

The Elves had the dubious pleasure of seeing Lady Nienna actually punch her brother in the arm, giving him a disgusted look, while Lord Ormoé, standing on the other side of the Lord of Mandos, shook his head, muttering something none of them could hear. The other Valar just rolled their eyes.

“You’re not helping, Námo,” Manwë said.

“On the contrary,” Námo retorted, his visage darkening somewhat. “Arthalion’s question is certainly legitimate, if spoken rather rashly. The thought had crossed our minds, or at least mine. Do you know how many times I had to manipulate things to keep this one from cluttering up my doorway with his sorry fëa and his woe-is-me attitude whenever he contemplated suicide? I had his brothers to deal with and I didn’t need him making my life even more miserable than it already was. You know how long it took me to convince the twins, never mind Maitimo or the others, to accept judgment. So yes, Arthalion, the thought had crossed our minds to just let Macalaurë do himself in, thereby compounding his sins even more. We are not, as you so succinctly put it, dredging up the Oath out of a malicious need to get our revenge on Macalaurë. That Oath needs to be acknowledged in all its particulars before any of us can move on.”

An awkward silence settled among them, the Elves sitting in stunned astonishment at the sight of the Lord of Mandos fuming. After a moment or two, Manwë spoke again.

“Eönwë, let us hear Macalaurë’s Renouncement.”

Eönwë nodded and glanced at the open book and began reading:

“I, Macalaurë Fëanárion, confess to you who sit upon the thrones of the West and to the One who is above all thrones, that I have sinned in deed and in word most grievously in what I have done and what I have failed to do. I hereby solemnly and of my free will renounce all claims to this or any other Silmaril for all the ages of Arda that may remain and beyond. I humbly ask for your forgiveness and accept whatever punishment is my due for my crimes.”

“Thank you,” Manwë said when the Maia had finished. Eönwë closed the book and bowed to Manwë even as he faded from their view. Manwë glanced around the room as if gauging the emotions of the Elves sitting there. “A lovely oath and sincerely spoken,” he finally said as his gaze fell upon Maglor.

“I liked the song he sang about himself afterwards,” Lady Varda said, her voice sounding like the music of waterfalls. “I even danced to it.” She twirled about and it seemed as if rainbows and stars followed in her wake. Manwë gave her a loving smile.

“So what now?” Maglor asked.

“Do you understand why speaking that Oath was your greatest sin, my son?” Manwë asked.

“Yes,” Maglor said with a nod, staring down at his right hand as he flexed it, the faint white scars of the Silmaril etched on his palm.

“Your regaining the full use of your hand was the sign that you had been forgiven,” Manwë said, “but in spite of this, you never fully believed it. All this time as you prepared to Sail you were convinced that you were sailing to your doom, that once on these shores we would exact punishment for what you did.”

“And will you?” Maglor asked.

“No, nor will anyone else,” Manwë replied. “You have repaid your debt many times over in service to your fellow Elves,” — he nodded to Maglor’s companions — “and in finding love and accepting it as your due.” Now he smiled at Glóredhel and their children. “All we’ve ever wished for you, for any of you, is joy.” He stood, his chair disappearing. “Now, we will leave you. Tomorrow, as Námo said, is a mere formality, so do not concern yourselves over it. Be at peace and know that you have always had our love, though you might not think so. Estel, Míriel, Russandol, do not fear your atar. He is the same loving ellon you have always known. Glóredhel, I leave it to you to come to terms with what you have learned about your husband tonight. I imagine the two of you have much to discuss.”

With that, he and the other Valar shed their fanar, momentarily blinding the Elves. When they found themselves alone once again, no one spoke and no one could meet anyone else’s gaze. Maglor felt, rather than saw, Glóredhel lean over and kiss him on the cheek. He looked at her, trying to gauge her mood.

“I love you,” she said softly, her eyes full of warmth and acceptance.

“I love you, too,” he whispered back and it was as if a dam broke and all the emotions of the last several minutes which he had tried to keep in check spilled out and he started weeping. Glóredhel wrapped her arms around his shoulders and rocked him, crooning a lullaby. There was a flurry of motion and then Maglor sensed his three children huddled around them, offering their own love and then they, too, began to sing, picking up the refrain. Soon all the Elves were singing as Maglor continued to weep, wrapped in the arms of love.

****

Words are Quenya:

Anatar: Grandfather.

Fëar: Plural of Fëa: Soul, spirit.

Aratar: ‘The Supreme’, the name given to the eight most powerful of the Valar.

Eruhin: Child of Eru, i.e. an Elf or Mortal.

Fanar: Plural of Fana: the ‘raiment’ in which the Valar presented themselves to physical eyes.

