Notes:
[Earlier stories in the Return to Aman series have established that Maglor sailed to Aman with Elrond, Frodo and Bilbo, has reconciled with most of his family, that the House of Fingolfin has recently been permitted to return from the Halls of Mandos, and that Elrond has organised an appeal to the Valar for the return of the House of Fëanor. Celebrimbor was allowed to return, but at the start of this story, the Valar are still discussing the return of the rest, and the matter of the Oath is not settled.]
It was mid-afternoon in Elrond's low white house that looked out East from the Tol Eressëa clifftop towards vanished Middle-earth. The spring day was starting to grow cooler.
Elrond had received a courteous yet urgently-worded message from the High King Finarfin, inviting him to come to Tirion as swiftly as could be to take counsel. No further detail were given. He turned the message over in bafflement. It was very brief.
"What do you think he wants?" he asked Maglor, who happened to be passing with Bilbo when the High King's messenger arrived.
Maglor and Bilbo were on their way out to meet with Fingon, with whom Bilbo had struck up a friendship which had grown out of an increasingly over-complicated game of riddles. Elrond, Celebrían and most of the residents of their house had all found polite reasons not to participate in the game, though Sam Gamgee occasionally joined in, and when he did, usually won. Maglor did not make riddles, but seemed to enjoy suggesting new and increasingly arcane rules.
Maglor peered at the letter over Elrond's shoulder. "No idea," he said, shrugging. "But whatever it is, he's being private about it. That's his own hand-writing and his personal seal, not the royal one."
"I suppose I'd better go and find out," Elrond said.
. . . . . .
When Elrond came to the white city of Tirion two days later, the sun was sinking towards the wide plains of Valinor. The stables behind Finarfin's house near the crest of the hill had a clear view west to the sunset, over the the meadows that spread out wide and fair from the foot of the hill of Tirion. Elrond paused for a moment after leaving his horse to look down at the faint mist that had risen across the plain, which caught the amber light and shone. Here and there, faint shapes outlined through the mist showed scattered farms, barns and houses.
White birds were wheeling across the grasslands, crying in shrill clear plaintive voices. Somewhere not far away inside the city, someone was playing on a flute, keeping time with the voices of the birds and weaving them into their music.
As the sun came down and touched the horizon, voices from lower down in the city near the gates lifted in song. It was not an organised choir, as it would have been in Valimar, nor singers making complex yet unplanned harmonies, as it would have been in Alqualondë. It was only people who were all singing the same song at the same moment, to wish the Sun well as she departed. As Elrond went up into the house, someone joined in the music playing on a trumpet, prompting a burst of distant laughter.
When he came into Finarfin's house, Elrond found that he was far from being the only person summoned by the High King to this meeting. Galadriel, Angrod, Angrod's wife Eldalótë and Orodreth were there already. Once Elrond had arrived, Finarfin called for Finrod, Celebrimbor, Fingolfin, Anairë, Lalwen and Turgon who were all living in the city.
It was as Orodreth commented cheerfully to Elrond as they waited for the last few people to arrive, something of a family reunion, though looking at Finarfin's serious face, Elrond himself might have said 'council of war'.
He wondered why they had not invited Gil-galad. Idril and Finduilas, he knew, were away from Tirion, travelling together in the woods in the far south of Valinor.
It occurred to him that everyone there, apart from himself, had been born in Valinor before the rising of the Sun, and all but Anairë, Galadriel and her father had died in Middle-earth.
It was a rather daunting company, seen in that light, and he wondered wryly if this was how it had felt to be Aragorn, come to take counsel in Rivendell with friends and kinsmen thousands of years older than himself.
It would have been good to tell Aragorn about that: it would have amused him to hear of his ancient Elvish foster-father feeling unsure as the youngest in the room. But now Círdan had left Middle-earth at last, there were no letters sent across the Sea any more.
Aragorn must be old now, old even in terms of the long lives of the Edain. But surely, surely even now, Elrond would still know if Aragorn had died? He could still faintly sense that Arwen lived, the faintest thread of connection, thin almost to the point of breaking, but not broken, not yet...
As soon as Celebrimbor, the last to arrive, had come into the High King's house, Finarfin took them all into a long meeting-room. Tall windows between slender white marble pillars looked out over the gardens where blue dusk was darkening to full night and the stars were blooming into life one by one. The moon had not risen yet, but the stars and the faint shine of the people in the room gave more than enough light to talk by.
Elrond took a seat between Celebrimbor and Galadriel.
"I have had a message from the lady Nienna," the High King said to them all. "An unofficial message, at the moment. The Valar have come to a decision about the case of the House of Fëanor. They are going to agree to release our brother and his children from the Halls of Mandos and allow them to return to life."
"Finally!" Fingolfin said with a fiercely triumphant smile. "About time too!"
"What took so long?" Celebrimbor asked, more cautiously.
The Valar had been debating the subject for more than fifty years of the Sun, since Fëanor's kin had come together to appeal for his return. Elrond had begun to wonder if they were ever going to reach a decision at all.
"Yavanna, Námo, Irmo, Vairë, Tulkas, Nessa and Aulë were against it," Finarfin said. "I am told that Manwë did not wish to overrule them."
