Warning: Originally intended as an Epilogue, this chapter turned out outrageously long, with footnotes and all!

Chapter 6. The Last Debate.

Somewhere near the estuary of the River Casamance. Low-Casamance region; Senegal, West Africa. March, 2006.

Maglor watched the newcomer from under a beaded curtain of black hair that blurred his vision. Since the rains had finally settled in, the lands of the Jola were regularly blessed with torrential downpours that sheeted every morning and every afternoon, until the rice fields were duly flooded.

He loved to sit cross-legged before his hut at those times; hunched, enduring, like the birds on the trees and the beasts upon the ground. It had a magical feeling to sit there under the rain, becoming one with the blinding curtain that poured down joyfully until he could no longer see, could no longer feel the pounding drops on his skin and became one with the rain, opening up to it as the soil did, accepting the gift humbly. At times, if he concentrated enough, he could even hear the echo of Ulmo’s horns coming down with the rain; waters that had once coursed the veins of Arda and that had risen high in the sky upon the wings of Manwë’s winds…only to come down again in the form of a blessing upon an earth that each day was drier and farther from grace.

But not today.

He had been restless since the night before, with a nagging feeling of upcoming events. Or perhaps it was his own nervousness at seeing how the appointed date –the Elven New Year- got closer and still there was no trace of a replacement, though Father Nino had been so sure that someone was on his way…Half-despairing that the miracle would ever happen, Maglor had nonetheless kept his promise to his old friend and was taking care of Insa’s family’s rice fields, while the young man returned to Dakar to get his degree.

Eager as he was to meet with his friends –it was four no, five years since they had all been together for the New Year- Maglor would not betray his word to the old priest. And just when he had lost all hope of savouring Thranduil’s more than passable reds for yet another year, the man had jumped off the old truck that brought supplies from Oussouye monthly and had started asking patiently in every hut. Maglor studied him quietly from the other end of the hamlet, as the villagers answered the stranger’s questions and pointed him towards the bakin.

He liked what he saw. The man was neither old nor young; a thickset, short fellow who carried a medium-sized backpack carefully enveloped in a waterproof cover. He wore plain cotton trousers with less than five pockets and a t-shirt, and seemed not bothered by the pouring rain. Even better, he did not even try to get under cover, as one who actually knew the futility of such efforts under equatorial rains.

“Good afternoon, Jürgen Purchert. They said you could tell me about Father Nino…”

Maglor took some time to study the well-worn trekking shoes before raising his head and meeting the newcomer’s eyes, which turned out to be deep blue slits on a plain, honest face wrinkled by experience and framed by greying hair. He stood up gracefully, pushing back strands of black, soaking hair that sent more rivers trickling down his spine, and shook the proffered hand with his scarred one. “Malcolm Lauren,” he said. “You can leave your pack here. It is not far.” He picked his machete from its peg and watched as the man unslung his backpack without a word and placed it as safe from the rain as he dared without invading the privacy of Maglor’s cabin.

The newcomer kept his silence while following Maglor to the river. He boarded the dugout with sure step, knowing exactly where to take seat and picking up a paddle without being told. He had strong arms, and after a few sure strokes they were amidst the river, which was swollen with the heavy rains. By the time they took the steep, tangled trail up the hill at the other side Maglor was already persuaded that the man was up to the position. With well-aimed blows of his machete he cleared the last stretch towards the hill top, where the old baobab stood watch over the priest’s resting place. The rain had stopped by then, and Arien was piercing her way amidst pewter clouds, colouring the dripping trees with myriads of tiny, glistening rainbows.

“There,” he said, pointing at the plain driftwood cross that marked the place. The man nodded and walked up the short distance to the tomb, then dropped down clumsily and looked at the simple carvings for a long time. Maglor just stood there, watching the old tree and the empty nest on its sturdy branch.  

“A beautiful place,” the man said finally in a deep voice. “I am sorry that I could not come before…I suppose that Insa is back in Dakar?” The question shook Maglor from his contemplation and he cast a questioning glance at the man. “I met Father Nino some thirty years ago, in the Brazilian Amazonia, in an irrigation project,” the other explained. “I was a young engineer then, fresh from college, and we were in the opposite sides of the barricade… but we ended up as friends,” he chuckled, smiling at some fond memory. “We’ve been in touch since then. I told him that I would be glad to help the Jola as soon as I finished my last commission…but it was too late, I fear. I came here a couple of times in the last years…And I was curious to meet you, Mr. Lauren,” he added, looking up and searching Maglor’s face quickly. “Father Nino spoke highly of you…”

“We were friends,” Maglor acknowledged softly, wondering whether the engineer had heard about the lawyer or rather the bakin. “So you are come to settle down,” he added, feeling a surge of relief and gratitude towards the old priest, who had taken time to tie up all the threads carefully before leaving. “And I suppose that you are ready to remain here until Insa comes back, taking care of the rice fields for him?”

“And also of the legal conflicts, although it would comfort me to know that we still count with your support…”

“My office in Dakar is keeping track of everything; you will find their number among Father Nino’s papers. I have other duties elsewhere, so I cannot tell when I will be back…Come,” he said, standing up and casting a last glance at the solitary mound. “Take your pack to his place, and let’s drink to his health with his wine…” And without looking back he took the path down the hill.

Word had spread across the hamlet, though, and when they came back they found that their neighbours were ready to receive their new resident with due ritual, since he had already been acknowledged by the bakin. First they showed the engineer into Father Nino’s cabin, which they had supplied with fruit, yucca, fresh water and a new hammock, and then they shared the powerful bunuk with the newcomer and swore him into the old gods. They feasted the whole night, and Maglor sang for them and played drums with absolute abandon, deeply grateful for the peace and forgetfulness that he had always been granted among the Jola. Before dawn, while everyone slept in the blissful fog of the bunuk, he slipped quietly into his own hut, gathered his scarce belongings and walked away.

                                                                                                                        ~~ * ~~ 

Somewhere near Carnac. Bretagne, France. Five days later.

It took Maglor two days on foot to reach Oussouye, one day to get air transportation to Dakar in an old Cessna that jumped and burped like a drunken bird and two more to find a ticket with Air France to Paris. Trying to make it in time for a domestic connection between Charles De Gaulle and Orly airports was only too daunting a challenge, even for one who had fought Morgoth’s armies in the First Age, so he rented a car instead and drove down the busy highway and towards the sea.

Half-way between Paris and Rennes he stopped at a small, quaint village of stone houses and silent squares and managed to found a decently prized guesthouse where the innkeeper seemed glad enough –after his French manner- to take a guest in that late in the evening.  Bread, cheese, a bowl of vegetable soup and a glass of new cider from the barrel tasted like some old forgotten home to Maglor, and he climbed the creaking wooden stairs to a penthouse bedroom in a rather melancholy mood.

He slept for a few hours and was back on the road well before dawn. He made good time and bet Arien to Carnac, so her first rays found the Elf walking among evergreen oaks and tall pine trees, along the rows of stone alignments that Men called Kermario, the House of the Dead.

Maglor loved that land like few others in Middle-earth. The lines of standing stones there were old; he suspected that the mounds and barrows and stone landmarks had been there since Bereg of the house of Bëor led a great host of Edain back south from Estolad and across the Ered Luin. They still stood there, the stones, and their presence at the very rim of drowned Beleriand somehow comforted him, as a reminder of the world of old. But they also filled him with a yearning that each passing yén became more unbearable.

