Music for this chapter: Poor Wayfaring Stranger, 1917 soundtrack

Chapter 13: Little Mercy

"'Laurë," Curufin's voice says above him. "Take some waybread."

Maglor shakes his head in the dusk light, burying his face deeper into Maedhros's shoulder where they sit curled into a corner at Vingilot's prow.

"Maitimo?"

"No, thank you, Curvo," Maedhros murmurs, the sound reverberating through Maglor's cheek. His voice is hoarse with screaming; Maglor can feel the anger and grief simmering in Maedhros's mind, but where Maglor is numb, Maedhros simmers with rage, his hands curled into fists in his lap.

Curufin's footsteps fade further away down the deck.

Maglor shuts his eyes tighter as a familiar tread approaches. The wind increases to a mournful howl as Vingilot leaves sea for sky.

"Nelyo, Káno," Fëanor says, the ache audible in his voice. "Are you cold?"

Cold.

Elrond must be so terribly cold; Maglor himself had felt the seeping, empty chill of the Void for a brief instant after his death before the flames of his father's fëa had warmed him.

Maglor presses a hand to his mouth. Beside him, Maedhros stiffens further as he catches the surface of Maglor's thoughts.

A rustle as heavy cloth settles over them both.

Maglor blinks his aching eyes open in the warmth of his father's cloak. Fëanor follows a moment later, kneeling by his eldest sons to gather them both into his arms.

"We will not leave him there," Fëanor says softly, fiercely, pressing a kiss to both their brows. "We will go after him. I know we can go after him; I simply need a workshop, and a little time."

Maedhros's breathing settles a little under Maglor's cheek as their father's words wash over them.

Not so Maglor.

There had been a time when his father's word had been immovable stone; it had meant belief and loyalty and confidence. Maglor had not doubted his father's Oath when he and his brothers spoke it; he had thought, even as Maedhros stood stone-faced by the burning ships at Losgar, that their father was right and that Angband would fall under the wrath of Fëanor's house alone.

Then Fëanor had died at Mithrim, and Maedhros had been taken, and Maglor had held the hollow crown in his hands and wept.

A part of him had not stopped weeping, from Lothlann through to Sirion.

His father's promises do not give Maglor the same assurance of hope as they once did.

Fëanor shifts, and Maglor knows his father has sensed his doubts.

Maglor curls inward, bracing for his father's wrath; but there is only the gentle press of his father's lips against his temple as Fëanor draws him closer.

"I know my word means little," Fëanor murmurs. "But he is my grandson. He is not only yours; he is also mine." His voice grows dark. "And I do not lightly release that which is mine."

To another, Fëanor's words might perhaps be frightening, but to Maglor, it is comfort.

Maglor can trust his father to seek what he possesses.

"I hold you to your word, Father," Maglor whispers, allowing some of his own power to filter into his voice; Maedhros clasps his hand with sudden, bruising strength.

For a terrible moment, Maglor expects his father's fëa to blaze into fury.

But Fëanor only laughs softly, and leans back to look both Maglor and Maedhros in the eye.

"I would expect nothing less," Fëanor says, as the sun slips below the horizon, and the cry of shore sighted sounds from the mast above.

(:~:)

The slopes of Túna are ablaze with light when Vingilot descends from the stars.

And as Vingilot descends, the songs of lament rise up to meet her. As the chorus of voices reaches the deck, the Ambarussa's eyes grow wide. Celegorm grits his teeth, Curufin runs a hand over his face, and Caranthir utters a low curse. Fëanor's face darkens with understanding, and his gaze settles on his eldest sons.

"They are singing for Elrond," Maedhros says softly, left hand white-knuckled on the rail of the deck; beside him, Maglor closes his eyes and turns away.

The grief is too near. He cannot bring himself to compose any lament for Elrond, not yet; to do so would be to admit Elrond is good as dead.

A few paces away, Eärendil hands the wheel to his quartermaster, and crosses over to stand beside Maglor and Maedhros.

Below, Tirion grows nearer; soon, they will be able to make out the faces of the people on the slopes.

"I wanted to thank you," Eärendil says abruptly. His eyes are red-rimmed, but his gaze earnest.

Maglor startles out of his grief, turning to stare incredulously at his son's birth father. Maedhros does the same, the shock not showing on his features but blazing like embers from his mind.

"Whatever for?" Maglor manages.