Lalwen snorted. "There are people he won't ignore or overrule if the fancy takes him, then," she said. "Or perhaps the fancy didn't take him this time."
Finarfin gave his sister a quelling look. "I understand that Aulë has been long in doubt, and that now, Nienna has won over his opinion to speak for pity for the House of Fëanor. That tips the balance."
Celebrimbor let out a long sharp breath. "When?" he asked urgently.
"Another month," Finarfin said to him gently. "We have a little time to prepare. But Nienna feels the end is now no longer in doubt. She has sent to us to give us warning. And so, I have called you all here to take counsel, for this is a great change to the affairs of all the Noldor and I think it best that we discuss it while there is still a little time. Lord Námo is considerably put out, I imagine. He foretold that Fëanor would remain in his Halls until the breaking of the world."
"I weep for Námo," Fingolfin said, with considerable satisfaction.
"As do we all," Finarfin said, unruffled.
That was the nearest that Elrond had heard Fingolfin or Finarfin come to criticism of the Valar since Fingolfin had returned to life, shortly after the Ban of the Valar had been withdrawn from Galadriel, and to everyone's surprise, from Maglor too. Fingolfin did not complain openly about his own long stay in the Halls of Mandos, though Fingon did.
Finrod grinned wickedly. "Elrond has disrupted Námo's foresight, coming to Aman and so politely requesting the return of people who we Elves had given up for lost long ago! That's Men for you."
" The mind of Ilúvatar concerning us is not known to the Valar ," Elrond quoted innocently.
Galadriel laughed. "I keep meaning to make you a cloak pin or a banner with those words upon it, Elrond!" she said. "It should be the motto of your house!"
"The tales of Men all have at least a dozen endings, and all of them contradicting," Elrond said smiling. "My grandsire Tuor says that there are few enough of us in Aman that he doesn't want to lose one. It's good to know that I am still not quite counted as an Elf entirely!"
"Never!" Galadriel said. "But I hope you know what you are doing. We have followed your counsel this far, and now we follow you still, as we step into the unknown. We wait to find if we have stepped over the cliff, or into the fire, or only onto some new and unexplored path. "
Elrond shrugged. There was no reassurance he could give about Fëanor, who he had never met, but he was inclined to think that Fëanor's family were overcautious, remembering too well those unimaginably distant days when the worst of all possible concerns had been a family argument.
"There is only one way to find out what Fëanor will choose to do next," he said, instead. "Wait and watch."
. . . . . .
"Well, you can't possibly bring all of them,Celebrimbor," Finrod said, leaning forward earnestly over the long dark polished table. The surface reflected as if it were a dark pool, and a faint light shone in his face and glimmered in his bright hair. "There must be sixty thousand people in the Fëanorian Quarter, at the least. It's not practical. "
"There are sixty-six thousand, nine hundred and twenty-seven." Celebrimbor said calmly. "And those people of the outlying farms and villages who consider their allegiance lies with my House too. I can provide a count of those if you require it. But I cannot command them not to come to see my grandfather return from the Halls of Mandos."
He looked at Finrod's pained expression, which mirrored that of his father the king rather closely at that moment, shrugged, and elaborated.
"I can't command them because most of them will not listen to me, if I tell them something they don't want to hear. Not in the matter of my grandfather."
"It is your House," Finarfin said mildly.
"Yes. But there are factions within it, you see," Celebrimbor said, his fine-featured face earnest. "First, there are those who owed allegiance to my father, or to Celegorm, who turned to me in Nargothrond, those who turned against my uncles at the Havens of Sirion to fight for me, and most of the people of Eregion. Their children and their friends too. These are my people. I can command them to stay in Tirion, and they will do it, even if they don't like it. Perhaps ten thousand of them I can speak to and hold to my word without question.
"The people of the second faction are those who fought at Doriath, or at the Havens and did not turn their coats there, but followed my uncles to the end. They will follow me if I am the only choice they have, but I am not fool enough to think they will listen to me if they know that Fëanor and Maedhros are returning. Some of them will listen to Maglor, but most of Maglor's own people died in Dagor Bragollach.
"And then, there are those who died in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, or in a thousand skirmishes and battles before that, and their spouses and their children and their friends. Their position is less clear. I would say at the very most, forty thousand of them might be persuaded to wait and see — with luck. It might be less.
"That is, if you allow me Maglor's assistance, and if he agrees to help. If you want me to try to do it alone, I doubt I can hold half that number. Maglor's people certainly won't listen to me if they get an idea that Maglor would want them to do anything different."
Finrod sighed and nodded. "You have a point. Ever since Maglor returned to Aman, he has been very much present at every meeting I have had with the Fëanorian Quarter, even though he has not actually attended a single one himself in person."
Celebrimbor said, "They'll listen to him — if you think he'll tell them to stay put. I'm not sure myself if he would do that."
"Maglor is not seeking trouble," Elrond said quietly. "I'm sure he will obey the king."
"Are you?" Galadriel asked with considerable scepticism, leaning back in her chair elegantly with her golden eyebrows raised. "I suppose there is a chance he might, if you asked him to, Elrond."