He sat there for some time, his back against one of the old standing stones, hoping to regain some measure of serenity after so long in the fast-paced jungle. He closed his eyes and reached for his fëa, urging its song to join the slow, ancient voices of the stones and the always welcome chatter of oaks that were mere saplings when compared with the mossy boulders. And yet he could not find the usual peace in that familiar place. He had been shaken by the priest’s death and by his parting words. Father Nino’s well-intentioned talk of forgiveness and redemption had stirred unfathomable depths of guilt and shame, and now Maglor felt again the weight of his banishment. Releasing a deep, anguished sigh he forced on his customary cold, cynical front and went in search of the guard.

“The dogs were restless, but this one did not bark, so I thought it might be you…” Man and dog greeted him at the other side of the fence they had been forced to erect years ago to protect the site from too much admiring by careless tourists.  Now only sheep, visiting researchers and the site guardians and their dogs were granted the privilege of strolling among those ancient stone trees. “It’s been how long, Dr. Lauren? Five, six years? It’s good to see you!”

“Five, I would say, and not enough for that grass to grow back, I see,” he pointed out as he climbed the fence with the casualness of one who felt at home. “I hope your wife is well?”

“She is, thanks,” the guard laughed, shaking Maglor’s hand in welcome and casting furtive glances around to make sure that no early tourist had witnessed that blatant violation, while the dog cavorted and wiggled its tail madly and licked Maglor’s hand in recognition. “And she will gladly trade a cup or two of her coffee for your tales!”

“Not now, my friend, send her my regards. I have an appointment, and I just dropped by to tell you that I am here…”

“Are you staying at your friend’s? Bring him down for lunch on Sunday, then,” the guard insisted, walking Maglor back to where he had parked his car. “The children will be here, and they will be glad to see you…”

He promised, clasped the guard’s arm and patted the dog, his mood notably improved by their warm reception. He had spent some time there many years ago, but they still received him as a long missed family member and were glad to exchange gossip and tales with him, no matter how long it had been since his last visit. It made Maglor feel like home; and he was grateful for it.

He was humming an old tune as he drove inland, towards the place where Thranduil had settled down many years ago. A well-paved road wound up a hill that had once, he was sure, housed a large barrow. A few houses cluttered its wide, bare crown, commanding an impressive view of the westernmost seas. He shivered as he parked the car and walked the last meters, trying not to think about the Straight Road that was closed to him forever. It had always stricken him as passing strange that the former king of Lasgalen, and a Wood elf at root, branch and leaf, would choose such a place for his preferred dwelling, looking west and into the sea.

Perhaps he, too, feels the call, he told himself. He would not know. They never talked about such things among themselves, or at least he did not. He kept his distance from his Sindarin fellow exiles as much as he could, always mindful of the impenetrable wall that his lineage and his crimes set up between them. He preferred to hide behind a façade of aloofness and arrogance that at times did not manage to wholly conceal his shame and his grief.

Thranduil’s great house stood alone on the farthest end of the hilltop and facing the ocean, its slate roof shaded by a mighty evergreen oak whose old age was the wonder of the neighbourhood, and its granite walls guarded by a couple of tall, straight holly trees that stood to permanent attention in the yard. Behind the house, hurrying downthe soft slope of the hill and reaching towards the bend of the river, stretched a large beech forest. Beyond there rolled Thranduil’s vineyards in ordered rows not much different in the distance from the almost endless lines of standing stones. Depending on where you stood, you could well believe that you were truly alone in that awesome landscape that so acutely called to mind ages long gone: Granite, trees and silence broken only by the voice of Manwë’s winds and the everlasting song of Ulmo’s horns. Moved by the beauty of the land, Maglor stood still for a moment on the old flagstones that lined the way to the main door and breathed in deeply, savouring the tang of the western waters blown in by winds which, he liked to think, at times came straight from lost Valinor.

“At last! Where were you? We have been trying to get to you for a couple of days!” Daeron’s accusing welcome broke the peaceful spell and brought Maglor’s annoyance back with a vengeance. He shrugged and walked past his friend, pushing his backpack into his hands.

“I cast my cell phone into the ocean,” he grunted menacingly as he shoved through the heavy wooden door. “Where is the urgency, anyway? I am sure that you would not miss my company, and Thranduil should be cooking. It is his turn, if I am not mistaken...” he complained loudly as he entered the spacious living room. “Where is that king? I cannot smell anything on that royal oven of his…”

Celeborn looked up from his laptop and cast him a grave glance. “He is missing. For two weeks, now.”

                                                                                                                      ~~ * ~~ * ~~

Flying South. Elven New Year, 2006

With a wave of his charred hand Maglor refused the meal and reclined on the seat, turning once again in his mind what little information they had while the plane sped across the Atlantic Ocean.

Celeborn had looked quite worried, and after listening to the messages in Thranduil’s voice mailbox Maglor considered that he should have been fretting instead.

“Hello, this is Inti Sacha, from Greenwood Great’s office in Quito, Ecuador. Dr. Greenwood has gone missing for two weeks now…that I know of. He had a ticket to Paris for March 15^th, but he didn’t show up. I have been making enquiries, and he was last seen in Tiputini Research Station last December. He called me the second week of February, though, and asked me to buy the ticket for him… He also asked me to check on him in his home in France every two days after the day of his scheduled arrival…just to make sure that he had indeed arrived, or until someone answered the phone. I told this to the Police and the Army, but they did not pay much attention. Yesterday I was told that they intended to leave the search…if they ever started one...”  Not much for a start but, after contacted, the woman had refused to give more information on the phone, Celeborn had told him, for fear that she was being spied on.

And so they had bought their tickets and were now spending Yestarë flying down to South America in search of their adventurous friend in a very strained mood. “There is nothing that we can do until we get there,” Maglor told himself, trying to relax on his seat and catch some sleep. And then Celeborn’s words last night returned to his mind.

“I had summoned you all here because I have some very important news to share,” the Sindarin lord had informed them quietly.

Maglor had interrupted him in his most flippant manner. “Let me guess, the end of the world,” he had blurted. Much to his chagrin, Celeborn had maintained his legendary composure. Anyone in his place would have snapped at that stupid comment, but the Sindarin lord had only shrugged and sighed, “It can wait until we are reunited. Good night.” But there had been that quick glance, that imperceptible smile and nod that only now registered in Maglor’s mind as he recalled the scene.

“Oh, well,” he groaned, struggling to fit his long legs under the front seat and pulling the blanket up until it covered his head. “Thranduil goes missing, there might be an apocalypse coming and soon I bet we will be hearing about the sun and the moon losing their orbits. I should have remained with the Jola,” he berated himself right before he fell asleep.

Thranduil’s assistant was waiting for them at the airport, smiling merrily in her gaily embroidered blouse and the elegant long woollen skirts that all women of her race wore. As all of them did, too, she looked like a child to Maglor’s eyes, although she was surely a grown woman, or at least a married one, he noticed, judging by the long, dark braid tightly held in the patterned hairband that declared her status. “Welcome to Quito, Dr. Silvertree,” she offered in a singing voice, shaking Celeborn’s hand and nodding to Maglor and Daeron.

“Nice to meet you, Inti Sacha, how did you know it was us?” Daeron asked teasingly, bending to kiss her cheek after the local manner.

