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Recognition  by Larner

For RS9, Rhyselle, Kara's Aunty, Elveses, and Inzilbeth for their birthdays.  It's taken time to get it written, but at last it is finished and I hope that it is welcome!  Beta by Certh. 


            “Morgil!  Morgil!  You’ve come!”

            He looked up at the call of the name his visitor had given him.  A young Man was running his way, a bright grin upon his face as he leapt over the saw grass and tangled sea heather to run out upon the dunes.  The one addressed as Morgil smiled in return, but who could resist that expression on the youth’s face?  He’d camped near here now each summer for some years, ever since he’d watched one of the grey ships crafted yonder at the end of the Firth sail away carrying the Ring-bearers.  Then he had watched in awe and grief as that strange, small being standing between Elrond and Galadriel had held aloft the tantalizing light of the last Silmaril caught within a phial of water to reassure his friends that he would be well, no matter how far away he might be going.  He who now went by the name of Morgil had stood upon the hillside there above his current place upon the beach, watching and singing, adding his own songs to those of wind and water, speeding the ship upon its way, even though what remained within him of the vow that had brought him away from the lands to which the ship bore its passengers had been violently urging him to swim out and swarm up the anchor rope and to take that phial by force.

            Afterwards he had sat upon the hillside for five days, taking no food or water or rest, until a red-headed child found him there and shared with him his water bottle and his lunch of bread and cheese and dried fruit, coaxing him back to life and awareness with his gentle concern and sheer tenacity.  It was the boy who had first called him “Dark Star,” and Maglor had been able to think of no reason to refuse the epessë.  In return he had called the child Russandol, a name he’d not used for another for two Ages of the Sun.  The boy reminded him of his brother Maitimo as they’d been as children in Tirion, so caring and always smiling and cheerful.  Russandol’s family dwelt on the edges of the village that the Dúnedain had built north of the Firth of Lhûn and somewhat west of Círdan’s Mithlond, a village mostly of fisher folk with a scattering of those who kept sheep and provided the rest with what foodstuff they did not wrest from the Sea.  Russandol’s father worked his small farm with the aid of his wife, three daughters, and six sons, of whom Russandol was the youngest.  The boy was the one sent most often to watch after the family’s flock of sheep as it fed upon the hillsides above the village, and so it had fallen to him to find and tend the stricken Elf.

            “What is it that has you running so today, Russandol?” he called as the youth approached him.

            “We are to go to Annúminas tomorrow!  Our Lord Aragorn is returning north at long last, now that the city is built and ready to receive him!  My father insists on being there when he comes, for he remembers well the days when he was one of Lord Aragorn’s Rangers, before he was injured and lost an eye to raiders from Dunland.  All of those who served regularly with the Rangers are planning to gather there to welcome him and his family!  We will see him and the Lady Arwen and their children.  Please say that you will come with us, Morgil!  Please come!  It will be a celebration such as those of us dwelling in Eriador have not known for over a thousand years, since Arvedui Last-king disappeared into the far north and perished in the Bay of Forochel!  Please come with us!”

            Come with them, amidst those who would undoubtedly crowd the rebuilt capitol of Arnor to see the first coming of their King in over a millennium?  Could he bear being amongst so many people?  Could he bear seeing the mortal descendant of his own former fosterling, or the child of that one’s brother who now bore the title of Queen?

            Russandol was still urging him.  “Please come!  You won’t be the only Elf there, either, for Círdan himself has said that he will go to give Lord Aragorn honor, and many will be there from Rivendell alongside Lord Celeborn and his grandsons.  And it is said that Lord Glorinlas of the wandering tribes shall come from Lindor as well.”

            That was no recommendation.  Maglor did not seek out those of his own kind, and did not wish to be recognized by his cousin’s husband or Círdan.  “I am not certain, Russandol,” he said.  “I am no Man to bow down to your King, and have ever dwelt alone since the last of my own family fell in the great battles.”

            The young Man shrugged.  “Then perhaps it is past time for you to find fellowship with your own people,” he suggested.  “It is not good to dwell apart from others for so very long, you know.  It is over three thousand years since the Last Alliance, and few enough of your people remain here in Middle Earth any more.  Surely you, too, should be looking at taking one of Lord Círdan’s ships westward one day?  It grieves me to think of you remaining here in the Mortal Lands until you at last fade!  But even if you should choose not to seek fellowship with those of your own who will be there, still this is an event you should not miss, to see the King at last returned to the North where he was born!  Please, come with us!  My father suggested that I invite you to travel with us in thanks for the aid you have given us over the past decade and a half.”