Celebrimbor looked uncomfortably at her. "If we begged my grandmother Nerdanel to speak to them too, perhaps... But even then, that will still leave at least six thousand who are either of the second faction or will choose it for the sake of friends or kin or personal loyalty to my grandfather. We will be fortunate indeed if Nerdanel, Maglor and I can hold them. They are not Maglor's people or mine, and Nerdanel has never called herself their leader. They owed their allegiance to Maedhros, and to my grandfather. And though my grandfather died before the rising of the Sun, I believe they will think of him and remember old loyalties." He grimaced. "Always our trouble, I suppose. To be constantly looking back, where Dwarves or Men look forward."
"Six thousand Noldor is an army," Finarfin said quietly. "That could be very dangerous."
"It might be far more than that," Celebrimbor agreed. "Certainly an army. An experienced army too, containing a good number of kinslayers."
"Piffle," Lalwen said. "We're past the point of worrying about kinslayers, I hope." She was of course a kinslayer herself, as was her brother Fingolfin and Celebrimbor too. All of them had fought at Alqualondë.
"I could, I suppose, bring my own people with me too, for balance, or you can bring yours, and I could leave mine in Tirion..." Celebrimbor grimaced and shook his head.
"We're supposed to be at peace," Lalwen said. "Wasn't that the point of that great festival that Finrod organised? Wasn't that the point of putting Celebrimbor in charge of the Fëanorian Quarter?"
"Celebrimbor has every right to command the people of the House of Fëanor," Finrod said. "Not to mention that I am deeply in his debt for agreeing to take charge of them, instead of leaving me to struggle!"
"Understood," Lalwen said. "And I agree with you entirely. The House of Fëanor should be in charge of its own people, who have never desired any other lords. I'd not argue with that. But are we not falling into the same trap that Celebrimbor suggests awaits the people of Fëanor, that we are looking back? Are the Noldor not one united people? It sounds as though you and Celebrimbor are half expecting the kind of argument we used to have before the rising of the Sun."
"That was so long ago," Fingolfin said, with a kind of grave finality. "Those days have passed into memory, and the Noldor are one again." He looked at Finarfin. "You have made them one, brother. If the people of Fëanor wish to go to greet their lord in peace, is that so terrible?"
Eärwen said cautiously, "That depends what we expect him to command them to do, surely?"
"And as to that, we cannot say," Finarfin said thoughtfully. "We could bring armies of our own, armoured and weaponed. We could disarm the Fëanorian Quarter, though I doubt all of them would cooperate: we'd have to search the place. That would be controversial. We could try to keep them within the walls of Tirion."
Fingolfin said "These are our own people. I am not their king, but I must ask: if they and we are one, should we not stand together and trust each other?"
Celebrimbor said, unhappily, "If you try to hold them by force within the walls of Tirion, I can't be sure what they will do."
He hesitated for a moment, with a strained and uncomfortable expression on his face. Then he pushed his shoulders back, held his head up and met Finarfin's bright eyes. Elrond knew that expression. He had seen it on Celebrimbor's face before, in those last days in Lindon before Celebrimbor had decided to leave and go to Eregion. He had seen it too, when Celebrimbor had spoken of his father, and of Nargothrond.
"I will not be a part of that," Celebrimbor said quietly but firmly. "I will not disarm the people of my House and bid them to make themselves prisoners in Tirion. If they wish to leave and go elsewhere, even to the Halls of Mandos to greet my grandfather, they have my permission to do so, and I will go with them. All of us together. I will not tear them apart and set them at each other's throats."
He stood up pushing his chair aside, and took a step back, distancing himself from the people sitting around the table.
"I don't know what Maglor will do then. But if you give me that command, to hold them by force in Tirion, I will hold my allegiance to the High King to be made void by tyranny, and I will go to my kinsman Maglor, and ask him for his counsel. If you try to hold my people that way, you will have to hold me too."
Fingolfin, Finrod and Lalwen all began to speak at once and Elrond got hastily to his feet, unsure himself what to say or do next, but before anyone could say more than a word or two, Finarfin got up from his place of honour at the centre of the table, and walked swiftly to Celebrimbor.
"There's no need for any of that," he said, speaking quietly to Celebrimbor and Elrond more than the rest. "We are one people. If you feel they cannot be held back by reason and in peace, then I'll accept your counsel, and let them go."
"And if my grandfather takes command of them?" Celebrimbor asked him.
"I expect he will do that," Finarfin said. "But that doesn't mean a war. My brother Fëanor did a great many things apart from making war, after all."
"You did not call Maglor to Tirion to hear of this," Celebrimbor said warily.
Finarfin glanced at Elrond. "I understood that Maglor chooses not to leave Tol Eressëa," he said. "I invited Elrond to speak for him."
"Forgive me for being blunt," Elrond said, "But I fear I cannot speak for Maglor. I did not know why you wished to speak to me when I set off to come here and I have not had a chance to consult with him about this. I am his foster-son, not his keeper. And if he is indeed held to be free by the will of the Valar, like his brothers, then you should hear his voice, not mine."
"I suppose I should," Finarfin said, sighing. He rubbed his face with his hands. "But if I send for Maglor, when he has not left Tol Eressëa in over a hundred years of the Sun, then everyone will know why, and the word will be across Aman in days."