"I'll admit I had my doubts when I heard Elrond chose your house for his own," Eärendil says. "But I do not think there is any doubt the both of you loved– love him as your own. He and Elros, both. It is no wonder that he returned that love."

"We did not deserve them," Maglor says softly, swallowing against the pain of that old truth.

"Perhaps not," Eärendil says. "But you gave them a loving childhood, and I suppose that is a greater gift than what most could have offered in war-torn Beleriand." A shadow passes over his face. "I was rather an absent father in Sirion."

Sirion.

All three of them are holding their minds closed now, tightly, to avoid any danger of stray thoughts.

"I rather thought we owed you an apology," Maedhros says slowly, inclining his head. "We formally apologise for the sacking of Sirion. We will send our apologies to Elwing by letter."

Eärendil smiles faintly. He appears exhausted; but then, Maglor supposes they all are.

All three of them, fathers bereft of their children.

"I can hardly accept an apology on behalf of a city," Eärendil says. "But I am grateful for the attempt to make amends," he pauses. "Cousin."

Maedhros's lips curve, ever so slightly. "Cousin," he acknowledges.

Maglor exhales slowly. It is good to see Maedhros smiling; it has been too long.

Below, the songs fade into expectant murmurs as Vingilot draws even with the crest of Túna.

Then a great roar rises from the crowd below as Fëanor comes to the railing, a newly-sung circlet set with a Fëanorian star on his brow, his rich robes of crimson shifting as he raises a hand in greeting.

There is no sword at Fëanor's side. The rest of Maglor's brothers have all put away their swords and sung themselves raiment that would most likely avoid awkward recollections of drawn swords and kinslayings.

The roar of the crowd reaches new heights as Vingilot settles at the foot of Túna. Eärendil's crew brings out a gangplank, but there is a sudden cry from below, and the Ambarussa leap from the deck railing and tumble nimbly across firelit grass to throw themselves into Nerdanel's arms. She crushes them to her, weeping.

That is enough for Curufin to do the same; he rises to be slammed into the ground by Celebrimbor crashing into his chest. They kneel there on the grass at the foot of the slope, Curufin's face pressed into his son's hair. Celebrimbor is sobbing too hard to speak; Curufin's shoulders shake.

Fëanor follows more sedately with his remaining sons, but Caranthir's eyes widen after two steps, and he dashes down the gangplank and into the crowd, catching up someone with long dark hair braided with daises. She laughs through her tears as he swings her in a wide circle, the skirt of her green dress skimming the grass.

Maglor blinks at his younger brother and sister-in-law, and searches the sea of faces for a dear one he once lost to Angband long ago.

He does not find her. She has not come to see him, not even when all of Tirion is here.

Maglor swallows past the sudden spike of pain in his throat. But of course – she had been taken before the sacking of Doriath and Sirion. Of course she would not have him now, when his hands run so much more crimson than they did when they once held hers.

He becomes aware he has stopped halfway down the gangplank; before him, Fëanor has greeted his brothers, if a little stiffly, holding out a hand for a warrior's greeting.

Fingolfin gives his elder brother one burning look before grasping Fëanor's hand and pulling him into a tight embrace; the crowd cheers as Fëanor's arms come up to return it. Fëanor looks a little dazed when Fingolfin releases him, but the next moment Finarfin is crushing him even tighter than Fingolfin did, looking almost as though he wants it to hurt, and Fëanor smiles wryly and returns his youngest brother's embrace to the roar of the gathered host.

"'Laurë."

Maglor looks at Maedhros, who has turned to him at the foot of the gangplank and extended a hand towards him. Maedhros's other hand is in Nerdanel's, while Nerdanel clutches Celegorm with her other arm, pressing kisses into her son's fair hair.

Maglor descends the last few steps onto the grass – the sweet-smelling grass of Túna he had so loved since childhood – and the next moment he is in his mother's arms.

"Ammë," he whispers, as Nerdanel's arms come up around him and her cloud of vibrant red hair consumes his vision.

"You horrible child," she weeps, and Maglor forgets to breathe for a moment before she seizes his face and plants a kiss on his forehead.

Nerdanel releases him and straightens, hands on her hips. "Six thousand years and more after Angband fell and not a single letter?" she says, smiling despite the tears that roll down her cheeks.

Maglor had thought he had no more tears to give this day; he had been wrong. He scrubs a hand over his face and steps forward to greet his mother properly.

"I'm sorry," he says, kissing her cheek in apology.