Note: The Oath is taken verbatim from Morgoth’s Ring, ‘The Annals of Aman, sec. 134’, with some slight modifications in language to reflect the fact that a single person is speaking it and that it is Maglor’s Oath as recorded. See In Darkness Bound, chapter 58, ‘Sië Quentë Fëanáro’.

42: Máhanaxar

In the end, even Estel was not interested in leaving the mallorn to go exploring.

“We can do that afterwards,” he said with a shrug when Maglor, now calm, asked him if he wished to go into Eldamas now that the Elder King had given them his permission. Maglor exchanged a knowing smile with Glóredhel.

Thus, as the night deepened, the Harthadrim wandered the halls of the mansion in small groups or remained in the mallorn quietly discussing the visit by the Valar.

“And it wasn’t all of them,” someone commented, “only eight.”

“The eight most powerful,” another pointed out, and more than one contemplated what that might mean, that even among the Valar there were different levels of power and they were not all considered equal in that regard.

Maglor, for his part, felt restless, but like the others had no inclination to leave the mansion. Instead he wandered through the halls with Glóredhel by his side, stopping to admire the trees holding up the roof or the fountains that graced various ‘rooms’ which were set off by screens of vines that parted when one approached them. Most of the rooms were empty except for the occasional pool or fountain. When Glóredhel commented on this, Maglor shrugged.

“You saw how Lord Manwë called forth a chair for himself. The Valar and Maiar are able to manipulate matter in such a way as to cause things to appear and disappear. I suspect that if Lord Oromë or Lady Vána need anything, they just cause it to exist and when it is no longer needed, they cause it not to exist.” He flashed her a smile. “Saves on housekeeping, if nothing else.”

She laughed, playfully punching him in the arm.

At one point they wandered down a dim hall lit by a single crystal lantern. Maglor pointed to it. “Estel’s lamps, I think, are lovelier, don’t you?”

Glóredhel smiled. “You’re merely prejudiced, dear. Estel’s lamps are indeed lovely, but I think he has much to learn. Do you think when all this is over we can convince Lord Aulë to take him on as an apprentice?”

“Oh, I’m sure my brother will be more than happy to.”

They turned around to find themselves facing a smiling Oromë, who gestured for them to follow him. Maglor resisted a sigh as he and Glóredhel complied. They did not go far, merely to a branching of the hall and then a wall of vines parted and they found themselves in a small courtyard that was open to the sky full of stars. A fountain plashed merrily in the center and a small table was set up with three chairs to one side of it. Oromë was pouring wine into goblets when Maglor and Glóredhel came inside.

“Sit and have some wine,” Oromë said, taking his own seat.

The two Elves complied, though Maglor did not bother to take up the goblet before him. Oromë raised an eyebrow and there was the shadow of a smile on his lips.

“You were always a polite little elfling, Macalaurë. What happened?”

Maglor stood up and glared at the Vala. “You know damn well what happened, my lord!” he fairly shouted, then stalked away, not caring if Glóredhel followed him or not, just wanting to get away from everything and everyone.

“Maglor, stop being an ass and get back here,” Oromë commanded, speaking in Sindarin. Even as the Vala was speaking, vines rustled among the trees surrounding them and before Maglor knew it, several of them were blocking his path. “Now come and sit and have some wine. It’s Dorwinion, by the way.”

Maglor turned around and gave the Vala a surprised look. “How—?”

“How did I get my hands on Dorwinion when that part of Middle-earth no longer exists and hasn’t for yéni upon yéni?” Oromë grinned. “Actually, strictly speaking, this wine isn’t from Dorwinion, though it has been made from grapes that originated in that region. When Thranduil finally came here he brought with him some cuttings from the vineyards there and transplanted them on Tol Eressëa where they did quite well. So, let us drink to Thranduil Oropherion, who had the foresight and just plain good sense to bring the best wine ever made by Mortals to these shores.”

He lifted his own goblet and Maglor and Glóredhel joined him. Maglor took a sip and felt his eyes widen at the taste. “This is no mere wine, Dorwinion or no.”

“Well, I …um… improved on it a bit,” Oromë said with a wink. “Now enough. I wanted to speak to you about your other son, Russandol.”

Maglor cast him a wary look. “What about him?”

“Oh, fear not! I would like to take him on as an apprentice, with your permission, of course.”

“Russa is of age,” Glóredhel said. “You hardly need our permission.”

“But I do, fair lady,” Oromë said, “for what I have in mind for him, he is too young yet. I have created taurevaryari among the Eldar. In earlier times, they helped guard my Forests. Now, besides guarding the forests as well as the settlements in Hyaraman, much as the Rangers of the North or those of Ithilien protected the people living in those lands, they act as explorers of distant parts of Valinor and beyond. I think Russandol would enjoy joining them.”

