Ëarendil's Star blazed in the night skies, a silver flame, as the moon rode down the star-paths and left the Star.

Deep with a mournful grove of oaks, an Elf leaned upon his high-harp and watched the Star. Sodden leaves of yester-winter drifted silently down to give way for the new buds, and they brushed his cheek but he did not stir, only murmured "Aiya Eärendil elenion ancalima. Oh last star to set in the dawn, where now are your children?"

But the starlight was cold upon him, as it sailed the black tracks of the night sky. Maglor did not bend his head, but slowly bandaged hands glided over the harpstrings. Silver music pierced the air, a dirge of lamentations.

It was a night touched with the warmth of spring, but dark and full of mist, but the sweetly sorrowing music stabbed through the misty glades of slender beeches as the gold coin of the moon, hidden now and again by scudding clouds, set behind the copse.

The tree-toads that before had made the night throb with their tiny life fell silent as the harp-strings sang, and Maglor spoke to the star. "Ungrateful father! Why then did you wed and bed a wife if you would not love her and the children she bore?"

The softly keening music reached its peak, then crested down into low melancholy. "Ai Ëarendil, how could you not have felt her fear? She was so young and our faces were the faces that haunted her darkest dreams. I have no pride in the murder of Doriath and the slaying of Sirion, and never, for all the blood we shed, could we have the gem we sought! Not that I regret that it is now forever untouchable by bloodstained hands, and yet, you would not surrender it, not even for the lives of your children."

The winds whispered in the branches, and the harp played on, but Maglor felt silent in his rebuke, and bent his black head.

On a clear day, he could see Imladris, if he stood on the borders of the Trollshaw forests. It was true that the brutes roamed these forests, but trolls were lumbering; huge and clumsy, and Maglor had little trouble avoiding them. They were learning ambush, and would sit like huge boulders, waiting for unwitting travelers, but their stench heralded them a mile away.

No, it was the Elves he feared, the hunting parties of Imladris that occasionally come here when the trolls grew too violent, and beat them back. It was far harder to avoid them.

He heard news that Artanis' daughter had sailed, leaving behind her three bereaved children and a shattered husband. Indeed, he had gathered it not a day ago, and now he leaned on his harp and felt guilt.

Should he go and comfort Elrond and see if he could gladden the hearts of the mourning sons and daughter?

His maimed hands gripped the whorls of his harp. The moon was sinking, sinking. The Eastern skies turned grey.

He could hear the rushing roar of the Bruinen, and he raised himself. The sky was gold and rose. The moon was dropping, clouds scudding across its face as Maglor crossed. The Bruinen ford was deeper than was its custom with spring flood, but he had lived near the sea, and swimming came easily to him, although the current was strong and his harp ungainly.

Shivering with cold, but he made good time. Another moon rose as he journeyed on, weary and chilled with the spring dampness, and as the greyness of morning came across the eastern sky, Maglor bypassed the gates of Rivendell and entered the halls. Imladris was mourning; the halls hung with black shrouds and tapestries with dark skeins.

If only he remembers me.

He opened the iron-and-oak door without knocking. Elrond turned from the Western facing window. "Elrohir…." His voice trailed off. Maglor saw his face move, and then a new word came whispered. "Father."

It was done. Time was transcended.

High in the vaults of the sky, the Star of Ëarendil was dimmed as the sun rose.