            In the end he was persuaded, and on the following morning was at the gate to the farm when Russandol’s family came out.  The wife and daughters and the grandchildren rode in the family’s farm wagon, while the menfolk walked alongside it or before it, Russandol’s father Findrion alone riding a horse, wearing an ancient stained grey cloak closed at the left shoulder with a silver star, a naked sword at his hip, a black patch over the scars that surrounded the missing eye.  Russandol and one of his older nephews came to walk alongside the Elf, drawing him into the company and making him know his welcome.

            “This is Tadeos, the son of my brother Madog.  Come, for Ada wishes to greet you.”

            Findrion looked down from his horse, and bowed his head respectfully.  “We welcome you, my lord,” he said, giving the Elf a remarkably thorough examination with his one good eye.  “Timriol has been hoping that he could convince you to accompany us, for he rejoices to have known your friendship over the years.  We have laughed at the epessë you granted him, but must admit it is well deserved, as red as his hair is.  We don’t have all that many redheads amongst the Dúnedain, but now and then one will be born to us as if to remind us of what once was perhaps more common among us.”

            A child within the wagon suddenly squalled, drawing the attention of all.  The youth sighed.  “Oh, dear, Ada, but Largas is raising a fuss.  Bessa will be wanting my aid.”

            Findrion smiled.  “Then go, Timriol, for you are one of the few who can calm Largas once he takes it into his head that someone has somehow shorted him.”

            Russandol smiled apologetically at Maglor before he turned toward the wagon, Tadeos at his heels.  Findrion watched after his youngest son with pride.  “He has always had the ability to calm and soothe others, or so we have found.  And as apparently you have found also, my lord.  He has told me that when he found you, you were in apparently a transport of grief of some kind, perhaps due to what you saw of those who left on the ship that had just sailed from the quays of Mithlond.  I am told that the Lady Galadriel was aboard that ship, as well as Master Elrond of Imladris.  I suspect that both were dear to you in different ways, back in Aman and in the last days of your lordship within Beleriand.  Yes, my lord, I am aware of your true name and history, or so I believe.  Certainly the scars on your hands declare your identity, along with the light to be seen in your eyes.”  At Maglor’s start he held up one hand calmly.  “Do not worry that I will betray your true name before the rest, although I suspect that in the depths of his heart Timriol already knows it.  For now it is enough that he called you back from the depths of your grief and that you have returned his friendship.  And I rejoice the more that you have agreed to accompany us to Annúminas to greet our King and his family, now that Aragorn at last returns to the North that saw him born.  You will not need to make yourself known to them, but it is in my heart that you will rejoice to see what fine individuals your influence has gifted to Middle Earth.”

            “You are not disgusted to be found in company with such a one as I, one who brought death to so many innocents of my own blood?”  Maglor heard his own voice to be rough with the mixed emotions that filled his heart.

            Findrion shrugged.  “Who am I to pass judgments on others, Lord Morgil?” he asked quietly.  “When I awoke to the knowledge that I had lost one eye and would no longer walk with any ease I admit that I was anything but kind to the one who tended me after I was felled by brigands from Dunland.  I did nothing but pour abuse on Aragorn for the weeks it took before I recovered enough to return north again from the ruins of Tharbad where we’d taken refuge.  And, over-proud fool that I was, I withdrew from the ranks of the Rangers and came here, as far from the Angle as I could get.  At least my Eluanna saw beyond my injuries and maiming to what I had been and could have become had I been less childish in my response to my partial blindness and stiff hip.  She coaxed me to become a true Man again, and at last allowed me to wed her, and together we have made a successful life here along the northern reaches of the Firth of Lhûn.

            “A good part of the reason we make this journey now is so that I might apologize to Aragorn for that abuse I laid upon him then, and to again offer my fealty to him.  I doubt he has held my fury against me, however—his is a gentle and forgiving nature for all that he is the greatest warrior amongst Men I have ever known, greater even than was the skill of his sire, or so my father told me.  But I need to make my own amends, as you have, or so I’ve been told, in your own way.”