"Maglor has chosen not to leave Tol Eressëa out of consideration for the feelings of the people of Doriath and the exiles of Gondolin who were at the Havens of Sirion," Elrond said, with a nod to Turgon, who had so far sat quietly observing, but not speaking yet. "But that surely must come to an end now anyway, since his brothers are returning. You are going to have to trust him at some point. Or is it a coincidence that Fingon happens to be on Tol Eressëa so often at the moment, when I am called away? You did not call Gil-galad away from the island either, I notice. Only me. "
"Maglor is still bound by his oath," Fingolfin said, not admitting that he had sent Fingon to watch his cousin, but not denying it either.
"For now," Elrond said. "But I hope, not for much longer."
"We all hope that," Finrod said. "But you must admit, Elrond, it's a worrying thing to see someone gripped like that by any oath or spell. The Oath of Fëanor has become very dark and terrible."
Elrond looked at him. " I suppose that you would know!" he said. "Fortunate for you that the only way the Enemy could find to use your oath was to drive you to your death. "
"Ouch," Finrod said mildly. "I put my name to your appeal for the House of Fëanor, and I spoke to my father for you as you asked, O Heir of Barahir. If there is something further that you require of me, you only have to mention it."
Elrond smiled. "That was Elros. He had your ring, not me. But after all, Maglor has lived with his Oath for all the long years since the Elder Days. It's not a pleasant thing to look upon when it moves in his mind, I know. It hurts him, and I would rather see him free of it, but..."
He looked around the table at faces out of legend in some frustration.
"It is different for all of you, of course. You knew them when they were Maitimo and Makalaurë: neither oathtakers nor kinslayers. But I only ever knew them as Maedhros and Maglor; kinslayers three times over, haunted by their oath. Yet still it was clear that wasn't all that there was of them. It is a thing of shadow, yes. It turns to darkness, if it can. But it can be held back. You can hardly set watchers on Fëanor and every one of his sons forever! Or are you suggesting that you will exile them all to Tol Eressëa, or to Formenos?"
The High King winced. "Any attempt to exile them would certainly stir the hornets of the Fëanorian quarter into furious buzzing. We cannot reasonably keep them from their people."
"Our brother Fëanor has been imprisoned for well over seven thousand years," Fingolfin said. "That is, surely, enough. I want to trust them." Turgon made a face, but did not object.
"We have all agreed that it is enough," Finarfin agreed.
"It's going to come out in public soon," Turgon said, sighing. "We might as well get on and tell the people."
"Well!" Finrod said, arching a surprised golden eyebrow at him. "It seems that Turgon himself is recommending against secrecy, and he of all people is an expert on that subject!"
Turgon rolled his eyes at his friend and cousin. "It is my people who are most likely to be upset!" he said. "Well, they and the Doriathrim, but there are not many of those in Tirion. With luck, it will be a little while before they hear the news."
Elrond interrupted him, shaking his head. "I am sorry," he said. "But I am afraid that I think we should inform the Doriathrim immediately. In particular I wish to speak with my grandmother, Nimloth. I would like to bring her and Dior with us to the Halls of Mandos."
Turgon stared at him. "Elrond." he said carefully. "Have you gone quite mad? You want to bring your Doriathrim grandparents to meet their killers? The killers of their children?
"Not quite," Elrond said. "None of Fëanor's sons killed my uncles. Those that did were released from Mandos quite some time ago, having been deemed now free of malice. They were, after all, only servants, and it seems that for that reason they are considered unimportant, though they were not following any command of their lords. I have spoken with them, and so has Nimloth."
Turgon raised alarmed eyebrows for a moment, then shook his head. "But still, we have no real idea what Fëanor and his sons will do, and Celebrimbor tells us that he cannot stop an army of the House of Fëanor attending. Is this wise?"
"Why not?" Elrond said. The entire situation suddenly seemed absurd, and so he favoured the silent room filled with legendary ancient relatives with a polite yet cheerful smile.
"I already have three grandmothers, Idril, Nimloth and Nerdanel, and since I am shortly to acquire an additional honorary grandfather and a quite remarkable number of honorary uncles, I feel that they might as well all meet and get any awkwardness out of the way immediately. Maglor knows Nimloth well already. She often comes to stay with us."
The alarmed silence was broken by Fingolfin laughing. "Of course!" he said. "How could we possibly object to that? I have said to my brother Fëanor that he is still our brother, when we met in the Halls of Mandos... Brother, surely you will not object? Elrond is of my House and Turgon's, on one side, but considering how all of this began, if he wishes to be of the House of Fëanor and the House of Thingol of Doriath too, how could that be anything but a good thing?"
Finarfin's serious expression warmed into a smile. "Elrond is of my House, too," he pointed out. "He is my grandson by marriage. The trouble among the Noldor began when the personal became political. Very well then. Let us see if we can bring the circle back to its beginning, and make the political personal again. It seems we have little choice but to provide for Fëanor's people to travel to the Halls of Mandos to meet him. If we can get the people of Fëanor there in peace, then when we arrive we shall hope to be one family and not worry too much about... Well. Let's leave that and see what Fëanor will do. There's little other choice."
"I noticed you did not invite Nerdanel to this meeting either," Elrond pointed out.
Finarfin spread his hands helplessly. "I have given up inviting Nerdanel to meetings!" he exclaimed. "If she has nothing better to do, she occasionally turns up, but Eärwen and I have given up expecting her."
