Music for this chapter: The Year Turns Round Again, War Horse
Chapter 16: By Lake And By Sea
"Good luck, Atar," Elrond says, as he embraces Maglor tightly in return.
"She might not take me back," Maglor says as he releases Elrond reluctantly. "Take care of yourself while I am gone, pityo."
"Come now, 'Laurë," Maedhros says blandly as he flings an arm over Maglor's shoulders. "You give yourself too little credit. You're not as ugly as you think."
Maglor jams an elbow into Maedhros's side, and derives considerable satisfaction when his brother's laugh cuts off into a wheeze. But a part of him is quietly glad; it has been too long since Maedhros had laughed thus.
The dewy grass of the cliff-top is limned with gold in the dawn light. Elrond's house rests sleepily tranquil behind the three of them.
"I can see why you never married, Maitimo," Maglor says pointedly as he leaps ahorse. "Such charm."
Maedhros bats a hand at him and settles his free arm around Elrond's shoulders. "Away with you. You'll miss the ferry."
Maglor spares his foster son a critical glance, and receives a reassuring smile in return.
"I'll be fine," Elrond says, laughing. "Go on. And do not worry overmuch; even if she doesn't take you back, you have Atarinya and I."
Oh.
Maglor swallows against the sudden tide of emotion in his throat, and lifts a hand in farewell as he nudges his horse towards the cliffside path.
Down to Avallónë as Arien rises proper; the crying of the gulls overhead on the ferry to Alqualondë; through Alqualondë to the southwest gate with the star-etched pommel of his sword wrapped in cloth and the hood of his cloak pulled low over his eyes; the pass of Calacirya with its fields flowering fragrant under the early afternoon sun, the wind flowing cool and clear through his braids; and then, as dusk approaches, the lush green hill of Túna before him.
Maglor trots under the eastern gate of Tirion, through the winding streets of the Fëanorian district to the cry of many glad greetings, until at last he comes to his father's house and is welcomed in.
(:~:)
"I see your cooking has improved, 'Laurë," Curufin says as he reaches across the campfire to accept another serving of stew. " A miracle, truly. I remember Maitimo barring you from cooking during our hunting trips. It was something Tyelko and I much appreciated."
"I once had two hungry Peredhil to feed, and little with which to accomplish it," Maglor says as he pushes another stick into the fire. "Maitimo and I learnt to improvise."
"Another debt of gratitude we owe to Elrond, then," Curufin says as he takes another spoonful.
Maglor smiles, and reaches for his own bowl.
The starlight is silver on the grass of the clearing and the burbling stream a few steps away, and the night air balmy about them. Both of them lapse into silence as they eat, each lost in their own thoughts.
Maglor does not mind the silence in the slightest. Unlike Celegorm, Maglor had never habitually travelled alone with his third youngest brother, and there is faint awkwardness that remains. It is a difficult to find a topic of conversation with no war to wage and only the shared nature of their quest to unite them.
The silence continues as they rinse out the trencher and bowls in the stream, but as they settle into their bedrolls on either side of the fire, Curufin speaks.
"Do you think she'll take you back?"
Maglor turns his head against his bedroll to look to his right, across the fire. Curufin is facing away from him, but there is the hint of something in Curufin's voice that Maglor has not heard in a long while – fear.
Curufin had been a terror on the battlefields of Beleriand. A great lord and harsh warrior he had been, and many of his deeds foul. He might have apologised to those still living that he had wronged, but his deeds still stain his name as some of the foulest among Elvenkind in Beleriand.
And yet here is an echo of the elfling he had once been, who used to come to Matimo and Makalaurë, his two eldest brothers, for wisdom.
Maglor shifts to look up at the stars. "I do not know," he says truthfully. "She was taken during the Dagor Bragollach, as you know. Before Doriath. Before Sirion. When Angband fell and she did not emerge with those of our people who had been taken as thralls, I had hope she had passed in battle. But Ammë told me she had indeed been taken, and had toiled in Angband for a hundred and thirty years of the sun before she saw starlight again."
A part of Maglor still shivers at the thought. Thirty years on the precipice of Thangorodrim had rendered Maedhros nearly unrecognisable on his return. Was it possible that he had not recognised his wife there in the blood and confusion after the battle on Anfauglith?
Curufin remains silent for a long while, until Maglor almost believes he is asleep.
Then: "I don't know when Telperiel was taken," Curufin says quietly. "I was furious with them all – Nolofinwë and his sons, Findárato and the rest. I was furious with her when she remained behind in Hithlum. I think the only one I wasn't angry with was Tyelpe – but he had to choose between his mother and I."