"I know you are," she says, throwing one arm around him and the other around Maedhros. "And I know who you're looking for. She's not here, nor is Curufin's wife. They're in Estë's gardens – oh, don't you worry, she's quite well. They've found new calling aiding those less fortunate there, is all."

A measure of relief bleeds into Maglor's chest, though not quite tempering the grief that remains curled there.

Maedhros straightens suddenly, and Maglor turns to find Fingon stalking wrathfully towards them, Finrod and most of their other immediate cousins in tow. Gil-Galad hangs back alone, face inscrutable, Orodreth at his side.

Fingon reaches Maedhros.

It is fortunate that they are at the edge of the firelight, and most of the attention is on Fëanor and his brothers; there is no uproar when Fingon reaches out, takes Maedhros by the collar, and shakes him once, hard.

Maglor starts forward in alarm, but Finrod catches his arm.

"They're fine," Finrod says, the joy in his blue eyes tempered with a measure of pain as his eyes flick towards Vingilot's empty deck. "It's good to see you, Makalaurë."

"What in Illúvatar's name were you thinking?" Fingon growls, his face an inch from Maedhros's.

Maedhros blinks into Fingon's face. "When?" he murmurs.

"Doriath. Sirion. Eönwë's guards," Fingon snarls, shaking Maedhros between each word. "What, did I die and your mind just go to pieces?"

"Yes," Maedhros snaps, pain flashing in his gaze.

Maglor watches as Maedhros and Fingon blink at each other for a moment before collapsing into each other's arms, weeping.

"See?" Finrod says, flinging an arm around Maglor. "They're fine." He lowers his voice to whisper in Maglor's ear. "You'll be fine as well, I promise."

Maglor closes his eyes against the ache. Finrod holds him tighter.

Maglor makes to speak, but then Argon and Angrod are on him, and all the breath is squeezed out of his chest. Turgon follows more sedately a moment after.

Cheering erupts around them; Fëanor has moved over to his wife, and Nerdanel's determined frown melts into a smile when he cups her cheek and lowers his face to hers.

Watching his parents together for the first time since before Formenos, something almost like joy blossoms in Maglor's chest.

But a moment later, the cheering quiets, subdued.

Vingilot has raised anchor, and the gangplank stowed. Eärendil's face is turned east; none miss the way he scrubs a weary hand over his face as he orders the sails unfurled. The deck is empty of all but Eärendil's people.

Murmuring rises among the crowd.

"So Elrond has indeed gone into the Void," Fingon says hollowly as he looks up at the dwindling shape of Vingilot, tightening his arm around Maedhros's shoulders.

"We tried to stop him," Maglor whispers. He feels suddenly sick with guilt. Here he stands, surrounded by almost all of his family, and even his estranged wife is safe in Estë's gardens, but his son remains alone in the darkness. He has not forgotten Elrond, not for a moment; but he had allowed himself brief happiness watching his parents reunite as he had wished since seven thousand years and more ago.

"None of that," Finrod says sharply, shaking him, and Maglor takes a pained breath. "No guilt. Not for this."

Red banners approach as the people of the Fëanorian district come to greet their returned lords at last, having pushed through the crowd from the far east slopes of Túna.

Their greeting of Fëanor is more subdued that Maglor would have expected, and Maglor is unsure why until suddenly Aerlind is there, looking far younger than Maglor remembers – or perhaps it is simply Maglor who has grown older.

"So he's gone," Aerlind says, the grief in her eyes warring with her obvious joy at seeing him. Last Maglor had seen those eyes they had been crisping in the flames of the Dagor Bragollach.

Maglor nods, and searches about for something to say that will take the conversation away from Elrond, and the building scream in his chest.

"You look well," he says. He is running out of things to say; there is still too much joy and laughter around them, when he feels as though the world should be screaming with him.

Aerlind smiles faintly. "You look old," she says. "I haven't been back all that long, you know, if you count the yení. You must be old enough to be my grandfather by now."

Now that is the Aerlind Maglor remembers, his trusted second, who could ride like fell-fire and has a snappy tongue to match.

"Now if you'll excuse me," Aerlind says, inclining her head, "I'll have to speak with your father. Lord Elrond left me quite a list of things to hand over to him."

Maglor's next breath is a streak of flame along his lungs; it snaps him out of his numbed haze, brings his hand up to catch her elbow.

"What?" he says. "What did you say?"

Aerlind looks up at him, green eyes confused. "Lord Elrond," she says. "He left instructions for the continued running of the district. I assume your father will be taking over? Unless he wishes to delegate–"

Maglor feels as though the firelight is spinning.