“You need only ask him, my lord,” Maglor said. “Our son is old enough to decide for himself.”

“Yet, he is over young and he will perforce be living with strangers, for he would need to spend some time in my Forests among my Maiar who will train him. I never take anyone who has not seen at least a hundred years of the sun and often I prefer them to be older, but your son has lived in a much harsher environment than most who seek to join the taurevaryari. Even Hyaraman, primitive as it might be in comparison to Eldamar, is not so harsh.”

“Do you wish for him to join them immediately?” Glóredhel asked. “Would it not be better for him to wait until he has matured a bit? What, after all, is fifty years to any of us?”

“Indeed,” Oromë said with a smile, “but I felt I should approach you, his parents, first with the idea. In truth, all of you will eventually need to decide what you wish to do with your lives now that you are here. The children, especially, will need to learn to adapt themselves to their new environment. I suspect you older ones will be able to integrate yourselves more easily, since you know what life was like for you before the ice age. Estel is destined to join the Aulenduri and Míriel will certainly want to learn more of shipbuilding, either with Círdan or with Olwë’s people. The other children will need to be apprenticed to various guilds as their skills and interests dictate.”

“And the rest of us will need to resurrect old skills and interests long abandoned for survival,” Maglor said, nodding in understanding.

“Yes,” Oromë said. “Well, at any rate, I would like your permission to speak to young Russandol about joining the taurevaryari when the time comes.”

“You have it, my lord, and we thank you,” Maglor said. “I apologize for my earlier behavior. I fear I am as much at sea as the others and my equilibrium is shot. I wish tomorrow would come so I can get it all over with and at the same time I hope the sun never rises.”

Oromë grinned. “Don’t think you’re the only one, my son. Now, I will leave you. Do stay and enjoy the wine.” He rose and gave them a courtly bow and then was gone.

After a moment or two of silence, Glóredhel stirred. “What do you think, my love? Do you think Russa would want to join these taurevaryari?”

Maglor shrugged. “I think it’s one option. Personally, I would like to see all the children sent to the loremasters for schooling first. You and I did our best with what we had to teach them something of our culture and history, but they need more tutoring about things that we did not bother with given our circumstances.”

“Well, it’s certainly something to think about and discuss with the others. For now, though, I think I would just like to sit here and enjoy this wine with my husband. I hope no one finds us too soon.” She gave him a suggestive look.

Maglor leaned over and gave her a kiss. “Me, too,” he whispered.

They ended up spending the rest of the night there and no one importuned them.

****

Dawn saw them climbing the stairs to the flets where they were greeted by a few people who apparently never bothered to retire.

“We wondered where you’d wandered off to,” Denethor said as Maglor and Glóredhel found their way to the dining flet where breakfast was waiting for them.

“We felt the need for some privacy,” Glóredhel said somewhat primly and more than one Elf grinned knowingly at that. Maglor ignored them.

“I’m for a bath,” he said. “I don’t think I can face food right now. Perhaps afterwards.”

“I’ll join you,” Glóredhel said, “but afterwards, I really do think you should try to eat something. I do not want you embarrassing me and the children by fainting before the Valar.”

“Yes, dear,” Maglor said with humility, giving Denethor and the others there a wink.

“We’ll save you some food,” Denethor said with a grin. “Enjoy your bath.”

Later, now bathed and dressed in a fresh tunic, Maglor was sipping on some tea and nibbling on toast when Roimendil appeared.

“If you will all come with me, I will escort you to the Máhanaxar.”

Maglor nodded and stood. “Yes. Let us not keep the Valar waiting. My dear.” He held out his hand and Glóredhel took it.

“Come along, children,” she said and the Elves followed the Maia down and out of the mansion, most of them blinking in the bright sunlight after the dimness of Oromë’s halls. They found themselves facing several Maiar, all of them wearing different colored surcoats. Maglor recognized Nyéreser and Olórin and he thought he knew one or two of the others, but the rest were complete strangers to him. Nyéreser smiled at them and greeted them.

“We meet again.”

“Why so many Maiar when we only need one to escort us?” Denethor asked with a frown, echoing Maglor’s own thoughts.

“You might consider us an honor guard,” Roimendil said. “Our masters have each sent a representative to escort you to them. It is a rare honor, I assure you.”

“Shall we go?” Olórin asked. “It’s not wise to keep them waiting, you know.”

Denethor glanced at Maglor, who nodded, then turned to the Maiar. “By all means, lead us hence.”