            It was a merry enough journey.  All referred to him as Lord Morgil and treated him as if he were a member of the family who had recently made himself known to them all.  He’d often helped Russandol—Timriol—in his watch over the sheep, and had aided in some difficult births amongst the flock.  All had heard of him from Timriol, and a few had met him when they’d come out to the grazing lands with their young kinsman.  There had been one winter when he’d stayed nearby when he’d helped drive away a pack of wolves intent on staving off starvation at the cost of the flock, and he’d received the family’s thanks through Russandol’s offices as herald.  Maglor had managed to find a herd of deer not that far away, and one of the older does was failing.  He’d granted her the mercy stroke that she not die in sheer agony, and he’d brought her body to the area where he’d located the dens of the surviving wolves and left it there.  In the spring the wolves had left the region, heading further eastward, having survived due to his gift.  Timriol’s family had never forgotten how he’d aided them, and Russandol had managed to worm the story of how he’d saved the wolves as well from him, and this, too, the family appeared to honor him for.  He found it surprisingly pleasant to be welcomed by them and to know their generosity and hospitality as they made their way eastward to Lake Evendim.

            Timriol’s next older brother had left the farm and become apprenticed to the Elves of Mithlond, where he was learning the art of ship building.  The youngest of the sisters was married to a Man who’d already been through such an apprenticeship, and he worked in the Dúnedain boat yard, where he helped to keep their fleet of fishing vessels and their two trading ships in good repair.  There was now a third trading ship being built, and a fourth was being planned.  The farm was being cared for by the second daughter and her husband while the rest of the family went eastward to Annúminas, so Findrion and his clan traveled with no worries as to what might be happening behind them at their home.

            As they reached the outskirts of the rebuilt northern capitol they found that a camp had been built at the southern entrance to the city where many of the Dúnedain from farther points of Eriador were gathering, all desirous of being among the first to see their former Chieftain returning to them as their King.  As Findrion rode into the camp here were surprised calls from many sides.

            “Findrion!  Is it really you?  You’ve mellowed at last, have you?”

            “I say, look!  Silver Sword is come amongst us at last!  Welcome!”

            Maglor gave his young friend a questioning look.  “Silver Sword?”

            Timriol colored some.  “It was the name given him in the Breelands.  He said once he would not sheathe his sword again until Mordor was felled, and then he says he lost the sheath anyway.  They called our Lord Aragorn Strider there, although he embraced that name and has made it part of his throne name.  But then our Lord Aragorn Elessar has a mort of names, titles, and usages that he’s garnered in close to a century of life and wandering across the face of Middle Earth.”

            But another individual was pushing through the crowd gathered in the camp, a tall, heavily muscled Man whose beard was white and his hair grey, although indications were that once both had been black as the raven’s wing—or the bear’s pelt.  His expression was anything but friendly, Maglor thought, as he examined Findrion, who was swinging down from his horse, one of his elder sons come to hold the beast’s bridle.

            “So,” the stranger growled, and even his voice reminded the Elf of a bear, “the prodigal returns at last, does he?”

            Findrion looked at him warily.  “You aren’t pleased to see me, then?”  One of his daughters handed him his walking stick.

            “Considering how you came to leave us and the abuse you reportedly heaped on your Captain as if somehow he was to blame for the loss of one of your eyes and the crippling of your hip, yes, I do question why you’d dare to return.”

            Findrion sighed.  “I suspect that our Lord Aragorn forgave me years ago.  Why can’t you do the same, Ada?”  The whole of his party straightened in surprise and turned to him, and he gave a wry smile.  “Oh, yes, my children—this is your daeradar, my father.  He’s not been happy with my behavior at the time I left the Rangers, although being blind in one eye and with a stiff leg I was less than useful in my old calling any more.  And I readily admit that I was definitely as ass in my behavior to our Lord Chieftain, now our beloved King.  I do believe I accused him of being as heavy-handed as an orc wielding its scimitar, in fact.  But I was in a good deal of pain at the time, and Aragorn himself admitted that the herbs he gave me are likely to loosen one’s tongue past proper courtesy or tact.”

            He reached up to help his wife to alight from the wagon, and took one of the children into his arms.  “May I present my wife, Eluanna, and the youngest of our grandchildren, Largas?  Vanimelda, this is my father, Baerdion, who has trained our young Rangers for longer than I can remember.”

            Baerdion examined Eluanna, his expression softening.  “A gift you were to the Dúnedain, eh?” he asked, commenting on the meaning of her name.

            She gave him a slightly wary smile.  “Perhaps I was one to your son, my lord.”

            “A gift to my son?”  He laughed.  “Oh, yes, and one that appears to have helped him regain his manhood.  And I have both grandchildren and great-grandchildren I’ve not met until now?  I suspect it is long past time to do so!  Come—introduce me!”