Eärwen said "She is working with a new alloy of bronze that I'm told is very exciting, and cannot spare time for dull matters of state, or family either, just now. I thought I'd go and tell her what we've said tomorrow, Elrond. Perhaps you'd like to come. I'm sure she'll be delighted to have a new audience to explain it to, and once she's told you all about it, she might even listen long enough to hear what I have to say."
. . . . . .
The great boom of the Tol Eressëa ferry went over with a creaking noise as they went about the rocky point, and the ferry turned as the sail moved, bringing them into full view of the quays of Alqualondë.
The shoreline south of the old Teleri city was usually clear and pale, with only a few small craft pulled up and here and there, and perhaps a few Elves wandering along the shore.
Not today. Today the white shore was dark and moving with a great mass of horses and people, and above it there were banners flying, eight-pointed rayed silver stars set on a field of gold and green, for the meadows of the Gap, and the plains of Lothlann. Maglor looked out at it, and groaned.
"How many would you say?" Elrond asked him. "A thousand? Two?"
"I would guess around one thousand, one hundred and eleven people, and exactly three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three horses," Maglor said, and laughed at the absurdity of it. There was no point lamenting the ridiculous loyalty of old friends. "That is a full Company of the Gap, with all the artificers, grooms and reserves as well. They must have made the banners just for this. I can't think what else they would need them for."
"Celebrimbor did say that he thought some people might come to greet you," Celebrian said, looking out over the side. "My goodness, look at all of them! I didn't realise he meant quite so many! And all the horses!"
"To be fair, it appears that Elior and Bregolien have brought only one company, and not all three," Maglor observed. "Celebrían, you have kindly loaned me one of your horses on many occasions. Perhaps you will allow me to loan you one of mine?"
Celebrían smiled. "Very well then. It looks like it would take ages to find a way through to collect horses from my great-uncles in Alqualondë anyway."
Frodo asked, "I thought that you had nothing left in Aman? When we first met you, Finrod gave you one of his harps, because you didn't have one!"
Maglor shrugged. "I had assumed that my people would have found other lords long ago. That they would have left the House of Fëanor behind them and not wish to be reminded of a past so full of darkness."
Elrohir said drily, "Oh yes. They all look like they have found other lords to me."
Maglor laughed. "They did! Honestly, Elrohir, they did. They served Finrod for a good six thousand years or so, ever since they returned from the Halls of Mandos. Nobody could reasonably ask for a better lord than Finrod. You know, Elior was a cook, when I first met him, making pastry in my grandfather's kitchens."
"What's wrong with being a pastry cook?" Celebrían's helper Fingaeril asked. Pastry was her own preferred speciality.
"Nothing is wrong with pastry!" Maglor said hastily. "Only Elior was tired of it and wanted to work with horses. I was half-way through arranging it when we were all sent off to Formenos. So Elior came with us, when the Darkness came, and ended up fighting for me in Beleriand. Very good at it he was, too. I was concerned that he would end up back with pastry, here in Aman though: he died in Dagor Bragollach, so there was no great reason for him to be held too long in Mandos, but he had no reputation to count on here, all his skills with horses were gained in Beleriand. That would not endear him to everyone here, and the House of Fëanor had no lords or princes left to smooth things over. But Finrod had thought of it and when Elior came back to Tirion, he had quietly arranged everything before Elior even had to go to him to ask. Very thoughtful of him, and Elior has made a great success of it. Many of those horses belong to Elior. So really, they have no reason to complain of Finrod. And then Finrod gave them to Celebrimbor, who is of their own house..."
"And now they have taken themselves back to you," Elrond observed.
"Well, neither the Valar nor Finarfin the High King shall say this time that I have called them to me by any word of power, or anger, or pride." Maglor told him.
He turned to Fingon and Gil-galad. "Bear witness, you High Kings!" he said. "I have not called them to follow me!"
Gil-galad nodded a little sternly, but Fingon shook his head, laughing.
"Yes, all right, Maglor! They came of their own accord and it wasn't your idea. Duly seen and witnessed! Though I think it's the following that Mandos considered important, not whether you asked them to. I hope my horse is in the middle of that lot somewhere. I'd hate to have to ride one of yours!"
"Oh I'm sure Bregolien can find you some flashy stallion without an ounce of common-sense that likes to prance!" Maglor began, but Fingon interrupted him.
"I'm not arguing about horses today," he said, putting one hand firmly on Maglor's shoulder. "Today we're on our way to the Halls of Mandos to meet Maedhros and his brothers, and, may the Valar help us all, your father. I'm being sensible, and so should you be. By the next moon, if we all survive, I'll argue about horses to your heart's content, but let us get this done first."
The ferry was putting in alongside the small quay that served the Tol Eressëa ferry and there was no time to argue or take offence. Maglor in any case felt disinclined to do either. He gave Fingon a grin and, without waiting for the ferrymen to bring up the gangplank, leapt down onto the quayside.
"Elior!" he said, "An entire company?"
His old captain from Beleriand strode forward to embrace him. "I only brought those who insisted on coming," he said, raising his voice over the excited clamour. "I knew you wouldn't want a fuss!"