Surprisingly, all the Maiar bowed to them and Roimendil gestured for them to follow. The Maiar ranged themselves along the perimeter of their group and Maglor couldn’t help noticing how several people maneuvered themselves so that he and Glóredhel were in the middle of the group rather than at its head where Denethor walked with Roimendil and Olórin. He happened to catch Nyéreser’s eye where the Maia was walking along the left side and the Maia gave him a knowing smile and a wink. Somehow that simple gesture made Maglor feel, if not better, at least less tense and worried about what faced him.

“The last time I was here,” he said softly to Glóredhel, “the Valar were in council at the Máhanaxar. This was shortly after the Trees died. My brothers and I had raced from Formenos to tell atar that anatar had died.” He sighed, shaking his head. “So much darkness, and not necessarily because the Trees no longer shone.”

“It was a dark time for us all,” Nyéreser said, apparently having overheard Maglor’s words. “Some never fully recovered from it.”

By now, they had passed through the west gate made of silver and emeralds and were come to the Ezellohar, the Green Mound of the Trees. By mutual consent, they all stopped to stare in awe at the sight of the Trees. Maglor grimaced. “He should have given them the damn jewels,” he muttered harshly. “His refusal cost us too much and in the end what did it gain us except death?”

“Do not judge Fëanáro too harshly, Macalaurë,” Olórin said gently. “In spite of all, good did come of it, though I grant you that sometimes it has been difficult for any of us to see it. Yet, if you want proof, you need look no further than your lovely wife and your three beautiful children, none of whom would be here otherwise.”

Instinctively, Maglor looked to his children standing nearby and, recognizing the truth of the Maia’s words, gave them a loving smile which they returned.

“We do not have far to go,” Roimendil said quietly and when Maglor nodded they all continued on their way past the Mound and toward the Ring of Doom with its fourteen thrones. They stared in wonder at the sight, for the thrones were not built with Elves in mind. But beyond the thrones themselves, they could see that many Elves were gathered there. Maglor saw Arafinwë and Olwë and their respective spouses and he thought he could see Finrod and his sister, but there were so many crowding about the thrones that it was difficult to tell. He pointed to one Elf in particular standing a little apart.

“There’s Ingwë, the High King of all the Elves,” he said.

A space had been made between two of the thrones and the Maiar brought them into the Ring itself. The thrones were empty, though, for the Valar had not yet made their appearance. While they were waiting, Maglor took the time to tell them which throne belonged to which Vala, patently ignoring the Elves standing in the spaces between them. The fourteen Maiar who had escorted them drifted away to stand with the Amanians. Maglor had no doubt that if any Elf so desired to enter the Ring without permission, these Maiar would be there to stop them.

The Amanians, for their part, stood quietly, some whispering to their neighbors. Maglor saw Ingwë speaking to two whom he recognized as the High King’s twin sons, Ingwion and Ingalaurë. Even as he was identifying people he recognized to the others around him, Eönwë appeared, standing beside Manwë’s throne.

“The Elder King’s Court commences,” he announced loudly. “Let all be done with due reverence.”

There was suddenly a flurry of multicolored lights that blinded them all and when the light dimmed to something more normal, the Valar were standing before their thrones in all their majesty. Every Elf gave them their obeisance as the Valar took their seats and Manwë greeted them.

“Be welcome all of you,” he said gravely, nodding to the three High Kings. “Today is a day of doom, long awaited by many. First, we wish to welcome the Harthadrim to our shores. They have endured much hardship in the long years of their exile and we commend you for your perseverance. Lord Denethor, in the days to come, thou and I will sit together and discuss how best thou and thy people can be integrated into Amanian society. I know that all of you wish to know the fate of kith and kin who have come here before you and I assure you that in due time you will be reunited with them. For the moment, however, we have other business that needs to be addressed.” He paused for a brief moment before speaking again. “Macalaurë Fëanárion, quit hiding and come forth.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow at the Elder King’s tone and stepped forward as people made way for him, giving Manwë a brief, though respectful bow. “Hardly hiding, my lord,” he said with a sardonic smile. “My friends just feel a need to protect me.”

“And very commendable of them, I am sure,” Manwë said with a smile. “But you hardly need protection even from us. I would ask that all of you come stand here beside Olórin except for Macalaurë.”

More than one of his friends and family started to protest but Maglor shook his head. “No, do as Lord Manwë bids,” he commanded.

Reluctantly they did so, Glóredhel and his children giving him kisses before leaving the Ring to stand with the others. Manwë gave them an encouraging smile but then his expression became more distant and he looked up and across to Námo. “Read the charges, Morimando.”

Námo rose and gave Manwë a bow, then straightened. Maglor automatically turned to face him.

“Macalaurë Fëanárion, iNossë Finwëo, thou standest accused of the following: First that thou didst knowingly and with forethought speak the Oath which thine atar spake….”