The woman chuckled. “I have been working with Dr. Greenwood for some time now… and you all have that same...air of…not really being here,” she pointed out with a shy smile and a shrug. 

“A grown woman and a wise one,” Maglor decided, casting a swift glance around to see if someone was taking unduly interest in them, even if they looked no different from other groups of foreign tourists being greeted by their guides. And yet he knew that they didlook different. After so long in Middle-earth they were all beginning to fade, as the fire of their fëar slowly but steadily consumed their hroar. If the woman had noticed it so could others, Maglor told himself warily, still looking around.

“Behind you, the man in the ill-fitting grey suit,” the woman whispered softly. Maglor fought the urge to look back and nodded at her. “They are following me; there is little that can be done. What do you want to do?” she asked then in a louder voice. “I can drive you to a hotel for the night, or you can fly right now to Coca…I thought you would,” she chuckled as the three jumped on the last choice. “Come, follow me, there is a small airplane waiting for you, and the basic equipment that you might need. I can brief you on our way...”

Barely an hour later they were flying over snow-capped volcanoes that blazed ridiculously pink in the sunset. Maglor looked outside the window while Celeborn and Daeron discussed the latest news in soft, hurried Sindarin.

“Bridges?” Daeron sounded more amused than outraged.

“He has been doing that for years, it is part of his projects here,” Celeborn explained. “They collect metallic structures and pieces of wood that are being dumped and cart them to remote places where he enlists the help of villagers to build bridges. They love him, down there in the jungle. A bridge most often than not means a short cut of several days for those people to get to the nearest village.”

“So what do you think that happened to him? A villager that did not want his isolation disrupted?” Maglor could not help wondering aloud in his mocking tone.

“Perhaps, although I am more inclined to think that this has to do with all the restlessness around the border,” Celeborn answered calmly. “I did some research these past days. Apparently, a couple of Huaorani settlements were massacred in the past months, and some say that this was the work of the Tagaeri, although the tales are confusing and some of the proofs seem made up… but all in all it has more to do with illegal timbering and the Colombian guerrilla, I suspect…”

“And our rash king had to meddle in there, of course.”

“Or was caught in the middle of it. Do not fret, Maglor, Inti Sacha seemed quite sure that he was being kept alive for ransom…”

Maglor shrugged noncommittally, his gaze fixed on the landscape below, which changed dramatically from the bare, wind-swept highlands into the emerald green of the rainforest. It always unnerved him how well Celeborn read through his provoking, insulting manners.

"Inti Sacha also said that he had been last seen leaving Tiputini Research Station,” Daeron mused aloud. “Why do you think that he might be this north, now?”

“Since February the Tagaeri have been sighted here and here,” Celeborn said. Maglor heard the rustling of a map being carefully unfolded but did not turn to look. He was almost sure that their bold friend had run into a band of poachers or arms smugglers and had been carried away by his warrior instincts. If he was actually alive, all they had to do was showing wads of dollars around and wait patiently until someone spat some useful names.

“That is quite far from where the Huaorani camps were massacred,” Daeron whistled worriedly. “And very far away from their usual roaming areas… Poachers, then?”

“I’d rather suspect guerrilla groups or their allies clearing an emergency escape route for their new meeting point,” Celeborn retorted grimly. That caught Maglor’s interest.

“This is the place where that guerrilla camp was shelled the other day inside Ecuadorian territory,” Celeborn showed them. “See? These Huao settlements were in the middle of their natural emergency escape route… so I suppose that they cleaned up the Huao settlements just to be sure that no one would stand on their way in case they needed an escape…not that it served them in the end,” he added darkly.

“And they left behind spears of Tagaeri making, so that the blame would go to Thranduil’s friends,” Daeron ended sadly.

Maglor shook his head unconvinced. “Everybody knows that the Tagaeri would never leave their spears behind!”

Daeron agreed. “Indeed. But since the Tagaeri are the only obstacle between the oil companies and the new concessions in the strictly preserved area, everybody was ready to proclaim that the Tagaeri had gone berserk and that they had to be hunted down, brought to court and deprived of their lands…”

Maglor slumped back on the uncomfortable seat and shook his head. He was tired of useless wars. The Tagaeri were as good as extinct, and there was no way that Thranduil –or anyone else- could save them from their doomed fate. Caught in turmoil of corrupt politics, misery, land occupation, ruthless wood cutting, guerrilla camps, weapons smuggling, oil reserves and concessions and coca trade routes, the legal mandates that supposedly aimed at protecting the Tagaeri and their lands amidst that hell had in the end turned out to accelerate their extinction. Their status as a people in voluntary isolation singled them out as the only obstacle for the many converging interests bent on milking the promising well of riches that was Yasuni forest, and they were an easy prey. To Maglor, it seemed a cruelty worth of Morgoth’s twisted mind, binding a helpless people in a net of invisible, impossible laws nobody complied with, and then leaving them, hands tied, to the wolves.

They landed as the sun set, in a thin strip sliced across a dense stretch of rainforest not far from town, and were greeted by the suffocating heat that oozed from the jungle after a heavy rain. A battered wagon drove them to the city, which looked rather like a camp, and left them before the best hotel in town, a dirty concrete building with a shiny neon sign on its roof.  They checked in and were given sparsely furnished rooms with creaking beds, ragged, flimsy mosquito nets and noisy fans.

“I am going to the police station to gather any news. What are you going to do?” Celeborn asked his two friends when they met in the lobby.

“I’ll make some enquiries along the river,” Daeron informed promptly. “Someone may have seen him…or heard of him, at least.”

“And you, Maglor?”

“I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind,” he decided after a pause, casting a questioning glance to Celeborn, who nodded quietly.

“Good. Do not let him set anything to flames with that terrible gaze of his, Celeborn, it would be difficult to explain” joked Daeron, patting Maglor’s arm with reckless casualness and handing him a pair of dark sunglasses. “I’ll see you at ‘the blue monkey’ later,” he reminded them as they took opposite directions.

“Is something wrong, Maglor?” Celeborn asked cautiously. Maglor sighed and cast a look around as they walked down the darkening street.

“I hate this city,” he finally admitted, meeting the other’s searching glance. “It stinks of decay…” He could feel anger welling up inside, too. Coca was the paradigm of a living hell, a city built upon the largest oil reserves in the country and yet swarming in corruption, poverty, theft and sewage. They walked past a line of clubs where sad, wan looking women winked and waved at them languidly from the doors. Children played on dirty pools and around mounds of garbage on the unpaved street, mindless of the shouts and threats that at times drifted out of the clubs. Groups of workers from the oil companies were seen around, shouting at each other or at the women, brawling, celebrating their release after their three-week shift or mourning that their leave was over and they were bound again to the unyielding rainforest. Whatever their motive, they just indulged with desperate conviction in what pleasures their money could buy, and were only too willing to try new ones that shrewd businessmen were always eager to bring into the city. After all, Coca had a thriving, innovative economy thanks to the exploitation of the oil fields.  

“Here we are. Would you mind if I lead the conversation?” Celeborn’s soft voice brought him from his dark thoughts. He looked away from a bundle that he had spotted lying on the mud. It was a Huaorani, by his looks, whether dead drunk or just dead he did not know –nor really wanted to find out.

“As you say,” he shrugged, following his friend into the dimly lit building that housed jail and police station. Blank faces looked up from cards and magazines and watched them with open boredom and latent annoyance.

