Worst of all, there were always whispers of the Simarilli. Some of the Noldorin Elves, like Maglor and Maedhros, had the consideration to hold their conversations when he was near. But others purposely raised their voices, to be sure that Elrond heard. They loudly complained that Elrond and his brother should be killed to punish their mother, Elwing, who had flown into the sea, depriving them of their Silmaril.

"Youngling!" Maedhros called, and Elrond's head snapped around. Unlike most Elves, the eldest son of Feänor had a rough, though not unappealing voice. Elrond was always surprised to hear it, and not a little frightened. Although Maedhros had never been anything but kind to him, Elrond had seen Feänor's eldest son wielding his blade left-handed with deadly precision. The memories still tormented him.

"Maglor is searching for you, Youngling," Maedhros told him, waving his right arm in the direction of his brother's study. In place of the hand that should have been on the end of his arm there was an intricately designed silver hand, the fingers slightly curled. Shivering again and flexing the fingers of his right hand unconsciously, the young Peredhil stood, his feet finding easy purchase on the thin ledge he'd been hiding on. Grasping the stone railing in both hands, the Elf-child easily launched his thin body over and into the corridor.

Elrond was familiar enough with his windy new home to find Maglor's study without any problem. He rapped lightly on the door but did not wait to be invited in.

It was warmer in here. The young half-Elf sighed gratefully; rubbing his chilled arms a little, Elrond took a seat near the fire. Maglor did not look up from the large book he was writing in, head bowed so that his face was hidden from Elrond, who waited patiently. For several minutes there was a companionable silence broken only by the crackle of orange flames and an occasional hum from the musical son of Feänor.

"This is for you." Maglor told Elrond quietly, pushing a silver-handled scroll across his desk, still not looking up at the Elf-child, though his hand had stopped moving across the paper. He seemed almost shy.

Curious, Elrond left his place at the hearth, picked up the scroll and retreated back to his seat on the rug. Slowly he untied Maglor's gift.

At first glance he thought it to be a copy of Beren's parting song, and he was puzzled. But after reading a few lines, he quickly realized that Maglor had altered the lyrics. Tears blurred his eyes and he brushed his arm across them quickly, trying to salvage his boyish masculine pride.