Maglor waved a hand around at horses with manes woven with ribbons and decked with plumes, at green and silver banners, and Elves in tunics marked with stars with jewels in their hair. "And nobody could possibly call this a fuss!"
Elior gave him a fierce and entirely unrepentant grin. "We have been patient," he said. "We have reported to Finrod, and been painfully polite to the Gondolodrim, avoided all argument, and sold goods and horses at a discount to the Doriathrim, exactly as you said..."
"Exactly as you said?" Elrohir said coming up behind Maglor and giving him a look of considerable amusement. "Oh yes, they have certainly all found other lords!"
"Shush!" Maglor said to both of them, and flung an arm around his steward Bregolien in greeting.
Bregolien hugged him back, then let go and gave him a stern look. "We have put up with a great deal, and haven't answered back even once!" she said. "We have not even sent messengers to you, since you told us we must not. But now we have our honour and our prince back and very soon our... I mean the Lord Fëanor too. We've earned our banners, and a little fuss!"
Maglor told her very firmly, "Well, keep it up. We are meeting the High King Finarfin outside Tirion, I understand. There must be no arguments. Elior, Bregolien... Oh, Carnil, there you are! And Nahtanion and Nethiel of course... Telutan! You have made it back in one piece! I didn't know you had returned from Middle-earth. Maedhros will be so pleased to see you, and so am I! Anyway, all of you, this is Elrohir son of Elrond, a hero of Middle-earth. Elrohir is a prince of very nearly every great House of the Eldar, not to mention the Edain too, and he has also decided he is my grandson. It is a great honour to our House. Please find him a suitable horse. "
He sent people scurrying to find horses for Elrond and Celebrían — most of them knew Elrond already, one way or another — and the people who had come with them, and to look for Fingon's people and his horse.
"You look more yourself than you have since Beleriand!" Fingon told him, and grinned as his horse and people were found and brought over to him. Maglor grinned back as Fingon and Gil-galad mounted, and Bregolien herself brought over the horse that she had chosen for Maglor.
It was easy, so very easy, to slip back into the habit of being a prince.
Fingon had done it already, but then Fingon had gone from being High King to waiting in the Halls of Mandos. One kinslaying, almost by accident, had marred Fingon's name, and it had been almost as easily forgiven as an accident. He had passed into memory for his valour, wisdom, skill and justice, and had returned welcomed for his good-will to all. Maglor had written some of those songs himself, and he would argue with anyone that they were true and fair.
The quays of Alqualondë stretched out far to the north, and there was not a sign anywhere of bloodstains. But Fingon had not made so many bloodstains, not really. Not like the blood upon the cave-walls of Menegroth, or on the wharves at the mouth of Sirion.
"Maglor, I'm not at all sure that Bilbo wants a horse," Frodo said, laughing. Bilbo was shaking his head very decidedly at an Elf who was suggesting that he mount a chestnut horse which, while hardly tall or frisky enough to be to Fingon's taste, was still far too tall for him.
"Of course not," Maglor said, recalled from thought. "Not to ride alone, at any rate." He waved the Elf away. "Bilbo will want to go with Elrond, I expect, and then, Sam, would you mind riding with Elrohir? And perhaps you would do me the honour of riding with me, Frodo? Though if you would prefer to ride alone, Elior and Bregolien have brought at least two mounts for everyone here, and some are trained to saddles."
Of the three hobbits, it had been Frodo who had been boldest about riding the tall horses of Aman, though they were something of a challenge for him. He needed help to mount, and still preferred to use a saddle than to ride in the usual fashion of elves, with just a loop of rope to give the horse guidance.
It was, now Maglor thought of it, a little worrying that so many of the horses around them were wearing saddles. Saddles were usually used only Elves in time of war. It was easier to fight from horseback with a saddle.
"I'll ride with you," Frodo said. "I know Celebrían's horses, but I think I prefer to get to know an animal that size before I presume to try to give him directions!"
. . . . .
There was almost nobody visible on the outskirts of Alqualondë, though no doubt there were many eyes watching. Many of the tall white ships of the Teleri had put out into the channel and were riding there at anchor. You could not blame them for that: a pity they had not thought of it before.
For a brief and wistful moment, Maglor allowed himself to think of how it might have been if they had all crossed the Helcaraxë together. If they had managed to arrive in Beleriand as one great host. Surely division would have been healed by hardship in the crossing of the ice, as it had been later, in Beleriand. For all that they had not been exactly friends then, Fingon would not have let Maedhros ride into ambush, as Maglor had.
Could the Enemy have withstood his father and Fingolfin together? Might that have tipped the balance? Fingolfin had given the Enemy seven wounds. If he had been dealt seven more, then, perhaps...
No way to know.
Very likely they would all have torn one another apart upon the Ice, and nobody would have arrived in Middle-earth at all.
Maglor waved Fingon on ahead, making the signal to hold his company back, and wondered at how natural it felt to do that, even now. Then it occurred to him that probably he should have given the precedence to Gil-galad instead. Surely Gil-galad would not object, though he was still a king and Fingon was not.