Celeborn’s questions were met by a wall of suspicion and indifference, but the Sindarin lord kept on patiently, until they were finally dragged to see some boss by a suddenly agreeable officer who had been conveniently encouraged by Celeborn’s generosity. Surely expecting an encouragement according to his rank, the commander began by harassing them and demanding that they showed him their passports and declared their true purpose. After patient coaxing, the man finally made a show of looking up in his files and shook his head.

“Nobody has seen or heard of him. I do not know why they charged us with this case but, if you want my opinion, he went too far and those damned Tagaeri killed him…”

“Did you search for him?” Maglor intervened then in a sharp voice that somehow froze the suffocating atmosphere. The commander cast him a blank look.

“Search? Why would I? We just questioned this and that, made sure that nobody had seen him in the surroundings and sent word to Quito. You should ask in Tena, he was last seen in Tiputini, after all…why should I spend my time looking for a mad gringo that goes around building bridges and meddling with…”

Celeborn managed to grab him as he bent threateningly over the table and raised a curled fist towards the commander. “Why don’t you go for a walk?” his friend suggested pointedly. Nodding curtly, Maglor turned around and strode away, not really seeing a couple that was entering the office until he bumped into them and then shoved them aside to gain the door and step outside that stifling building, almost choking on his rage.

He walked around aimlessly along dark streets until his feet led him to the river side, where a soft breeze brought some relief from the hot humid atmosphere. Maglor sat there for a while, watching the long fingers of the trees reach up to the waxing moon, allowing their sweet song to seep into him and cool down his wrath and despair. Not for the first time he wondered what had made his friends remain in that sinful, corrupt world, when they were not subjected to a lifetime banishment. As the ages passed by and men became bolder in their destruction of Arda, Maglor felt the weight of his isolation more deeply, and his contempt towards the Secondborn more difficult to bear. But deep down his anger and his melancholy mood lay an unbearable longing for forgiveness that would never be fulfilled, he feared, a longing turned into despair that estranged him from his friends even more than his crimes.

When he felt that he was in command of his temper he went to meet Daeron at ‘the blue monkey’, the riverside bar that was one of their refuges in the city. The deep, beautiful voice of his friend welcomed him as he walked down the unsteady wooden steps that brought him down to the riverbank, where a makeshift wooden kiosk stood precariously on an abandoned floating quay.

“Look, Tapuy, a very cold beer for my friend, he is in a foul mood today!”

The few locals scattered on chairs, trunks or wooden boxes were being treated to a session of Daeron’s talent unplugged, and waved distractedly at Maglor as he came down into the unstable bar. The Sinda was coaxing enticing sounds from an old guitar and singing old melancholy Spanish tunes that were eagerly echoed by the regulars. Maglor accepted the beer and drank down from the bottle, watching as Daeron embarked on a different song and his audience sang along willingly. He finished with a flourish and came to sit beside Maglor on a stool by the counter.

“Any news?”

“I left Celeborn at it, since you made it clear that burning the commander alive was not an option,” Maglor grunted, feeling a sudden urge to wipe Daeron’s smug smile from his face. “And you?”

“Not bad,” the other answered. “Tapuy had some interesting tips… Come Tapuy, tell my friend!”

The bar owner came closer and nodded at Maglor. He was a short man, an ethnic quichua with all of his race’s ability for commerce and negotiation. Master of many trades, his secreted night bar was the meeting point for hidden informants, transactions and agreements that were best conducted in privacy and other, darker sides of politics and business that always needed that kind of twilight area in which to take place.

“Greenwood was here on the second week of February,” the man began in his halted Spanish. “He was looking for someone to take him down the river, beyond the last settlement…”

“What for?”

“He would not say…but I helped him find a guide and a dugout. He seemed quite angry, and he told me something about the Huao that I did not understand. I do not like the Huao, and I told him that he should keep himself from them, they are warriors, aucas,” he explained, frowning at Maglor’s mirthless chuckle.  “The guide came back alone a couple of weeks ago. I got him to confess that he had abandoned Greenwood in a very dangerous area… guerrilla camps and all that. When word that Greenwood was missing spread, he went into hiding…”

Maglor frowned. “I want to find this guide,” he said.

“We don’t need him,” Daeron chimed in. “Tapuy got him to confess where he had abandoned Thran… our friend, and guess what! It was not far from the Huao settlements that had been attacked. We know where to start looking…”

“Perhaps, but I want to reward him conveniently for his services,” Maglor shot back threateningly. The bartender shook his head.

“Someone else did. They found him in the river two days ago. He had gone to talk to the governor… and never came back. Wait a moment.”

Maglor exchanged a dark look with Daeron while Tapuy brought more drinks for his customers. “What has he got himself into this time?” he raged. “How far is that settlement?”

“Four days down the river. Tapuy has got us a dugout; and supplies for the trip. He says that we should start tonight, before anyone suspects. This is a dark affair, Maglor,” Daeron said, lowering his voice. “The military are involved in something very big that apparently went wrong…and the bombing of that militia camp north from here made things worse. Everybody is very nervous around here...”

“And your friend is right in the middle,” the bartender ended up for him. “Do you want to try the chicha? It is the first of the season…”  

Daeron was singing again when Celeborn came down the stairs and into the bar, carrying their packs. He dropped them on the floor beside Maglor and accepted a cold beer. “He cannot help it, can he?” he chuckled softly, as the customers threw money at Daeron after his last song. Maglor shrugged, amused despite himself. “Can you get us something for dinner, Tapuy?” the Sindarin lord asked the bartender, and then signalled for Maglor and Daeron to follow him to a more secluded area where a couple of tables and several mismatched chairs witnessed most of the meetings that were not held in that place.

“I think I got it,” Celeborn said as Daeron returned the guitar to its peg on one of the posts and dragged a chair.

“The commander told you?” Maglor asked incredulously. “I doubt…”

“Not the commander but the couple that you pushed aside so unceremoniously in your rushed way out…They were abducted a week ago and carried to a settlement around here,” Celeborn explained, pointing at a place on his map, very close to an area that was already marked several times. “They are working for a multilateral organization, so their captors thought it wiser to release them unharmed after relieving them from their belongings…They left them to walk or swim…or die in the jungle, if they were not strong enough,” he added with a strange, steely glitter on his eyes. Maglor saw them in his mind then, dishevelled and caked with mud, the man supporting the limping woman and piercing him with a wrathful, accusing glare. He grimaced in remorse. “Of course the commander did not pay much attention to their plight,” Celeborn continued, “but I waited for them and listened to their story...and got the man to draw me a rough map. They said they heard the women in that camp talk about another prisoner, a valuable one, and by their words the woman suspected that he might be the famous bridge-builder,” he finished with a triumphant glance at his friends.

“Guerrilla, then?” asked Daeron.

“Jungle businessmen,” the bartender chimed in, placing more cold beers and three plates of food on the table. “A guerrilla group would have kept them. There are many displaced people settling in that large area… making a living out of selling anything to anyone who would pay for it,” he added, pointing at the place that was already heavily marked in Celeborn’s map.

“So we must assume that Greenwood is in the hands of these Jungle Businessmen, then?” Maglor spat disdainfully, picking a thick chontacuro from the plate. “Isn’t it early in the season for these?” he asked then, savouring the roasted worm and pointing at the plate.