"Elrond– Elrond governed the Fëanorian district?" he manages.

Aerlind frowns. "Of course he did," she says. "Lord Telperinquar hadn't yet returned, and while we made do with informal representatives under the king, it wasn't until Lord Elrond's return that the running of the district was properly centralised, so to speak. The past ten years have been much better for everyone, in no small part due to Elrond's governance."

Maglor stares numbly. He had known Elrond had chosen to be of Fëanor's house, but this stretches beyond anything he had thought possible.

"I see," he manages.

Aerlind watches him; he sees her face grow shadowed as she reads his gaze.

"So it was as I feared," she says, looking grieved. "I had thought– I knew he hid how exhausted he was at times. Governing the district was difficult enough without Máhanaxar taking up most of his time. I had hoped I was mistaken–"

Maglor inhales sharply.

"Máhanaxar?" a new voice cuts in.

Maglor turns at his father's voice. Aerlind inclines her head.

"My lord Fëanáro," she murmurs.

"Father," Maglor says, trying to hide his alarm as he sees the intensity in Fëanor's gaze. "This is Aerlind. My second-in-command on the plains of Lothlann."

"I see," Fëanor says, inclining his head in return. "Well met. Now what is this about Elrond and Máhanaxar?"

Maglor looks to Aerlind. His thoughts tumble over each other like water over stone; each thought worse than the last, and ever more dreadful.

She is wearing a sword, Maglor realises. He looks around. Every single member of the Fëanorian district is armed, and there is a low murmur of anger that thrums through their conversation.

Aerlind's eyes grow wide.

"You were not told, my lord?" she says. "I had assumed–"

"Assume nothing," Fëanor says, eyes glimmering with intensity. "Now, tell me."

"Brother," Finarfin's voice cuts sharply into the conversation as he steps between Aerlind and Fëanor. "Perhaps we should retire to the house. This is a discussion better held inside."

Fëanor turns his fiery gaze onto Finarfin. Finarfin stares right back, and the snap of their minds meeting reverberates through the air.

Maglor holds his breath. Faces are beginning to turn towards them; in the distance, Maedhros's head swivels sharply in Fëanor's direction, his alarm like a pennant of flame.

For a terrifying moment, Fëanor's fëa flares as Finarfin stands unshaken with lips thinned and determination in his gaze; but then Fëanor lowers his chin, and nods once.

"Very well," Fëanor says, each word burning like embers. "But I will require answers."

Finarfin nods. "And you shall have them," he says quietly. He turns to Maglor. "Makalaurë, kindly round up your brothers. I will send Findaráto to find the rest."

Releasing a breath, Maglor makes his farewells to Aerlind, and begins weaving his way through the crowd towards Maedhros.

(:~:)

The sons of Finwë and their children and grandchildren walk up the wide thoroughfare to the King's house - almost all of them home at last, for the first time in long millennia. There is quiet conversation here and there, but most of the walk is in silence, the tension between Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finarfin thickening like pitch.

After much persuasion, Nerdanel, Eärwen and Anairë have remained behind to ensure no disputes erupt on the slopes of Túna as the first wine-casks are brought out from the city, and with them are their daughters-in-law.

All in all, a neat little arrangement.

Maglor thinks Finarfin likely arranged things that way because none of them can be sure the night would end without fists flying and bloody noses. Maedhros, Fingon, and Finrod converse softly as they pass the King's gate, but Celegorm and Curufin stiffen whenever Finrod's gaze lands on them, and Gil-Galad has an expression of quiet death on his face as he brings up the rear of the group.

As the group passes by the gate of the Fëanorian district, the sound of forges roaring and swords sharpening on grindstones fills the air just through the gate.

Fëanor smiles sharply. Fingolfin and Finarfin's lips thin.

Maglor reflects that it is fortunate Artanis – Galadriel is in Avallónë. He does not like to think what she would do if she were here to hear the sound of the Fëanorian district preparing for war.

The sons of Finwë lead the way into the King's house, where Finarfin diplomatically sends Gil-Galad for wine, and directs his many nephews, sons, and variations thereof towards the gardens.

Maglor slows his steps when he notices Finarfin, Fëanor and Fingolfin drawing back; the others make their way out into the starlight, but Maglor steps quickly to the side and around a stout pillar.

Maglor holds his breath, and slides halfway around the warm stone to watch and listen.