But Fingon seemed disinclined to ride ahead with an entire company behind him, when he had only a handful of people of his own with him. He waved Maglor up with a careless hand, and they all rode together up the long slope that led from the quays of Alqualondë towards Tirion, Gil-galad beside Elrond, with Bilbo and Celebrían, and then Elrohir riding with Sam next to Maglor and Frodo, with Fingon on the other side, and Bregolien too, wearing a grin that shone like summer sun.
Left to themselves, Maglor's people would have sung songs of battle in Beleriand, or laments for the fallen. Either might cause trouble, so instead Maglor lifted up his voice to lead them in songs from very long ago, of trees of gold and jewels shining bright upon the shore, and reaching further back still, in praise of the stars that had shone over Cuivienen when the rest of the world had been fast asleep. Many of the riders had brought instruments, the kind one could play on horseback: flutes and recorders, trumpets, drums and small lyres. Someone had brought a violin. Maglor resolved to keep an eye on him. They had not had violins in Beleriand, they were a new invention. Maglor was fairly sure you could do a lot of damage with a violin.
He stuck to harmless songs of stars until they were well out of earshot of Alqualondë. Then they were well up the road into the green hills of Eldamar, and they had come up out of the grey shadow of the low clouds that hung over Alqualondë into golden sunlight. Larks were singing high overhead against the hazy blue sky, as long ago larks had sung over the green plains of Ard-galen.
He caught Fingon's eye.
"The Song of Glorious Battle?" Fingon suggested, which in Maglor's opinion put the blame squarely on the House of Fingolfin.
He said to Frodo, to Elrohir, Celebrian and Sam. "This is one you might not know. But you'll soon pick it up!" and he turned to call to Elior, and see the flash of his smile in answer.
The first line sung, and already the whole great company had picked up the song, the song he had made long ago as they had hunted orc-bands through the Gap, and out onto the plains of Lothlann.
They had sung it as the companies of East Beleriand, with Maedhros at their head, had ridden West towards the sunset and seen the host of Fingolfin ahead, with the sunlight shining on their armour. They had sung as they joined the hosts to hunt Morgoth's armies back to hide in Angband, and as they rode back home in triumph.
. . . . . .
Outside the walls of Tirion, Celebrimbor was waiting for them, with a company that must include the vast majority of the residents of the Fëanorian Quarter: a host, really. They were at least not wearing armour, though the shout that went up when they sighted the riders coming up through the pass of the Calacirya sounded warlike enough. They too were flying banners: many eight-pointed rayed stars, set between the Two Trees with their crescent moons, or among the dark green of holly leaves for Celebrimbor and Eregion, but there were other banners too: stars on crimson red for Maedhros, or on a field of black, for Caranthir, and there were even a few stars set in gold for Celegorm, and in the red of flames for Curufin. Above them all flew a single great banner bearing the full winged fire-flower of Fëanor himself, with its shining flames and brilliant wheel of rainbow colours.
As the riders came up out of the east, Nerdanel came out from the host and looked at them quizzically, hands on hips. She had forced her wild wiry red hair into a stern bun. It did not suit her at all, Maglor thought.
Without pausing to think too much about it, he flung an arm around Frodo, urged the horse forward with a heel (the mare responded instantly, as precisely as one could wish, he must remember to commend Bregolien) and cantered lightly towards his mother. He leaned out as he passed her, and plucked the comb lightly from her hair, so that the whole compact mass of it, released, went springing wildly outward around her freckled face.
"Makalaurë! I mean, Maglor!" she said, clutching at it. "That took ages! Now it's just a... a bush!"
"It looks much better as a bush," he told her laughing as he brought the horse around to stop at a safe distance. "Father thinks so too. You know he does!"
"You horrible, horrible son!" she cried, but she abandoned the attempt to hold her hair in place with her hands. "I'm going to ignore you entirely and greet the nice members of my family!"
She went to Elrond and Celebrían, who had dismounted with Gil-galad to greet Celebrimbor, and hugged them enthusiastically, and then Elrohir, and for completeness' sake, Fingon and (rather to their surprise) the hobbits.
By that time she seemed to have forgotten she was ignoring Maglor, because as soon as he dismounted, she rushed over and hugged him too, in an enormous cloud of wiry and disordered red hair.
By now, the sun was falling, and Elior came to ask for the order to encamp. They could, of course, have gone back into the city, but nobody was eager to do that: it was a fine evening, with the sky a clear blue and the first stars pricking into light. To go into Tirion would, as Elior said, take the shine off things. And so they set up fires and people brought out food and drink of every kind from the city: and it was not only the people of the Fëanorian Quarter that were sitting around those fires by the time the sky had fallen into full velvet darkness.
There were people who had been Finrod's people in Nargothrond, who had come with him to hunt in East Beleriand with Maedhros and with Maglor, and who had had their own shame to overcome: the people of Hithlum and Dor-lómin who had ridden with Fingolfin and with Fingon out to battle upon the green fields of Ard-Galen, the people of Dorthonion, a few of whom had survived Angrod and Aegnor, and had lived to tell the tale of how Fingon and Maedhros had re-taken their land after Dagor Bragollach, and given at least a few a breathing space to retreat.
And to Maglor's surprise and delight, there were people who had remained behind in Tirion and never crossed the sea too, and the people of Gondolin, too, at least a few of them, led by Ecthelion and Glorfindel, come to find old friends and new ones.