“It is. And we fear that the crop will not be plentiful at all, there is some sickness affecting the chonta palms,” the bartender complained. “Too much rain out of season…The dugout is waiting for you. You better row for the night, until you get well away from town. They will know that you are gone, but at least you will have a good start…from the military,” he explained at Daeron’s quizzical glance. “They will radio your description and your purpose… They already knew about this two people that Silvertree met, they were expecting them today or tomorrow…and I am sure it was the military who suggested that they were set free. But Greenwood the bridge-builder is a different matter… he represents no danger but good money…to be split up between the parties.”

“So they think,” Maglor grunted darkly, not meeting Celeborn’s quick, worried glance.

“Be careful. An armed incident down there could fire a war, and we do not need that. I must go, good luck,” the bartender warned, nodding to them and returning to his clients, who were trying to make up for Daeron’s absence with dissimilar results.

“I will go and check the dugout and get everything ready,” Daeron said, after exchanging a pointed glance with Celeborn. Washing down one last mouthful of charred fish with a long swig he picked up their packs and walked into the bar.

Maglor heard him exchange jokes with the customers and listened to his soft hurried conversation with the bartender as he paid their bill and then took the path down the abandoned quay. He studiously refused to meet Celeborn’s eyes and concentrated on the bony, tasteless fish, the remaining worms and the slices of cooked yucca. When he was finished, he gulped down what was left of his second beer and shrugged. “Shall we go?”

“Are you sure that you want to go?”

“Why would I not?”

“You tell me… You are not yourself; I can see there is something troubling you, Maglor, a kind of…”

“Do not speak about what you know not, sinda,” he cut harshly. “It is that annoying friend of yours and those stupid stunts that he insists on pulling what troubles me… If he is so tired of Middle-earth he should start swimming west and rid us of his useless fights once and for all!”   

“I only say that it would be foolish from your part to come, risking yourself and us, when you are clearly not in command of yourself. You could wait here…”

Maglor cast him a contemptuous smile. “Nonsense!” he spat, a dangerous glare crossing his unnaturally bright eyes, the eyes of an Exile who had seen the light of the Two Trees…and had looked upon the faces of the Powers. “I want to kick his royal ass when we find him…unless he dies waiting, while Celeborn the Wise insists on fencing with words with a son of Fëanor,” he added venomously, turning his back on the Sindarin lord to ignore the look of pity that crossed Celeborn’s features and walking away purposefully down the floating quay to their canoe. He walked past Daeron without looking at him and stepped with dangerous abandon up to the prow of the long dugout, plopping down carelessly and causing the shallow craft to dance and sway madly.

“He is raging, Celeborn. We shall have to keep an eye on him…or else let him loose upon Thranduil’s captors,” Daeron chuckled as Celeborn stepped in more carefully. Maglor ignored them, with his back stubbornly turned on his two friends, and he started paddling as soon as he felt that the dugout had been pushed into the undisturbed stream.

They followed the wide, deep current of the Napo River for two days and then took a small tributary that came from the south. They would start the engine when they felt it was safe, and paddle when not. All that time Maglor kept his silent, sullen mood, as they led their canoe across an indistinct swamp scattered with bushes that emerged from the waters here and there. It felt strange to Maglor to think that those shrubs were actually the tops of trees twenty or more metres tall, barely surfacing from the seasonally flooded plains.  

The water descended on the third day and, following Celeborn’s indications, they took another small waterway in that dense network, which led them to the unflooded uplands close to a row of hills of red clay. The vegetation changed abruptly there, and a dense understorey of bushes and lianas covered the banks, while the canopy trees rose up to thirty metres in their merciless struggle for light.

“We should leave the dugout here and continue on foot,” Celeborn said as they stopped for the third night in a small beach. Daeron had caught a handful of bony fishes and now they sat around a small fire eating them carefully.

“How do you know?” Maglor asked. It was the first time that he spoke since they had left Coca. Celeborn shrugged and cast him a cautious glance.

“The man at the police station in Coca finally gave me a few GPS coordinates of several unofficial camps, one of which might -or might not- be the one we are looking for.”

“I sincerely hope that bribes are deductible,” Maglor grunted dryly. “Since you seem to have everything in hand, I will excuse myself,” he added, standing up abruptly and walking back to the dugout. He preferred to lie there, cradled by the warm wood and soothed by the steady voice of the water lapping at the pebbled river beach. Out of habit he looked up, hoping that at least a few stars might have pierced the dense canopy, but he was disappointed.

He was the first to get up next morning, and had already packed by the time his two friends got up, so restless and anxious he was to be on the road. Inti Sacha had provided them with everything needed for a trek in the jungle, and the bartender had supplied the dried food, water skins, three sharp machetes and long chonta spears, but no fire arms that Maglor could see.

“We must be careful not to use undue force…” Daeron explained mildly. “You heard Tapuy. Any armed conflict in this area at this point could start a war.”

“And with these spears we could start a genocide,” he grumbled. “They are of Huao making…”

“We will make sure that we are not mistaken for Huaos,” Celeborn chimed in grimly, picking up one and checking its balance expertly. For the first time in a few days Maglor smiled, though not prettily, openly pleased by his friends’ warlike attitude. 

They walked at a brisk pace, following some half hidden trail surely opened by tapirs, and it seemed to Maglor that either Celeborn knew exactly where they were headed, or else the jungle made way willingly before the former lord of Lothlórien, clearly easing their march. Unhindered by any other obstacles than the forest itself, which here was crowded by lower trees and knots of woody vines that at times reached out and tried to tangle them, they made good time and arrived at the remains of the first settlement well before midday.

“This was abandoned long ago,” Daeron declared, coming out of the only hut that stood up. “And I can see no traces of recent occupation….”

“Well, this leaves us two options,” Celeborn said, consulting his map and his GPS device. “One to the north and one to the south. Which one should we check first?”

“Did those people that you met at the police station say something about the river?” Daeron mused, studying the map uncertainly. Celeborn narrowed his eyes and then unfolded the rough sketch the grateful man had drawn after Celeborn led him and the tired woman to the hotel and paid for their rooms.

“This is not of much help…” he muttered, studying the jagged scratches.

“Wait, what is this? It seems to me that the huts are between streams…” Maglor pointed out, unfolding the official map anxiously and comparing the two. “See? There is this small current here… north from where we are now…It matches that man’s sketch… and roughly with your coordinates and it looks to me a better place for a settlement than the one south… Let’s try this!” he urged them.

They started north.

The trees grew taller and the jungle darker as they progressed towards the row of low hills. Tall ceiba of thick, green trunks loomed over them, and the rainforest watched in expectant silence as they trudged along. A soft rain pattered the tallest leaves and evaporated almost before reaching the forest floor, marking with steady rhythm their tireless march. Only a loud, harsh screech would be heard from time to time, always ahead of them, apparently advancing on their same direction.

After a few hours, Celeborn called to a stop. “We are close now, about half an hour from the settlement...”

“We should take to the trees, I can see no obstacles ahead,” Daeron suggested, casting an appraising glance at the endless lines of tall ceiba that spread beyond their sight. Maglor could not hold back a dismayed groan when he saw the slow smile spreading across Celeborn features. “You could follow us on the ground, Maglor,” Daeron continued, ignoring, as it was his wont, the Noldo’s murderous mood. “I will make sure I have dinner ready by the time you catch up with us…”

Without answering, Maglor strapped his long spear to his back and started climbing the closest ceiba. As he felt the rugged bark for handholds he could not help thinking of another, thick ceiba tree that watched over his friend’s tomb an ocean away. “Shall I go alone?” he piqued his friends when he reached the first branch.