The sons of Finwë stand alone in the long corridor hung with blue-gold tapestries; Fëanor has dropped his guise of ease, and his fëa now blazes in challenge like an ever-growing bonfire.

Fëanor takes one long step closer, so a mere handspan separates his face from Finarfin's. The candlelight turns Fëanor's eyes fey, sending great shadows leaping across his face.

Fingolfin takes a sharp step forward; Finarfin raises a hand to belay him.

"Our brother is entitled to his questions," Finarfin says. "Now, there is much to tell. What would you have us speak of first, Fëanáro?"

"My youngest grandson," Fëanor says, eyes glittering. "He took the doom of myself and my sons upon his head of his own volition, I am told."

Maglor narrows his eyes. His father has no business discussing Elrond without Maglor or Maedhros present. He almost steps out to object, but Finarfin speaks, and so Maglor remains silent, watching carefully from around the pillar.

"Yes," Finarfin says, voice grieved. "He did."

"And you allowed this?" Fëanor says, voice dangerously soft.

Finarfin lifts his chin. His voice is cool and utterly composed. "You speak as though I would have any say in the decisions of a determined Fëanorian."

Fëanor's shoulder shifts, and suddenly his fist is clenched in Finarfin's collar, and Fingolfin has leapt between them, one hand pressed to the front of Fëanor's robes.

Maglor takes a half step out from behind the pillar, a belaying shout on his lips; but there is a patter of urgent footsteps and a dark-haired shape rushes past him.

"Grandfather!"

The burning intensity of Fëanor's gaze diminishes a little in surprise as Celebrimbor shoulders his way into the fray to place an urgent hand on Fëanor's sleeve.

"Grandfather," Celebrimbor says. His face is pale, but his expression determined. "He tried. We all did; Elrond couldn't be persuaded otherwise."

Fëanor looks from Celebrimbor's white face up to Maglor's, and back to Finarfin's.

Finarfin has not raised a hand; he stands there quite unruffled with Fëanor's hand in his collar. "And there's no use in threatening me with a hand at my throat," he says. He looks pointedly at Celebrimbor. "Not when Tyelpe's already done so. It was the first thing he did when he returned from the Halls."

"What," Maglor says, as he and Fëanor stare at Celebrimbor.

Celebrimbor's ears are faintly pink.

Fëanor's eyes narrow as he shares one long stare with Finarfin, but eventually he nods, loosens his hand, and steps back.

Maglor releases a breath. Celebrimbor does the same.

Gil-Galad steps back into the corridor, ewer of wine in hand, and startles at the tableau before him.

"Oh, good," Finarfin murmurs. "If you don't mind, my brothers, I'd like to sit awhile. I have had enough of standing and shouting for one day. Thank you, Erenion."

And with that, Finarfin takes the ewer from Gil-Galad and moves purposefully out into the garden. After a moment, Fingolfin follows, still glaring a little at Fëanor.

Maglor moves after his father, carefully avoiding Gil-Galad's gaze.

They find the others lounging about on the starlit grass. It seems Maedhros, Fingon and Finrod have gone to great pains to arrange things so that nobody sits knee-to-knee with anyone they still have unresolved disputes with.

The tension in the air dilutes for a moment as glasses are handed out and the flagon of wine passed around.

Maglor takes a sip of wine, and swallows against the nausea that immediately rises. There are still too many questions that need answering.

Fëanor is still looking pointedly at Finarfin and Fingfolfin; Maglor hides his wince behind the rim of his cup.

"Yes?" Finarfin says resignedly, sipping at his cup of wine. "Your second question, I presume?

All conversation quiets.

Fëanor glances at Maglor, and nods once. Máhanaxar.

The wine lurches in Maglor's gut.

Aerlind had paled when she spoke of the Ring of Doom.

Elrond had named himself the last of the House of Fëanor.

Surely the Valar could not have held that against him? Surely.

"Máhanaxar," Fëanor says, placing his glass of wine neatly by his knee. "What might be so horrible about Elrond and Máhanaxar that one of Makalaurë's lieutenants would pale at the thought of telling me?" He raises his head to look first Fingolfin in the eye, then Finarfin, gaze dark. "Do tell. I am most interested."

Fingolfin downs the rest of his wine in one gulp. Finarfin does the same.

Maglor frowns, and leans around Maedhros to nudge Fingon.

"You'll want to do the same once you hear about this," Fingon murmurs morosely, refilling his own glass and leaning back to reach Finrod's.