Maglor regretted not having brought his harp, but after all, he needed no harp to sing under the stars. Ecthelion had brought his flute, and Sam had managed to waylay the Elf with the violin and persuaded him to come and play The Man in the Moon Stayed Up Too Late, a song that, Bilbo insisted, worked best accompanied upon the fiddle, so that all three hobbits could dance. After years on Tol Eressëa under the care of Elrond and Celebrían, all three were well enough for that despite their age.
Gil-galad, perhaps influenced by the presence of Fingolfin, Lalwen and Fingon, unbent from his usual position of alarming dignity. He had known the fathers of the fathers of the Fallohides, long ago when peace had lain on Eriador, and now, he volunteered to sing what he swore was one of their songs for the hobbits.
"The fly shall marry the humble-bee?" Bilbo said. "It sounds worse nonsense than the Man in the Moon!"
"I wouldn't let Tilion hear you say that!" Maglor said, laughing. Someone had brought bottles of wine out from the city, and they had passed several around the fires. Fingon topped up his cup.
"Perhaps I have mistranslated," Gil-galad said frowning. "The fly...flee? The one who flees, as on wings? The one who has fled? And then, I think there is a sense to 'bee' that I have not caught, implying excited voices and a sense of cheerful bustling. It is a love-song at any rate... I fear that in rendering the dialect into modern Westron I have destroyed the meaning while preserving the rhyme."
"It's not easy, pulling verse into a different language," Bilbo sympathised, wagging his head sagely. "Try giving us the original. I know the language has changed a great deal, but I'd be most interested to hear it even so."
Overhead, above the singing and the fires and the sparks that flew up from them, the stars shone eternal on a field of deepest blue. Maglor leaned back, looking up at one star in particular. Elrond, sitting next to him, caught his eye.
"Will he come?" Maglor asked him, almost under his breath.
"Yes," Elrond said, just as quietly. "Yes, he will come. Do you think..." he seemed to not know how to end the sentence.
"I don't know," Maglor said, suddenly uncomfortable again, though his Oath was still fast asleep. He had feared it would be awake and biting by now. "I won't. I promised you that."
"I know. I am only concerned about your brothers and your father... But still, if I have made a mistake, I can only find out by going on. It is far too late to turn back now."
"Your deeds will be a matter of song until the end of Arda," Maglor said, and managed a laugh. "Well, they are already, but you'll find that if this is a mistake, the songs about it will eclipse all the rest. You'll have to tell me if you find the songs a comfort. I can't say I did."
"How reassuring," Elrond said. Maglor could see the smile catch at the corner of his mouth in the starlight. "It will all work out somehow. When we started this, there was Morgoth, and there was Sauron, and now both are gone and the story's almost over. Yet here we are still, beyond the Sea under the stars."
"All's well that ends well, Sam says," Maglor told him. He had given up on his own hopes of anything ending well a very long time ago, but Elrond's hope was free of doom and wrath and oaths. It made as good a light to follow as any star.
The hobbits slept, but no-one else did that night. There was too much singing to be done.
Then in the hour before the dawn, when the stars of Varda hung blazing overhead, they heard fair voices singing far off, coming down from the North. Elrond got up, smiling and went out to greet them. They were people who long ago had lived in Doriath under the stars, who now lived wandering through the wild and wooded hills that stretched up towards distant Formenos. Leading them was Nimloth the queen, and Dior, Thingol's heir.
The joyful singing as the Doriathrim came into the Noldor camp and were greeted woke Bilbo, and he grumbled for a while, until, much to Maglor's amusement, he put a spare pillow on top of his head and went back to sleep.
. . . . . .
The sun rose red out of the east, and the long shadow of the hill of Tirion and the tall tower of Mindon Eldaliéva that stood at the crest of the hill together streamed out long and dark across the camp of the Noldor, like a long dark finger pointing west towards the golden city of Valimar, and far beyond it across the flowering plains of Eldamar, the Halls of Mandos.
As the morning mists shone across the land, silver trumpets rang out from the walls of Tirion, and the High King Finarfin rode out, with Eärwen, Finrod, Angrod and Galadriel beside him, and with Galadriel was Celeborn of Doriath, and with Finrod, Amárië of the Vanyar.
Their company was flying Finarfin's golden banners, but ahead of all of them went a great banner showing the Winged Sun of the House of Finwë.
Celeborn and Galadriel rode out smiling and invited Nimloth and Dior to come with them. Fingolfin swung up onto his great horse Rochallor, his dear friend, with whom he had returned from the Halls of Mandos, and he, Fingon, Lalwen, Turgon and Aredhel, with a company of their people beside them, fell into line behind.
Last of all, and by far the most numerous, since Finarfin's people and Fingolfin's had mostly remained in Tirion, came the people of House of Fëanor: Celebrimbor in the centre, leading the people on foot, with the horsemen spread out in two wings on either side. Maglor led the right wing. He had offered the left to Elrohir, since Elrond was to ride with Dior and Nimloth, but Elrohir had politely declined in favour of Elior, who had after all more than earned the honour.
They travelled like that for a while, singing and playing as they went, and the sound of the clear voices of that great host shook the air and echoed high into the mountains. Maglor wondered if Manwë himself had heard it, high above them on the peaks of Taniquetil, and if so what he made of it.