Soon they were running across sturdy branches in the silent, graceful manner of their kin. Bands of monkeys that sheltered on the densely foliaged trees to hide form the heat of the day watched them pass with disinterest, keeping their presence secret. The loud, rasping screech sounded closer now, and Maglor was the first to descry the harpy eagle that flew in circles at some distance.

“There,” he grunted, filled with sudden certainty.

“You may be right,” Celeborn nodded, pointing to their right. A stretch of forest had been roughly cleared not far from there to make room for a chacra, an orchard where the jungle people cultivated their staples –mainly yucca and other seasonal crops.

“We are not far,” Daeron whispered. “How shall we proceed?”

“First we should study the surroundings and try to guess where they keep Thranduil…”

“If they indeed keep him,” Maglor interrupted impatiently. “Let’s find the settlement!” Without waiting for answer or acknowledgement he started running again, a cold rage filling him. Deaf to his friends’ soft calls he got as close to the settlement as he dared, and alighted silently high amidst loaded boughs that hid him from sight. He unshouldered his pack and laid it securely in the wide fork formed by branch and trunk. Then he turned his attention to the settlement below. It was made up of several buildings, one of them an abandoned long hut of Huaorani making that still looked more homely and solid than the crude, makeshift huts scattered around the clearing.

By the time Celeborn and Daeron reached him, Maglor had already carried out a careful search of the camp. He noticed that his friends had fanned out, one to his left and one to his right, and nodded approvingly. There were a few naked children playing by an open fire, while a woman busied herself skinning some prey. Another one was coming with a load of sticks in her arms, and she chided the children good- naturedly. Two men sat lazily before one of the huts, passing a bowl of drink between them, and another lay on a hammock, apparently fast asleep, right under Maglor. A fourth one emerged, a gun in hand, from a more solid looking hut behind which he thought he could distinguish a satellite dish.

Silently, Maglor slid down the trunk to the lowest branch, pointing the sitting men to his friends and paying no attention to their frantic gestures that he should return to the safety of the canopy. He could feel the blood roaring in his ears, the battle mode taking over his senses as resentment pumped up his heartbeats.  

“You bags of scum! I told you to kill that beast!” the man barked, lifting the gun to his face and taking aim at the harpy eagle that screeched accusingly above them. That was more than what Maglor could take. Throwing caution to the wind, he ran lightly along the branch, hoping to jump down gracefully and closest to the armed man. The first shot caught him by surprise, though, and made him lose his footing. Unbalanced, he finally fell down and right upon the man that was still asleep on his hammock.

Chaos ensued. “Damn!” he thought he heard Daeron shout. He jumped on his feet quickly, unsheathing his machete in one fluid movement and knocking the man out cold even before he could untangle himself from the hammock or understand what had happened. He heard the women cry in distress, and sensed the two men who had been lounging by the other hut charging at him. He whirled around swiftly to meet them and raised his blade in a protective arch that managed to deflect gracefully the first cut, and bought him time to land two of his own. They bore down on him at the same time, with more force than skill, but still one of them managed to graze Maglor’s arm while he was busy kicking the other’s machete away from his reach.

“Stop it!”

Maglor wondered briefly where his friends were as he turned to face the third man, who had the gun pointed at his chest. Then relaxed.

“You better drop your gun,” Daeron suggested softly, surging behind the man and resting his machete against the man’s throat. “Now,” he urged pleasantly, nicking the soft skin to drive his point home. “That’s better… surely your friends won’t need their machetes now?”

Maglor smiled nastily and returned his attention to his two attackers. One was lying on the ground, nursing his cuts, but the other still stood with his blade in his hand. Almost lazily, Maglor raised his hand and hit him on the head with the hilt of his machete, sending him sprawling to the ground by his friend. Quick as lightning he unshouldered his spear and advanced on the lying men, wielding his weapons threateningly. The women cried again and the other man struggled fiercely in Daeron’s grip.

“Now you tell us where you keep…”

“Enough, Maglor!” Celeborn advanced calmly from the other side of the clearing surrounded by an air of confidence and control that enraged Maglor.

“Stay back,” he growled, his rage fuelled by the fear that seeped from the men. “I know what I am doing…”

“There is no need,” Celeborn insisted, walking up to him. “Look,” he said in a commanding tone. Maglor followed his indications and sighed in relief at seeing the harpy eagle alive and apparently unscathed. It was perched on the roof of the abandoned long hut and seemed to watch them intently. “Go,” Celeborn suggested then softly, placing his hands over the Noldo’s. “We’ll take care here…”

Grudgingly, Maglor nodded and released his grip on his weapons, surrendering them to Celeborn. Without looking at the frightened women he strode towards the hut, urged by the eagle’s now encouraging screeches.

The hut was a strange, absurd warehouse. Maglor raised his brows at the sight of an armchair and a washing machine, two large barrows –one of which missed a wheel- a DVD player, a set of frying pans and casseroles and scattered pieces of furniture. Jungle businessmen? The bartender’s words came back to his mind but he discarded them. Most assuredly those were refugees, forced in all haste from their houses, and too befuddled to separate what was important from what was necessary on their hurried flight.

Where are you, Thranduil? he called in his mind. It seemed to him that he could barely hear the song of an elven fëa but could not point whence it came. He cast another anxious look around and something caught his attention. Frantically, he pushed aside a large carpet of vegetal fibre that lay incongruously clean on the farthest corner of the hut and released a relieved sigh when he found out it hid a wooden trap door. It opened to a narrow tunnel from which a strange glitter emerged. Without hesitation Maglor lowered himself to the narrow passage and advanced on all fours, noticing that the unstable walls were crudely affirmed with fragile-looking, roughly shaped wooden pillars. He crawled for twenty meters, perhaps, to the source of that glimmer and soon found himself in a wider chamber.

He felt a number of metallic boxes around him but lost no time in checking them for amidst them lay his friend, tied up like a bundle of hay and shinning brightly as a midsummer fire, or rather as if his fëa was about to depart his hroa and finally answer the call of Mandos.

“Do not dare, you hear me?” he groaned, shaking the unconscious elf unceremoniously. “I’m going to drag you outside, and then I’ll tell you what I think of these adventures of yours!” Maglor gasped, grabbing the ropes and pulling Thranduil after him. Panting and grunting he somehow managed to reach the trap door and haul the unresponsive elf up into the relatively cool air of the long hut, where he was finally able to check his state.

Under all the mud and dirt that caked him, Thranduil looked worryingly pale, almost translucent. A deep, pulsing light pooled right under his skin, almost as if his fëa were about to burst out and flee. All of a sudden Maglor felt panic clutching at him.

“I have found him! I need my pack! And a blanket!” he cried out in Sindarin, wondering what his friends were doing out there as he nervously tried to unbound his friend and checked him for injuries. He was unconscious and his wrists and ankles were raw from the ropes, but otherwise he seemed unscathed and yet...

“Here. How is he?” Daeron could not hold back a worried whistle as he squatted beside them with Maglor’s backpack in his hands. Maglor cast him an anguished glance.