Curufin barks a hollow laugh. "History has a horrible way of repeating itself. I chose Father when he went to Formenos because I never thought I had another choice. Tyelpe likely had a much harder time of it. I didn't make it any easier. I assumed he would come with me. I don't know why. He always preferred his mother-name. He was named for her, after all."
"Hindsight makes fools of us all," Maglor whispers, curling deeper into his bedroll. "Neldoriel would adore Elrond, but she no doubt abhors me for my deeds in Doriath and Sirion." He attempts to sound unaffected, but the words claw painfully at his throat as they come up out of him. "She barely forgave me when she found out about Alqualondë, and Olwë's people were far more distant cousins to her than the people of Doriath."
A long moment, where the fire flickers as the summer wind turns cold.
"I don't know," Curufin murmurs, barely audible over the whispering of leaves above. "It isn't just Doriath my wife has to forgive me for."
Beren and Lúthien.
Maglor winces and opens his mouth to reply.
"Don't," Curufin says sharply, sounding pained. "Don't lecture me. Maitimo did enough of that, the first time we met, after. He demanded an explanation of what we were thinking. In truth, I don't… I don't know what Tyelko and I were thinking when we took Lúthien captive. It would be easy to blame it all on the Oath – to seek power so that the Silmaril would be more easily returned to us. But that would not be the whole truth."
That strikes far too close to the well of guilt that Maglor holds deep within, and he closes his eyes against the familiar ache.
"Our deeds were our own," he murmurs. A thought occurs to him then, and he smiles despite the memory. "But Elrond has forgiven you for holding his great-grandmother captive, and striking Beren with Tyelko's bow. I suppose there is hope in that."
"Beren near throttled me to death," Curufin counters. "And he stole my horse, and took my knife."
"You deserved it," Maglor says, and glimpses his brother smile in the starlight.
"That I did," Curufin says, and huffs a laugh, this time rich and warm.
Maglor smiles. "If it helps any, I feel far more fear now riding west towards my wife than I did riding east towards Beleriand and the hosts of Morgoth."
Curufin does not reply, but something about his fëa suggests relief.
The wind settles, and the fire is warm. Maglor is very nearly asleep when he hears Curufin speak again, a murmur of soft words.
"Thank you."
Maglor's smile grows a little wider, and he falls asleep to the sound of Curufin's steady breathing across the crackling of the fire.
(:~:)
Despite his earlier calm, Maglor feels the anxiety turn into lead in his stomach as the forest gives way to short stretch of lush grass, and beyond, many willow trees gleaming bright silver and green in the noon sun, with the crystalline glimmer of water between them.
Wordlessly, Maglor and Curufin ride on.
The wind now comes from the west; the fragrance it brings is of such aching warmth that it almost brings tears to Maglor's eyes. It is a scent of healing and of home, of peace and dreamless sleep.
They leave their horses to graze at the edge of the willows, share a glance, and move onwards on foot.
As Maglor passes under the dappled light of the willows, the song of nightingales rises to throng the air, and golden flowers spring about his feet in welcome. The willows whisper in the gentle wind, their boughs curving in curtains of silver and green.
Maglor bends his head to pass through a thick curtain of willow-boughs, and halts so abruptly on the other side that he feels Curufin walk into him.
The lake of Lórellin lies ahead, water of brilliant, deep blue; a short, sun-dappled stretch of emerald grass studded with flowers runs down to the shore, where the heavy boughs of the willows skim the water like silvery, dancing arms.
And there, waiting at the water's edge, are two familiar figures, dressed in the white raiment of Estë's handmaidens. Both have hair as dark as midnight, but one has the light of the Trees in her eyes and the other does not.
Not that Maglor cares in the slightest. He had always preferred the light of the stars, which even now remains caught in her gaze like a mesh of silver. Neldoriel meets his gaze challengingly, as though judging him and finding him wanting.
Maglor hears Curufin swallow audibly beside him.
Telperiel, Curufin's wife, steps forward, face pale. She moves silently over the grass until she stands an arm's length from her husband; Curufin meets her gaze steadily, though there is grief and fear in the white line of his lips.
Telperiel's face twists, and the crack of her palm against Curufin's cheek ricochets through the willow-trees like breaking bone. Nightingales cry as they take to the air; without their song, the air is suddenly still and silent.