As Maglor listened to the charges, never taking his eyes from Námo, who in turn never took his eyes from him, he was reminded of when his atar had stood in the selfsame place listening to the charges held against him. He recalled his atar’s arrogant and lordly manner before the Valar, his refusal to acknowledge that what he had done was wrong and that he had played into Melkor’s hands, though Maglor knew that Fëanáro had never held council with that one. Even then, under the benevolent Light of the Trees, his atar had sown their doom with his intransigence. He shook his head slightly, as if to clear his mind of such thoughts and concentrated on Námo’s words.

“… and these deeds were unlawful, whether in Aman or not in Aman. How dost thou plead?”

“Guilty on all accounts,” Maglor answered without hesitation, his back straight.

Murmurs rose among the spectators and Maglor wondered if most of them had thought to see him grovel and plead extenuating circumstances or just brazen it out as his atar had done and almost smiled at the thought that he was ruining their anticipated entertainment. Námo must have caught a glimmer of his thoughts, for the Vala actually did smile, though few made note of it. Maglor only saw because he was still staring directly at the Lord of Mandos.

“Are there any here who would speak on Lord Macalaurë’s behalf?” Manwë asked and as Námo sat, Maglor turned to face the Elder King. “No, my children,” Manwë said kindly to the Harthadrim, all of whom looked ready to volunteer to speak. “I know that you would plead for Lord Macalaurë and we may hear from you later, but I would give those who reside here an opportunity to speak on his behalf first, if there are any who wish to do so.”

He glanced about the Ring and for a long, interminable moment, there was naught but silence and Maglor resigned himself to the fact that there were none there, other than the Harthadrim, who would speak for him. Then, there was a slight commotion to his right and people began parting to let others through and he saw three people step forward. He gasped in shock, recognizing them, and felt the blood draining from him. He thought he might faint or weep or do something equally humiliating as he stood there slightly swaying. Almost immediately, Lady Estë was beside him, placing a cool hand on his forehead and the darkness that had threatened to engulf him receded and he felt himself breathing normally. He looked up at her and she smiled gently, giving him a pat on the shoulder before returning to her throne.

“Lord Eärendil of Aewellond,” Manwë said in greeting. “Wouldst thou speak?”

The Mariner bowed to the Elder King, then turned to face Maglor, who stared in wonder at the Silmaril that graced the ellon’s head. He tensed at the sight, wondering if the Oath would be awakened by proximity to the jewel, but when no siren’s call echoed in his soul, he relaxed slightly. Eärendil, for his part, did not speak immediately, but he and Elwing and their son, Elrond, crossed the intervening space to stand before him.

“Thank you,” Eärendil said softly.

Maglor gave him a quizzical look. “For what?”

“For taking care of our sons when we could not,” the Mariner replied.

Maglor snorted in derision. “If it hadn’t been for my brothers and me, you would not be standing here thanking me for anything.”

“Perhaps,” Eärendil averred, giving him a slight smile, “but you could have done elsewise. You could have abandoned them as my beloved’s brothers were abandoned.”

Maglor flinched, remembering the heated argument he and Maedhros had had about that. “We looked for them, but never found them,” he whispered, not looking at Elwing standing serenely between husband and son.

“It matters little now,” she said, “for they were eventually reborn and thrive. But I would add my thanks to those of my lord. I am grateful that there was someone who could look after our children when we could not.”

“Even if he was your atar’s murderer?” Maglor asked harshly.

“And were you?” Elwing asked, seemingly unfazed by his words.

Maglor shrugged. “In truth, I do not know who slew Dior. I remember little of that slaughter. By then I was sick of it all and just wanted to disappear. I think I even wanted to die and was hoping someone would do me the favor of spilling my guts, but of course, that didn’t happen.” He looked at Elrond, standing beside his parents and gave him a tremulous smile. “And considering how you and your brother worked so hard coming up with ways to kill me, I still don’t know how I managed to survive.”

Elrond actually laughed. “Not for lack of trying, I assure you, Ada Maglor. Believe it or not, some of my fondest memories are of you eluding one of our traps and then calmly telling us what we had done wrong and how the trap should’ve been set.” He laughed again. “Elros and I were totally confused by your behavior, for we were sure you would punish us for what we were doing, yet you never did. I think that, more than anything, convinced us that you were not as evil as we originally thought.”

Maglor could only nod. “I am glad that you have finally been reunited with your parents. I did not wish to give you up to Gil-galad, but I think, in the end, it was best for all concerned.”

“When this is all over, you will have to come visit us in Aewellond,” Eärendil said.