            Maglor retreated that he not become embroiled of a reunion in which he had no legitimate part to play, slipping into a more secluded area of the campgrounds, and finding a tree that pleased him climbed up it to a place where he could sit comfortably and watch to the south.  He could still hear much of the speech of those below him, many of whom conversed in either Sindarin or Adûnaic, although most appeared to use the Common Tongue.  It appeared that the King’s party was due to arrive sometime near sundown, perhaps in three hours’ time.  There were many comments about the arrival of Findrion and his family, although no one appeared to have paid attention to the inclusion of an Elf in their party, for which he was glad.  Perhaps he ought not to have given in to Russandol’s persuasion.  After all, what right had he to inflict his company upon others?  Perhaps he should leave when the chance presented itself and return to the coast.  What had he to do with the return of the King, after all?


            He looked down to see Russandol—Timriol—looking up at him.  So much for remaining unseen!  “Mellon nín?

            “My mother sent me to fetch you for the evening meal, if you would join us.  I did not guess I would meet my father’s father today.  Did you?”

            “No, he had not told me that this was possible.”  The Elf dropped gracefully to the ground.

            “Were you overcome by too many people?” asked the youth as he indicated which way to go.

            “Perhaps,” came the reply.  “It is seldom that I spend time with anyone other than myself, after all.”

            Timriol sniffed as he walked beside the Elf toward the fire at which his mother was now presiding.  “You should at least seek out those of your family who remain here in Middle Earth.  I am certain that not all are gone to the Undying Lands.”

            “And what would you, a mortal, know of my family?” Maglor challenged.

            The young Man stopped and turned to face his Elvish friend.  “Do you think I have not guessed your true name, Morgil?” he asked in very low tones.  “We are not as rich in books of lore as are some of our villages further east, but we do live hard by Mithlond, after all, and hear the stories of your people as often as we hear those of our own.  Perhaps your brothers are all dead by violence, and your father by the trickery of the lords of darkness.  But although the Lady Galadriel is now gone, yet remains her husband—and her granddaughter and grandsons.  Considering their father, do you not know that they will most likely accept you with kindness, even possibly with love?

            “Yes, I know that you made of yourself a wolf’s head, but that was very long ago—three Ages of the Sun past, in fact.  And you have done no true evil in the time since.  Rather, you have done what good you can, for are you not at least one of the mysterious bards that comes into our inns and gatherings and corrects our lore that we not forget that evil can lay as  pretty a snare to this day as it ever has?  And considering how my mother has counseled my father for many years to reconcile with his own father and Lord Aragorn once more, is it not well past time for you to do the same with your people?  Is it not well past time for you to seek the forgiveness of the Powers?  You cannot fulfill that terrible vow, after all, for the jewels of light are all beyond the reach of any of us who dwell here in Middle Earth.  One lies in the bosom of the Earth, one in the depths of the Sea, and unless you can find a means to yourself sail the seas of Heaven, you cannot reach that borne by Lord Eärendil.  I doubt you could do so even if you were to return to the Undying Lands!  How can a vow still hold you when you cannot hope to achieve it?”

            Maglor felt his mouth working, but could find nothing to say.  He knew he should leave—leave now!  But he found he could not move.  Both father and son had recognized him, yet accepted him as he was.  Was this young Man correct?  Should he indeed seek his way home?  And could he think to approach Elrond’s children and their grandfather for the sake of the love between himself and his former fosterling?

            Timriol reached out his hand to take that of the Elf.  “Come now, and share our meal.  You have come this far—do not run away into the loneliness again before you have remembered how much pleasure there can be in the company of others!”

            He found himself following the youth, drawn by Russandol’s simple acceptance and expectation that with such a length of time healing must have come also for the hurts he’d caused in his past.  Could the young Man be right?  Could he at last be forgiven for the needless deaths he’d dealt and for so long had sought to blame on those he’d slain?  Would the Valar forgive that final betrayal that had cost him his last brother and so very much pain and grief?

            While they were eating they heard the rumor of the coming of a group from the west, and soon a riding arrived from Mithlond and the remnants of Lindor.  Maglor withdrew into the shadows, and did not believe he’d been noticed by most of those who’d just arrived.  He had recognized Círdan, of course, and he believed that the younger ellon who rode at the Shipwright’s side was the son of Gildor Inglorion.  He suspected that Círdan had noted his presence, but doubted many others had.  He also doubted that Círdan would advise his companions that Fëanor’s one remaining son within the Mortal Lands was present in the company, so he felt he was safe from undesired approach from any of his own people.  Still, he felt he perhaps ought to have left, returning to his refuge in the bluffs overlooking the Firth of Lhûn, rather than to remain to his possible discovery by those who still remembered him with understandable loathing from the days that ended the First Age of the Sun.