Finarfin speaks first, then Fingolfin.

Fëanor's face grows darker with every word.

Maglor realises halfway through that he has forgotten to breathe.

His goblet slips from his grasp. Wine gushes into the grass like blood.

He looks down at his fingers, dripping with sanguine liquid.

"'Laurë," Fingon's voice sounds beside his ear. "'Laurë?"

Maglor flings the crimson droplets from his fingers and surges to his feet.

The words rise up like molten flame from his chest to spill out of his lips, burning.

"Am I to understand that my son knelt for ten years of the sun, his fëa wasting away in exhaustion, and you all did nothing?" Maglor's voice reverberates like thunder across the starlit grass; the trees weep with fallen leaves, and birds scream into the air.

Finarfin and Fingolfin's expressions are frozen. Fëanor's gaze is also darkly accusing as he looks at his brothers.

Beside Maglor, Maedhros has lowered his head; his flaming hair cascades over his shadowed face and the fists that shake with barely restrained fury in his lap.

"'Laurë," Fingon says beseechingly beside him, standing to reach for his arm. "It wasn't–"

Maglor flings Fingon's hand away and whirls to face him. "Explain," Maglor hisses, the words of power lancing through his teeth to turn the air into lead. "Explain to me what you were doing, Findekáno. And you, Turukáno," he snarls, turning to Turgon. "Your own great-grandson."

Fingon closes his eyes in grief. Turgon is staring into his wine, lips thin.

"We didn't know," Fingon whispers. "Not until it was too late." A single tear draws its way down his cheek.

"Arafinwë," Maglor hisses, drawing himself up to his full height and raising a hand to point at his uncle, at the very centre of Finarfin's shining, golden fëa. "Your grandson-in-law, your delegate to govern my father's people – was he only ever an instrument to you? An ember to be consumed, day after day, until he could give no more?"

"No," Finarfin says, stricken, the ache of grief in his voice. "Never."

"THEN WHAT WAS HE TO YOU?" Maglor screams, as the trees weep leaves and flowers tumble from their bushes to scatter like chaff in the grass.

He catches himself.

Was. Could.

He had been speaking of his son as if Elrond was already dead; dead in the Void, faded away after kneeling for ten years for two foster-fathers who did not deserve him.

Fëanor is suddenly there, pulling Maglor close with one arm and hauling Maedhros up into his embrace with his other hand.

Maglor presses his hands to his cheeks; they come away wet. He chokes on his next sob. There is blood in the back of his throat.

"Shh," Fëanor murmurs, wiping away Maglor's tears with the back of one hand.

The garden is silent around them, heavy with grief and guilt.

"Elrond is family," Finarfin says quietly.

Fingolfin nods gravely. "He is of all our houses. We treasure him as such. I only wish we had seen the price of his devotion earlier," he adds bitterly.

"I would not have wished to come back," Maglor says hoarsely. "Not for such a price."

"He made the choice for you," Fingon points out tiredly. "None of us could stop him."

Maedhros slips out from under his father's arm to sit heavily at Fingon's side. Fingon puts an arm around him.

"You did not see what his fëa looked like," Maedhros whispers. There is a haunted light to his eyes that makes his brothers and cousins stiffen around him; it is too much like what he looked like at Hithlum when he returned from Thangorodrim.

A terrible silence. None of the Nolofinweans and Arafinweans dare to ask, and none of the Fëanorians wish to speak of it.

"We must retrieve him," Fëanor says, lifting his face from Maglor's hair. "Nolofinwë, Arafinwë? Are you with me?"

Maglor inhales sharply; the air thickens with tension. There is too much of an echo of history in Fëanor's words.

Fingolfin's gaze is dangerously dark as he looks at Fëanor. "That would depend what you propose to do."

The memory of swords, and blood in the water at Alqualondë. Fëanor's arms stiffen around Maglor.

"I do not deny we must make the attempt," Finarfin says softly, standing. "But must history repeat itself? I know Ingwion well. Let me write to him. He is close to the Valar; perhaps Lord Manwë may be convinced to release Elrond."

Fëanor guides Maglor to sit at his feet, and turns to fully face is brothers. His wrath is terrifying to behold – crimson flames growing ever higher.

"My grandson knelt for ten years before Máhanaxar before they granted him entry," he says, voice lashing the air between them. "Even then he only ransomed us by his skill as wordsmith; he held Námo to his word, and Manwë had little choice but to compromise.