“Perhaps,” Maglor said, not wishing to commit himself to anything just yet. Eärendil seemed to understand and just nodded. Elwing gave him a light kiss on the cheek, but Elrond actually hugged him, much to his surprise, for even as an elfling Elrond had not been very demonstrative. He hugged his foster son back and when they separated they both had tears in their eyes.

All this time, the Valar and the Elves looked on in silence. Eärendil and Elwing bowed to Manwë. “Thank you , my lord, for indulging us,” Eärendil said before he and Elwing made their way back to where they had been standing. Elrond gave Maglor a loving smile and followed.

Manwë just smiled. “Is there anyone else?”

Again, silence settled over them and Maglor stood there feeling deflated. Even though he had been promised by the Valar that all was forgiven as far as they were concerned, he knew that for some, forgiveness would never be. Manwë turned to Eönwë.

“Read Lord Macalaurë’s Renouncement.”

Eönwë brought forth the Book of Oaths and the book opened of itself, settling upon a particular page from which he read:

“I, Macalaurë Fëanárion, confess to you who sit upon the thrones of the West and to the One who is above all thrones, that I have sinned in deed and in word most grievously in what I have done and what I have failed to do. I hereby solemnly and of my free will renounce all claims to this or any other Silmaril for all the ages of Arda that may remain and beyond. I humbly ask for your forgiveness and accept whatever punishment is my due for my crimes.”

As the Maia finished reading the words, the book closed and disappeared and Manwë spoke.

“Lord Macalaurë was given the opportunity to reclaim the very Silmaril he had thrown into the Sea but in the end he returned it to our brother Ulmo’s realm for safekeeping until the end of Arda. And as you have heard, he humbly asked for forgiveness for what he had done. That forgiveness has been granted by us and by Eru Ilúvatar and we declare that no further punishment shall be meted out to him. Lord Macalaurë is free to reside where he wishes, with whomever he wishes, though on one particular condition that pertains to all of the Harthadrim, and that is that they will reside in Lórien for a time where they will be offered a chance to rest and recover. There will also be an opportunity for them and their children to be tutored in the ways of Amanian society.” He paused and looked to where the Harthadrim were standing. “Is that agreeable to you all?”

Denethor bowed. “Yes, Lord. We are at your mercy, for we have no idea what we should do or where we should go.”

“Residing in Lórien should give you the time and space you need to decide what you wish to do with your lives,” Manwë said, then turned his attention to Maglor.

“And you, Macalaurë, do you accept this proviso?”

Maglor bowed. “Yes, Lord, I do, and I thank you for your mercy and benevolence.”

Manwë nodded. “Lord Findaráto,” he called and Maglor saw Finrod making his way forward to give the Elder King a bow. “Since this was your idea, are you willing to supervise the integration of the Harthadrim into our society?”

“Of course, my lord,” Finrod said, bowing again. He turned to flash a bright smile at Maglor. “I am looking forward to civilizing my cousin.”

“Hah!” Maglor retorted, returning Finrod’s smile with one of his own.

“Art thou satisfied with this Judgment, Morimando?” Manwë then asked formally.

Námo stood. “Yes, Calimando. The Judgment is just. Let none dispute it or seek to lay it aside.”

“Then, I declare this court adjourned,” Manwë said. “There is, however, one other matter that needs to be addressed before we depart. Arthalion, son of Mallor and Celebriel, please join Macalaurë in the Ring.”

Maglor saw Arthalion start at his name but after a moment’s hesitation, he walked to where Maglor was standing. Maglor gave him a sympathetic smile and clasped his shoulder, offering him support.

Manwë gazed upon the two gravely. “Arthalion, for a long time thou hast wondered if killing thy brother Arthad was a sin and that thou wast being punished for thy reluctance to leave in a timely manner for Mithlond, thus missing out on Sailing with the last ships. The burden of thy guilt lay heavily upon thee and still does, I imagine. Certainly, what thou didst was wrong on one level, but it was done as an act of mercy and love, and so I say to thee, that thou art guiltless of murder.”

He then nodded to Eönwë, who turned and gestured for someone to come forward. Maglor heard Arthalion gasp as an ellon with similar features as his friend stepped forth.

“Arthad!” Arthalion fairly screamed, and ignoring all protocol began running toward his brother, who in turn was running to him until they met halfway between Maglor and Manwë. The two brothers clung to one another, weeping. Maglor glanced up at Manwë who smiled at him and he smiled back.

He sauntered over to the two ellyn even as Denethor and the other Harthadrim also came toward them, surrounding the two brothers who continued to cling to one another. Amarthamíriel and her children were attempting to hug both Arthalion and Arthad at the same time. Maglor glanced at Glóredhel, giving her a knowing smile and began singing one of the lullabies he had sung to Arthalion when the ellon had first come into their lives and the other Harthadrim joined in.