            An hour before sunset word was passed through the camp that the King’s procession was approaching rapidly from the south and would be there within a quarter of an hour at most.  Findrion’s party formed as far from the western Elves as possible, for which Maglor was grateful.  He stood toward the back, the hood of his ragged cloak over his head and obscuring his face, and he willed himself to remain unnoticed.  Very soon the knights of the King’s vanguard approached, well mounted on powerful horses and dressed alternately in the grey and silver of Arnor and the black and silver of Gondor, with a scattering of fair warriors garbed in blue and silver, their armor and pennants decorated with the image of a swan ship rather than the seven stars that marked the rest.  Maglor found himself smiling, although his lip, he realized, trembled slightly—it was a very long time since he’d seen that emblem, which now marked the knights of the heirs to Imrazôr the Númenórean.  He wondered if Mithrellas realized that her descendants so identified with her Elvish roots that they had taken the tokens of the Teleri as their own badge.

            A number of gaily caparisoned lords and ladies followed the knights, amongst them a boy whose expression was so high and noble that Maglor realized that this must be the King’s son, Eldarion.  But then he found his attention captured by the older girl who rode by his side, her hair a most unusual auburn color for one of the Dúnedain, although her eyes were the clear grey he remembered so well from the days when he saw that color in the eyes of his fosterlings.  Her head was cocked so as to better hear what was being said by her companion, and it was so reminiscent of Elros’s habitual posture when listening to his brother that the Elf felt a twisting in his breast that was both painful and yet joyful at the same time.  “That must be the Lady Melian, the firstborn of our King,” Russandol commented.  The young Man was watching her raptly, his lips slightly parted; and Maglor realized that he was smitten by this Princess of Arnor and Gondor.

            On the near side of Melian was a pony on which rode what appeared to be another child—until Maglor noted the fineness of her features and the leaf-shaped ears barely to be discerned amongst her golden curls that indicated that this was one of the Periannath.  He heard a swell of murmurs around them as the watching Men commented on the sight of their Lord’s children riding with such a companion.

            After the two royal children rode a second guard, and amongst them on a black pony with a star upon its forehead another of the Periannath, an adult this time, dressed in the black and silver of the Guards of the Citadel of Minas Tirith, the White Tree and Seven Stars bright upon his breast.  After them was a single line of Elves, and Maglor’s heart froze as he recognized the erect form of Glorfindel, who had been the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower in lost Gondolin and who after he’d been reembodied had been sent back to Middle Earth to assist those Elves who remained within the Mortal Lands to resist the demands of the new Lord of Darkness.  Maglor froze into immobility, but perhaps it was his very stillness that drew the attention of the golden haired warrior, for Glorfindel’s eyes met those of the son of Fëanor, as did the eyes of the woman who rode alongside the tallest Man Maglor believed he’d seen since the coming of the nine ships of the Faithful that had arrived on the Hither Shore in the wake of the Breaking of the World.  This woman was smiling in response to the cheers that greeted the arrival of herself and her husband, and if the posture of her older daughter’s head reminded Maglor of Elros, the smile of the girl’s mother was definitely that of Elrond!  He raised one hand to his mouth with a strangled moan, swallowed brokenly, and watched them ride by, barely noticing the Hobbits who rode their ponies after the great grey that carried the King of the Reunited Realm, and the other notables who accompanied them.

            She had seen him!  What was he to do?  Elrond’s daughter had seen him, and he could swear she had known who he was!  Could he hide?

            Then the King was slowing so that he could speak to some of the older of the Dúnedain amongst the crowd, and he was greeting Findrion’s father by name, and Baerdion was indicating Findrion’s party and summoning his son to come forward, which he did, accompanied by his own children and grandchildren.  Russandol had taken Maglor’s hand, desiring at first to draw him forward as well, only the Elf shook his head and faded backwards as best he could, and the youth let him go with a sigh of acceptance.


            The King and his great party had ridden on into the city, and at last the waiting Dúnedain had drifted back to their respective campsites, sated for the moment with their view of their Chieftain who had returned to them with his family, now ruler of both Gondor and Arnor. 