"No, my brothers," Fëanor continues, voice lancing like flame. "There is no use in bandying words. If we are to save my grandson, we must go west. We must march west, either as a people, proudly and with banners held high as we once did Ages past, or like a thief in the night, sending a select few to break the Door of Night. But words will accomplish nothing."

The doom of Fëanor's words settle heavily on all present.

So does the truth of them. Every moment spent in speech is another moment Elrond's fëa might be wasting away in the void; every moment too precious to lose.

It is too much. Maglor stands abruptly, and begins to walk.

He hears Fëanor call out to him, but Maglor moves steadily over the starlit grass until the murmur of voices is long behind him.

He moves like a ghost through the house, out into the courtyard and through the King's gate. The wide thoroughfare of the Finwean district is cool and white and empty; most of the people of the city are still thronging the slopes of Túna, cups raised in celebration or sorrow.

Familiar footsteps behind him; Maglor turns just as Maedhros draws even with him.

They share a wan smile of understanding, and move with unspoken agreement towards the Fëanorian district.

They do not speak during the short walk there; everything that needs to be said has already been said.

There is simply the question of what their father and uncles will decide – and the fate of the Noldor, and Elrond.

The crimson-banners of Fëanor's gate passes overhead, and Maglor blinks as he takes in the streets of his childhood.

Sound and scent and colour wash over them both; while the rest of Tirion lies mostly empty, the streets of the Fëanorian district are alive with urgency. Every forge is roaring as metal-tinged smoke belches into the night sky; the shriek of blades on grindstones echoes through the air. Every Elf, from the swordsmith who hollers at his assistant for a hammer to the apprentices who rush between workshops, ferrying supplies, are armed, with swords at their sides.

Maglor swallows painfully. This is a people that know their lord well; they know which path Fëanor must choose, and are preparing accordingly.

It takes mere moments for Maglor and Maedhros to be recognised; a glad cry rises, and soon the street throngs with Elves in work-aprons and light armour, every face turned to their princes in expectation.

"My lord Maitimo! Any word from Lord Feanáro?"

"Are we to march west?"

"Six companies of cavalry already assembled, my lord–"

Beside Maglor, Maedhros raises a hand, solemn and princely, and the street quiets instantly, a sea of dark-haired and grey-eyed faces waiting for the eldest son of their lord to speak.

"Our father is in deliberation with our uncles," Maedhros says. "There will be more news in the morning. Thank you. You honour us with your loyalty."

A cheer rises like a growing wave to thunder out through the cobbled streets; then the crowd slowly begins to disperse as every Elf returns to their task.

Maedhros's thoughts remain tightly furled behind walls of steel, but Maglor catches the faint sanguine scent of disquiet in his brother's mind.

The disquiet mirrors Maglor's own. Both of them have had too much of war. Neither wish to leave Tirion and the peace of Aman again.

But for Elrond?

For Elrond, Maglor would do anything. He suspects Maedhros would do the same.

Maglor leads the way, unspeaking, through the winding streets and to the city walls.

They pass through the gate and onto the eastern face of Túna, where the grass descends dark and silent down to the pass of Calacirya, and the eastern horizon beyond. Songs still rise into the night air to the northern and southern slopes, but here it is quiet in the faint starlight.

Maglor and Maedhros sit among the shadowed wildflowers halfway down the hill, and look out east towards the plains of the Calacirya.

Peace, and silence; the fragile peace before dawn.

Maglor hums a few quiet notes; a harp of plain white wood shimmers into existence into his hand.

"Do you think the Noldor are doomed?" he says, as he begins to pluck disconnected notes.

Maedhros plucks a dandelion by his knee with one long-fingered hand. "We were once all doomed," he says quietly. "Námo himself pronounced it."

"No, I don't mean that," Maglor says, long rippling phrases flowing out of the harp in his hands. "I was thinking – are we doomed to repeat history, again and again? We marched east to avenge our grandfather, and to retrieve the Silmarils. Now we will in all likelihood march out again, west to the walls of night, for Elrond. I do not think there will be any forgiveness this time."

"There was hardly any forgiveness the first time, either," Maedhros says wryly, blowing gently on the dandelion in his fingers; white fluff cascades down the slope in the faint starlight. "The Valar sent the Vanyar to our aid when nearly all of Beleriand had already been lost; Findekáno tells me they did not allow Artanis to return until long Ages later, when her deeds against Sauron reached the ears of the Valar."