Thus the Valar and the Elves of Aman were treated to the sight of the Harthadrim joyfully singing a song of welcome to one whom they had just adopted for the sake of one of their own.

****

Words are Quenya:

Taurevayari: Plural of Taurevaryar: Ranger, literally, ‘Forest Protector’ [taurë ‘wood, forest’+ varya- ‘protect’+ -r ‘gender neutral agental suffix’; cf. Envinyatar].

Aulenduri: Plural of Aulendur: ‘Servant of Aulë’, an attested word designating those individuals or families who pledge their service to Aulë and by whom they are taught.

Morimando: ‘Dark Mandos’, Námo’s title when in Judgment. Manwë’s title is Calamando ‘Light Mandos’. The names are attested.

iNossë Finwëo: ‘of the House of Finwë’.

Epilogue: Another Conversation Among the Valar

“Well, they’re finally settled.” Irmo said as he joined the other Valar in Ilmarin about a week later, taking his usual seat next to his brother, Námo, with Estë sitting on his other side.

“Arthad went with them?” Varda asked as Ilmarë handed Irmo a goblet of miruvórë.

“Yes,” Irmo said, then took an appreciative sip before continuing. “He refused to be separated from his brother. Their parents went as well. I had to provide another pavilion for them. I’m glad the kinfolk of the other Harthadrim agreed not to move in as well. I’ve given them permission to come and visit later. I want to give these people time to acclimate themselves to their new environment.”

“Lady Nerdanel and her sons reached Vinyalondë from their settlement yesterday,” Ulmo informed them. “They were able to find passage on a ship leaving for Avallónë tomorrow. I will see to it that they have calm waters and a fair wind, so they should be here in about three weeks.”

“That is well,” Manwë said. “I wish for Macalaurë to have some time to heal in spirit before he meets with his brothers. That meeting will be fraught with much emotion.”

“Estë and I will be on hand when that meeting occurs,” Irmo assured them. “We will not allow them to meet alone and in fact I plan to monitor that meeting very carefully. Unlike his brothers, who have passed through Námo’s realm and been purged of all their darkness, Macalaurë still has darkness in him, though the greater darkness has finally been purged with his renunciation of his Oath. It will take some time for him, for all of them, to be purged of what darkness still clings to them and enter into our Peace.”

The others nodded in understanding and agreement.

“What plans do we have for their children?” Vairë asked.

“Well, Macalaurë’s children are accounted for,” Manwë said. “When the time comes, young Estel will go to Valmar and enter Aulë’s service.”

The Earthsmith nodded. “He already has great talent in manipulating gemstones and capturing the light of the sun and moon in them, but he could do with more finesse. His technique is still a bit crude.”

The others smiled. Then Oromë spoke.

“Macalaurë and Glóredhel have given me their permission to approach Russandol and have him trained as a Ranger. I think Findaráto will be willing to give him his first lessons while he’s living in Lórien and, with your permission, Irmo, I want to call in Vorondil Herendilion and perhaps even Beleg Cúthalion to come to Lórien and start training him as well.”

“I have no objections,” Irmo said. “I can redesign part of Lórien as a wilderness preserve where they can take him and anyone else. I would imagine that others would like to join the Rangers once they know of them.”

“Yes,” Oromë said, “and I do intend to ask them, but they are all much older. Russandol is, technically speaking, too young to be considered for training as a Ranger, but his life experiences have been such that I think the sooner I get my hands on the ellon, the safer we’ll all feel.”

Everyone chuckled at that.

“Círdan reached Alqualondë yesterday,” Ulmo said with a grin. “He took one look at the ships the Harthadrim built and demanded to see young Míriel immediately. He was rather put out by the fact that she was in Lórien when Salmar told him.”

“Does he plan to visit her?” Estë asked, smiling slightly. “I can’t imagine Círdan being that far away from the Sea.”

“Well, if he does come, I refuse to reconfigure Lórien with beachfront property,” Irmo declared with a huff and they all laughed.

“I’ll let him play on my lake instead,” Estë said with a wicked grin and they laughed even harder at that, for they knew that Estë’s lake was not for swimming in or even for boating. It was far too dangerous for any of the Elves, none of whom were aware of the Maia who was forever on guard against any of the Children attempting to enter the waters of Lórellin.

“As for the other children,” Manwë said, getting back to the original discussion, “we will have to see. Your people should be able to ascertain what skills and interests they have and how best to teach them what they need to know.” This last was directed at Irmo, who nodded.

“And that holds true for their elders, as well,” Estë said. “Too long have they spent simply trying to survive. I’m sure they will appreciate relearning old skills or perhaps learning new ones that their circumstance never allowed for.”