            Maglor, however had gone beyond the flat area where tents, pavilions, and campfires had risen, and sat now within a spinney of young alders, overwhelmed by the memories raised by the sight of Elrond’s Captain, daughter, and grandchildren.  How he’d come to love those two boys that he and his brother had brought out of the ruins of Sirion!  Even if they had forced the children’s mother to fling herself from the height of the tower window down to the Sea below, yet in time Elrond and Elros had come to accept him as their guardian and teacher, and everything he’d not been able to teach his own son he’d left behind in Tirion he’d sought to teach these two.  Elros had chosen mortality and had left the Circles of Arda two Ages of the Sun past, while Elrond he’d seen leaving with the other Ringbearers at the end of the Third Age, a mere fifteen circlings of Anor ago.  He’d had but mere glimpses of Elrond since the day Maglor and his brother had slain the guards set over the two remaining Silmarils and they’d sought to escape with them, thinking their father’s vow finally fulfilled.  Maedhros had ended up destroying himself, giving himself and his shining burden into the heart of the Earth itself, while Maglor had thrown his own Silmaril into the keeping of the Sea, seeing again in the arc of his throw the fall of Elwing with the Nauglamir upon her breast.

            Now and then Maglor had approached wherever it was that Elrond had been living, contenting himself with glimpses from afar of his remaining foster son, glad that at least he’d had a hand in the forming of this one good soul.  And he’d been close enough when the ship carrying the Ring-bearers set sail from Mithlond to see the great weariness on Elrond’s face, alongside the gladness that at last he was able to set aside the burden of rule and guard he’d held since the founding of Imladris followed by the loss of Ereinion Gil-galad.  How glad Maglor had been to realize that his fosterling had been the bearer of one of Celebrimbor’s Rings of Power during the years when all of good will had stood in defiance of Sauron! 

            Sauron had finally been defeated, his power destroyed because one of those small Periain had managed to defy the evil will of Sauron’s own Ring to bring It back to Mordor where at last It was unmade in the very Fires in which It had been forged.  Both Elrond and Maglor’s kinswoman Artanis Galadriel had willingly offered up their own power to see the Ring destroyed.  Now they’d gone out of Middle Earth forever, taking with them the Perian who’d thought to sacrifice himself to see that purpose fulfilled.  If only he and Maedhros had shown similar integrity, Maglor thought as his tears slid down his face.

            “Here he is, the one who somehow has Frodo’s shirt studs upon him!”

            Maglor looked up, shocked, to find he was no longer alone.  Facing him directly was a russet-headed Dwarf with a most grim expression.  How in Middle Earth had he failed to hear the arrival of one of the Naugrim?  And what would a Dwarf know about the gift that the small bearer of the One had made to him the night before that grey ship left the quays of Mithlond?  It had been such a chance encounter, the Hobbit having intended only to relieve himself before returning to his rest before the last leg of his journey to the Havens.  What had moved the Cormacolindo to make the gift of the studs he wore to hold closed the cuffs of his shirt Maglor still did not understand, but he wore them humbly, a memorial to one whose discernment and compassion he’d known but a brief moment ere he was gone.

            The Dwarf was not alone.  He was accompanied by a Perian with a broad frame, and a much taller and slender cloaked figure.  “I’d wondered how my Master’d managed to mislay those shirt studs that last night of our ride to the Sea,” the Hobbit said.  “He didn’t explain, not that he was up to speakin’ anyways by that time.”

            The cloaked individual murmured, “What I was wondering was how he managed to be garbed in a shirt that I myself wrought.  I recognized my own work from the brief glimpse I had of the sleeve.” 

            It was a woman’s voice, low and musical, reminiscent of the voice of Elwing he’d heard but the once, just before she’d leapt through that window.  She thrust back the hood of her cloak, and he found himself looking into the face of Elrond’s daughter, now the Queen of Arnor and Gondor.  She was examining him closely, and he quailed before the Light of Stars to be seen in those beautiful grey eyes of hers. 

            “So,” she whispered, “this is the way of it, is it?  I think I understand!”

            He could only look at her dumbly before he dropped his gaze.  But she would not allow that.  She set a shapely finger beneath his chin and caused him to raise his head to meet her eyes once more.  “I’d always wondered if one day we might meet, Macalaurë son of Fëanáro,” she said more formally.  And then she smiled at him, and his heart leapt within his breast.  “I am so very glad to greet you at last, daeradar,” she said, and indeed he felt encompassed by the love that Timriol son of Findrion had foretold!


daeradar - grandfather

epessë - a nickname given by another that has become accepted by the recipient

Morgil - Dark Star

Russandol - Redhead, one of the epessës given to Maedhros when he was young

Vanimelda - my beloved one, an endearment

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