Maglor's fingers still. He looks to Maedhros.

"I realised something a while ago. It should terrify you."

Maedhros smiles faintly and plucks another dandelion. "Try me."

"If I were sent back all those years, and given the chance to march east again, I would," Maglor says, "I would go, even if I knew Father would die, and you would be captured, and all our brothers would fall one after another." His voice catches in his throat. "I would do everything exactly as I did, kinslayings and all, just so I could hold Elrond and Elros again."

Maglor waits for Maedhros's fury.

But Maedhros only smiles wider allows the dandelion to fall. "I am glad we agree," he says. "I would do the same." He rubs absentmindedly at his right wrist. "Thirty years of the sun on the precipice at Thangorodrim; how I trembled at the mere thought of repeating it, when Fingon brought me back. But I would do it all again in the space of a breath, if only to see Elrond and Elros again."

Maglor barks a laugh; a bitter, hollow sound of guilt and grief.

"Then I suppose we truly deserve our doom," he says.

Beside him, Maedhros leans back into the grass to stare up at the stars. "I suppose we do."

The first notes of a lament for Elrond occurs to Maglor, and words to accompany them. Maglor does not play it; he sits there, instead, plucking a single note over and over, until the lament is complete in his mind.

It must be well past midnight by the time Maglor begins to sing; haltingly at first, with a throat as dry as sand, but slowly growing richer and clearer, the notes rising crystalline from his harp.

He sings of Elrond, his much-loved star. He sings of his own grief, and Elrond's bravery, and how Maglor is so very proud of him.

He bids farewell to his son, and weeps as he sings.

Maedhros sits closer to him and puts his head on Maglor's shoulder. Maglor leans his temple into his brother's hair.

Maglor's lament draws to a close as the first glow of dawn breaks over the horizon; the faintest blush of orange at the far eastern end of the pass of Calacirya.

Maglor lowers his harp and takes a breath.

"So it's decided, then," he says, his voice like death.

Maedhros straightens and runs a hand over his face. "It's decided," he agrees grimly.

"No more bloodshed," Maglor exhales. "We go after Elrond alone, just the two of us – or with father, if he wishes to come. But I wish he wouldn't."

"I agree," Maedhros says. "In Námo's halls, Grandfather always said he was content to remain there and visit Grandmother in Vairë's halls, but father yearned for life more than all of us combined. I would like to see him live in joy again."

Maglor nods sharply and stands. Maedhros does the same.

"What sentence do you think the Valar will declare upon us this time?" Maglor says with a faint smile.

Maedhros shrugs one lithe shoulder. "They will hardly send us into the void again, and I have a feeling they will likely want to keep an eye on us. All the same, it will likely be…difficult."

"But Elrond will live," Maglor whispers. He raises a hand to wipe away the single tear that slips down his cheek. "Little mercy there will be for us, but Elrond will live."

"But Elrond will live," Maedhros agrees. He tilts his head, smiling gently, and throws an arm over Maglor's shoulders. "Do you think he'll be very angry with us?"

Maglor breaths a wet laugh and curls his arm around his brother's side in return. "Only as angry as we were with him for claiming weregild before the Door of Night," he says.

"For Elrond, then," Maedhros murmurs. "And no blood shed except our own."

"For Elrond," Maglor says, and holds his brother tighter.

The first rays of dawn lance across the plains of the pass of Calacirya to bathe their faces with gold; Maedhros's hair is aflame.

But as the sunlight touches them, the stars above blaze anew where they should have begun to dim.

Maglor inhales sharply, and twists in place as a column of starlight lances down to plunge into the grass a few paces up the slope of Túna. The starlight grows almost too bright to look upon, and he and Maedhros both fling up a hand to shield their faces–

The starlight thickens, and suddenly there is a dark-haired figure tumbling sideways down the hillside. The figure comes to rest curled in the grass before their feet, dark hair strewn over the wildflowers, eyes closed as though asleep, in rich red robes edged with blue and gold, and the star of Fëanor wrought in a silver circlet on his brow.

Maglor and Maedhros stare, frozen, as the Silmaril rolls out of Elrond's slack fingers to shine brilliantly in the emerald grass.

For a moment, all is still, and then Elrond's chest rises in a slow breath, and Maglor and Maedhros both leap for him at once.

Next up: Elrond, scion of the house of Finwë- and of Melian.

I cut this chapter earlier than I had planned, because the word count got away from me. Thanks for all the comments and bookmarks so far!