“Do you think they will remain in Eldamar or will they emigrate to Hyaraman?” Nienna asked.

“Hard to say at this point,” Manwë answered. “I suspect that wherever they decide to live they will not be separated from Macalaurë. They will follow him wherever he may go. These Elves are now each other’s family. That won’t change any time soon, if ever. I think they would do well to go to Hyaraman. Certainly Macalaurë will not want to be separated from his brothers or his amillë again and we know that they will go back to where they now reside. They will not remain here for very long.”

They all nodded, knowing the truth of Manwë’s words. After a moment or two of silence between them, Oromë turned to Námo. “You’ve been rather silent, Little Brother,” he said affectionately. “Care to share your thoughts on the subject with us?”

For a moment, Námo did not speak, giving Oromë a slightly sardonic look. “I think we have our work cut out for us,” he finally said.

“How do you mean?” Tulkas asked with a frown. “We inspired the Harthadrim to rescue Macalaurë and find the Straight Road and in doing so, find young Arthalion and save him from his despair. Now they have finally reached our shores and are being looked after and soon they will become productive members of Amanian society. Our task is done. Is it not?” He directed the last at Manwë, but it was Námo who spoke.

“As far as the Harthadrim are concerned, but there are other Elves still wandering in Middle-earth whom we should try to inspire to seek the Straight Road, now that the Seas have been unfrozen and the way is open once again.”

“Yet, those who did not follow Denethor made their choice, even as those who refused to leave Cuiviénen made their choice,” Oromë stated. “We have not concerned ourselves with them, so why should we concern ourselves with any of them who stubbornly refuse to heed our call? The Avari are all faded, haunting the woods and dells of Middle-earth, lost in their memories of starlight by the Sea of Helcar, refusing to join their fellows here in Valinor. Those who once lived in the Elven realms of Beleriand and later in Eriador and Rhovanion and did not Sail are as lost to us as the Avari.”

“Some are, yes,” Námo averred, “but not all, and I would fain not abrogate our responsibility toward them while there is still hope that some few will heed our call.”

“And if they don’t?” Aulë asked. “How long do we waste our time on them if they insist on stubbornness over humility and heed our call?”

“Is it a waste?” Námo shot back, his expression darkening somewhat. “I do not recall Atar telling us to close up shop and come home. As long as we are the Guardians of Arda it is our duty to inspire these stubborn Children to come home where they belong. There is no future for them in Middle-earth. For better or for worse, Arda is the realm of Men and the other races have no place in it.”

“And yet, I perceive that not all the Firstborn are destined to Sail,” Manwë said, “nor to fade, but to continue living among the Mortals, quietly teaching them and guiding them in the way they must go.”

“Is this something that Atar has spoken to you about, then?” Námo asked politely.

Manwë shook his head. “Not directly, but whenever I think on it, I feel a sense that while we should indeed continue to inspire the Children to come home, some will not heed our call for Atar has other plans for them, plans that will be revealed in the fullness of time.”

“I have experienced no prescience on the matter,” Námo said, looking disturbed.

“I am not surprised,” Manwë said gently, “for this knowledge has only come to me as we have sat here discussing it. I do agree with you, Námo, that we should concentrate our efforts in inspiring other Elves to Sail, rejoicing in whoever heeds our call and welcoming them joyfully, leaving the rest to Atar.”

“Then, let us by all means do so,” Varda said. “I have in mind to send some of our Maiar to Middle-earth to seek out the Firstborn who linger there and do what they can to inspire them. I don’t know about you, but I’ve noticed many of my people feeling restive and bored. Sending them to Middle-earth should give them more purpose.”

“Yes, that’s an excellent idea,” Manwë said, “and we can send others to perhaps oversee the fortunes of the Mortals. When the south polar ice cap was destroyed during our war with Helcar, the ensuing flood inundated the coasts, destroying what civilizations had existed at the time. The Mortals who managed to escape the flooding will need to rebuild their civilizations. Our Maiar could perhaps help there, as well.”

They all nodded at that.

“So, who should we send among our Maiar to inspire the remaining Firstborn to heed our call and find the Straight Road?” Yavanna asked.

“Olórin,” Námo said without hesitation.

“Fionwë,” Manwë suggested almost at the same time.

Other names were put forth, the Valar already looking forward to the day when all the Firstborn were finally home. Even as he listened to his brethren making their plans, Námo cast his mind to Lórien, smiling to see Macalaurë happily playing with his children in the maze they had just discovered, laughing as they ran down the yew-lined paths seeking the center.

Maglor son of Fëanor was finally home, exiled no longer.

-Metta-