“He is fading, Daeron… he is almost gone...”

“I do not think so,” Daeron retorted confidently, placing a long hand upon the former king’s heart. “But he has had a hard time, it seems…There is a path that leads to the second river behind this hut, it is not far from here,” he added softly, seeing that Maglor was almost out of himself with worry. “Why don’t you take him there? Celeborn and I will join you shortly...”

Maglor did not stop to wonder what might keep his friends there, except perhaps killing those orcish Secondborn. He wrapped Thranduil on a blanket that he had packed that morning, and then rose up carefully with his friend firmly caught in his arms.  

“Stay with us, will you?” he murmured as he searched for the trail Daeron had mentioned, mindless of what was happening at his back. Thranduil was lighter than a bag of feathers and his heartbeat was erratic and weak. Suddenly, Maglor was reminded of the old priest, and he worried that his friend might fade right there before his eyes. Not knowing what to do, he began to sing softly, old songs that he had once knew, or heard in his youth. Singing, he made it to the smaller current and found a clearing suitable to make camp, far enough from the settlement. He sang as he rid his friend of his filthy rags and washed him carefully in the clear creek, and while he untangled the long tresses and combed them back from his wan face, and cleaned and bandaged the lacerations in his wrists and ankles and wrapped him in clean clothes and a warm blanket and finally laid him among the powerful roots of a mighty ceiba after trying to force some water into him.   

It seemed to Maglor, as he sat back and studied the still form, that his glowing had diminished and that his breathing was steadier, but he could not be sure. He was still there, watching anxiously over Thranduil when Celeborn and Daeron found them. Celeborn patted his shoulder comfortingly and knelt by the unconscious elf. Maglor watched him place a hand on Thranduil’s heart and then on his brow, and whisper something he could not hear, for Daeron’s voice brought him from his contemplation.

“Take seat and some rest, Maglor, and have a look at that cut in your arm. I told you that I would cook dinner today, didn’t I?” the Sindarin bard told him fondly while he set himself to start a fire. Only then Maglor noticed that they had carried firewood with them. “How is our kingly friend, Celeborn?”

“Weak, but he will feel better son, I am sure…”

“Watch the fire while I go to the supermarket, then,” Daeron chuckled, and disappeared into the jungle with the agility of a monkey, leaving Maglor there, feeling like a useless piece of wood.

“Relax, Maglor, he is going to be fine,” Celeborn insisted, casting him a worried look.

As relief settled in, Maglor felt his precarious control of his short temper slipping from him. “I’ll go and take a bath, then,” he snapped. He followed the creek away from their makeshift camp until he was sure that he was out of earshot and then allowed himself to let escape a strangled cried, muffled against the welcoming trunk of a palm tree. Fear coursed freely out of him as pictures of what might have happened danced madly in his mind’s eye. The simple thought of losing one of his friends terrified him, he who had for ages believed himself the last of the Quendi on Middle-earth and had accepted his banishment with grim resignation. At times he could not help but cursing his regained vulnerability. Exhausted by emotions, he walked into the current and dropped down gracelessly and remained there for hours, allowing the waters to sing away his pain.

By the time he returned to camp it was deep night, and he welcomed the light of the fire and the smell of three huantas that roasted on it. Daeron was a talented hunter, he reminded himself gratefully, and almost unmatchable with a spear. He stepped silently into the circle of light and nodded to his friends, who continued with their conversation after greeting him. Maglor accepted a haunch and sat by the fire.

“You will never believe this, Maglor,” Daeron told him conversationally. “A group of Huaos built their long hut right over a guerrilla’s secret cache of weapons. When the mercenaries came to retrieve them the Huao attacked them… and were massacred. Then the mercenaries carried the bodies to an abandoned settlement in the south and dropped a handful of spears around… and when they came back they found this group of refugees settling down… so they threatened them and forced them to work for them…We found boxes of automatic weapons in that tunnel, the settlers say they belong to the guerrilla and they will come for them…”

“And what was the bridge-builder doing here?” Maglor asked in a low voice, nodding towards their adventurous friend. He had noticed that Thranduil was now awake, half-seated against the trunk, watching them wearily. At the changing light of the flames he looked ghastly pale, though dimmer than before. A painful memory hit Maglor as he watched his friend’s still features framed by his golden mane. He had found Celegorm lying thus against a beech after the battle for Menegroth, a peaceful look finally settling over his troubled features in death. So long ago and it still hurt like a fresh wound…

“He was investigating other deaths in a different settlement…and caught the mercenaries carrying in the bodies and setting up the stage so that the blame would be on the Huaos... or the Tagaeri, despite the bullet holes in the bodies,” Celeborn explained flatly on behalf of their bedraggled and tired-looking friend. “Of course they knew he was a valuable hostage…and when they found the refugees in this settlement they delivered him into their custody…until they thought it safe to ransom him. They buried him with the weapons when they brought in the couple that I met the other day…and kept him underground for fear that someone might come for him…”

Maglor shook his head and concentrated on his meal for a while. He could understand Thranduil’s rage and impotence, but the risk had been too high.

“And where were you going to build your bridge here, your kingship? Between trees?” he finally challenged their friend good-naturedly. Thranduil answered with a slow, tired smile, but that was enough for Maglor. “You owe me a kingly dinner and free access to you cellars, you crazy Sinda. I had to fly in a hurry from Dakar to be in time for Yestarë…”   

“And how was your friend the priest?” Celeborn chimed in. That brought Maglor suddenly back to reality.

“I buried him on New Year’s Eve,” he sighed. For a while the clacking of the fire was the only sound that joined the jungle’s voices. Then Daeron sighed.

“He was a good man, and a true steward. May he find peace beyond the circles of the world.” He reached out to place more wood in their fire and then added in a low voice, “I met Cyrus Feldman for the New Year, in Al-Talila… he is almost broken, but I think he will recover…”

“He has to,” Celeborn stated resolutely. “We need him more than ever!” At this Maglor looked up and pierced Celeborn with a deep, flaming gaze. The Sindarin lord’s mysterious words back in Thranduil’s house returned to him abruptly.

“Explain yourself,” he demanded, half-knowing what they were about to hear.

And Celeborn told them.

All the sounds died down in the jungle, as in the presence of a mighty predator, while Celeborn the Wise unveiled before his friends the doom of Arda…and its hope. Yet no sound was heard, as visions and thoughts were exchanged in mind speech, eyes alight in starlit glitter as images went to and fro.

Maglor broke the silence abruptly, reeling not from the images but from the firm decision that seeped from Celeborn’s fëa.

“Are you crazy, too?” he confronted the sindarin lord harshly. “You mean to defy the Powers?”  He cast wild looks around and shook his head blankly at seeing the same calm, set expressions in Daeron and Thranduil’s faces.  “It is written in the Music, you ignorant Moriquendi! Not even Manwë can change it! ” he explained in exasperation. “Arda remade, purified of Morgoth’s taint, and a place of completion and fulfilment…. And you pretend to prevent that? You will condemn yourselves to Everlasting Darkness!”

“And that is what bothers you,” Daeron chuckled. “That you would be burdened with our company forever…”

“This is not a matter for jokes,” Maglor growled warningly. He stood up and paced restlessly around the fire, waving his arms expressively. “You cannot understand! I am doomed, but you…”

“Oh yes, we know, we know. Exile, Oath-taker, ship-burner and thrice kinslayer…your crimes are a bit stale at this point, Maglor, don’t you think? What else am I forgetting?”

“Kin rescuer, too,” Thranduil put in helpfully, in a voice harsh with disuse. “And not just this once…”

“You cannot oppose the will of the One, nor undo his Music!”

“We cannot, and we will try not,” Celeborn agreed placidly, fixing Maglor in a deep, understanding glance that pierced the Noldo’s bleeding soul and bared it to the bone. “But since we are here, we can try and do what we feel is right, and hope that it all adds to the final chord…”

“But you have your family, your friends, and your people waiting for you!” Maglor sighed brokenly, looking at his three friends, almost overwhelmed by the extent of what he had lost and what they could still could hold on to...and were risking in that foolish decision.

“And we will still have them when we are done here, Maglor, same as you…”

“But surely that… That vision of yours was a message! You cannot go and refuse the call; surely they mean to bring you back before all happens……You are giving up on hope!”

“And how do you think that they were going to spirit us away, Maglor?” Daeron chimed in jokingly. “Eärendil?”

“We are giving up on nothing…or no one, Maglor,” Celeborn replied softly. “And we will never leave you behind…”

Maglor shook his head in despair. The end of the world -the end of his banishment- was close at hand, and suddenly those crazy elves decided that they were going to prevent it. Worst, they pretended that was what they had remained behind for.

“Not everything will be lost, at least we should ensure that,” Celeborn whispered sadly. “Arda remade should not be born out of nothingness…as if nothing had existed before, as if all of those deaths had been for nothing…We cannot leave the Secondborn to their doom.”

“You do not know what you are refusing,” Maglor sighed dejectedly, fighting images of the blessed peace that he had known in Valinor in his youth. He turned to meet his friends’ compassionate gazes, opened his arms and shook his head in impotence. “You do not know…”

“Then show us,” Thranduil commanded in a surprisingly firm voice. “You sang to me earlier, I heard you in my dreams… Show us what it is that awaits us…”

And Maglor sang. He slid along the trunk to sit beside Thranduil and sang words almost forgotten in a language that only he now spoke on the shores of Hither, of a land he alone had seen in his youth. Music poured out of his throat as tears coursed down his cheeks, and bright visions of a land lit in silver and gold filled the clearing and enveloped the four elves in peace and hope.

“You Noldor were even greater fools than what the singers would make you, to forsake such blessed lands for war, and darkness…and bright jewels,” Thranduil whispered after a long silence. But as he spoke he extended a hand tentatively and clasped Maglor’s tightly. “Sing,” he ordered drowsily. “Your voice comforts me and gives me strength.”

And Maglor sang the moon and the stars out of the night sky while Thranduil dozed restlessly and Celeborn and Daeron listened intently, drinking in every word. As dawn came in Daeron stretched.

“Quenya is a beautiful language,” he sentenced with a soft smile. “So how are we going to do this…rearrangement of the Music, Celeborn? Any idea?”

“Oh, several! Actually I have been working in a plan that will help us redirect all our activities towards this goal but first…”

“First I will follow Thranduil’s example,” Daeron chuckled, patting Celeborn’s shoulder. “I only wanted to be sure that you already had a plan…You will let us know in due time!” With a conniving wink cast towards Maglor, Daeron wrapped himself up in his blanket and slipped gracefully into the peaceful path of elven dreams.

Untangling himself carefully from Thranduil’s now slack grip, Maglor stood up and walked towards Celeborn.

“This is foolish, a useless fight, and you know that…”

“What else have we been doing for our entire stay in Middle-earth, Maglor, but fighting the long defeat?” Celeborn sighed patiently. “My grandchildren stood before Sauron’s gates with an army that was ten times lesser than that of the Dark Lord…and yet they only hoped that their sacrifice would not be in vain, that something might survive so that hope might be rekindled some time…”

“You were fighting Morgoth’s power incarnate, Celeborn, but we are talking of human greed, and blindness and stupidity here…and while I will give you that those must have been bred by Sauron himself, they are now so widely embedded in human’s nature that they are impossible to fight…”

“And yet we are Stewards, Maglor, we must do something...”

“Are you? Congratulations, I had been given to understand that the last of Manwë’s Stewards had returned after the End of the Third Age…”

“We remained here for some reason…”

“I have nowhere else to go...”

“We are all here for a greater purpose, even you…”

“And don’t you think that, had Manwë intended for us to lead another rebellion against Eru’s will he would have sent a very different message?” Hope and fear clashed violently inside Maglor and the struggle was plain to see. “I am not a Steward but a doomed Exile, banished forever…”

Aware of his friend’s plight, Celeborn stood up and placed a comforting hand on Maglor’s shoulder. “We are all stranded here, Maglor, for one reason or another, and I for one would not sit back and watch as this world comes to its utter destruction. I have lost too many friends and kin in Arda to allow it to be destroyed without a fight…You are one of us, and your help and skills would be more than welcome, but it is the same if you choose to stay away from this fight. When the end comes we will all meet it together, kinsman, at least you have my word on that…”

Maglor winced openly at Celeborn’s last words. Kinsman? he wondered. He met the Sindarin’s grey gaze briefly but had to look away; overwhelmed by the depths of compassion and understanding that showed there. He shrugged with pretended casualness. “I cannot condemn myself more than what I already am, so I can as well give you a hand in this useless fight of yours… How do you mean to do it, then?”

But he did not pull back when Celeborn clasped his arms tightly in a ferocious grip, nor looked the other way when a tiny spark of hope began to burn deep in his mind as he listened to the Sinda’s enthusiastic plans. Perhaps it was not all lost, he found himself thinking. Perhaps not even for himself.

The End.

A/N: This whole series if elves in modern day was inspired by a re reading of Arthur C. Clarke’s “The End of Childhood” back in May 2005. The proper, chronological order of the stories is as follows:  “A chance-meeting”, “Stewards of Arda” and “Fruitless Victories.”

Bakin: A forest spirit of the Jola people in Western Africa.

Bunuk: palm wine.

Carnac: in French’s Brittany, the area hosts the largest concentrations of stone alignments known in the world (or so they claim).

Chicha: a fermented drink made out of different things: corn, yucca or chonta among others. Deep in the jungle they offer you a variety called “chewed chicha” which is made exactly like that.

Chontacuro: a thick worm that lives on the leaves of chonta palm tree… and a north Amazonian delicacy.

Huaorani: A dwindling ethnic group in the Ecuadorian Amazonia. There are less than 1500 people left. They speak a language that has defied classification until now. Little is known of their origins or that of their language. Huaorani, as they name themselves, means “the people.” They were first contacted by western people in the fifties. Until then they had led a nomadic life in the rainforest. Unfortunately, the lands they had lived upon for centuries happened to be full of oil.

Tagaeri: aclan of the Huaorani who refused contact. They are a people in “voluntary isolation,” nominally protected by international and national laws. A wide stretch of land, “the intangible reserve” has been technically “granted” to all Huaorani clans, but its borders were never officially drawn and no one respects or makes respect that delimitation. Family feuds with the other Huaorani clans and their fierce defence of their lands have led the Tagaeri to fight unbalanced wars with oil companies, Huaorani kin at times armed with fire arms by third parties, illegal wood cutters and so on. About 45 people of this clan are supposed to remain now. 

Huanta: a large rodent, very much appreciated for its meat.