Maglor waits with bated breath as Curufin straightens again and lifts his head to face his wife. There is a red welt on Curufin's cheek, but the unshielded pain in his gaze is far, far greater than what a simple welt could bring.
"Very well," Curufin says somberly, unshed tears glimmering in his eyes. "I will–"
Whatever he had been about to say next is cut off by his wife leaping into his arms.
Maglor's brother becomes suddenly otherwise occupied.
Maglor blinks at his brother and sister-in-law, realises he is staring, and turns abruptly away to move towards his wife. He makes the mistake of meeting Neldoriel's gaze as he comes closer, and nearly dies of embarrassment right there and then; she is blushing just as much as he is.
Oh dear. She appears exactly as she did in Hithlum when he asked for her hand.
The memory takes a hammer to Maglor's mind and renders it entirely unusable.
He clears his throat, face flaming. "Perhaps…perhaps we should remove elsewhere," he manages.
"Yes," she says, far too quickly. "This way."
Her voice is precisely as he had remembered – music lovelier than any song he could ever compose.
Maglor swallows past his desert-dry throat and follows his wife along the shore of Lórellin. They come to an elegant structure with a roof of crystalline glass and pillars of woven vines set on and edge of the lake.
There, under the endless fractals of light through the crystal above, she turns and looks at him expectantly.
He looks at her, and opens his mouth.
Silence.
She raises an eyebrow, and something of the familiar mischief that he had fallen in love with so long ago on the shores of Lake Mithrim rises in her eyes.
Maglor feels as though he is foundering. He had a speech rehearsed, with all the poetry and artistry of his thousands of years of songcraft poured into it; it had all the weight of his guilt and remorse and love for her meshed into a perfect plea.
He had thought he had accounted for everything.
He had not accounted that he would fall in love with her again so utterly and completely upon seeing her; that he would be spending so much effort in keeping his breath even and his hands steady that any memory of his practiced words would fly instantly from his mind.
She looks at him now with narrowing eyes, the light of the sun sinking into the sable strands of her unbound hair.
Illúvatar, but she is beautiful.
Granted, she looks as though she is considering punching him, but even in her fury she is admirable; the strength in the line of her shoulders, the sharpness of her gaze.
"Hmm," she says, in a voice like steel. "Not so strong-voiced after all."
"Neldoriel," Maglor says, "I am sorry, for so very many things. I could list them, but you know my deeds."
"I do," Neldoriel says, the words like knives to Maglor's heart. "I have tended some of those who suffered at your hands."
He takes a breath, and fights the urge to press a hand to his aching chest. She had intended those words to hurt, and hurt they have.
"My Oath is gone," he says, and sees her flinch at the word. "I do not ask you to take me back – I have no right to ask anything of you. But I love you. I always will."
A flicker of something unreadable in her grey eyes. She swallows visibly.
"I tried to find you," she says, with a tremble in her voice. "After Angband fell."
Maglor inhales painfully. "I looked for you among those who came out of the ruin of Angband," he says. "I looked for you, but could not find you."
"My prison was deep," Neldoriel says, her voice no louder than a whisper. "My legs were broken. I crawled."
The horror and pain tears up out of Maglor's throat in a terrible, gasping moan. He grasps for his wife's hand, and only now sees the faint, silvery scars crisscrossed across her fingers.
It is not right. It is not right that his hand should be whole once more, rebodied and unburned, while her hands, that had never shed blood like his, should be scarred forever like thus.
Neldoriel blinks rapidly. "I had attempted to escape twice before. The orc-captain had long broken my legs to prevent me from doing so again. When Angband fell I crawled for – oh, I don't know how long. For days perhaps. When I emerged there was starlight. Someone found me, carried me to the Fëanorian camp. They told me you had ridden away with your brother not two hours before."
Tears run unhindered down Maglor's cheeks.
Two hours.
If only they had waited. If only they had turned themselves over to Eönwë.
Maglor gasps in a choked breath, and bends over her hand to press his lips gently to the largest of the scars there – a thick band of white directly across the heel of her hand.
When he makes to straighten, her hand slips up to find his cheek, and the breath stutters in his chest as he lifts his gaze wonderingly to meet hers.
She takes one step closer, one hand at his cheek, the other resting over his heart, as though to feel it beating.
"They say you have a son," she says, thumbing away the tears on his cheekbone. There are scars on the pad of her thumb as well, and Maglor turns his head to press a kiss there without hesitation.
"I do," he says. "His name is Elrond, and he is the son of my heart – he and his brother, both."
Neldoriel looks into his eyes, directly into his mind.
He allows her, though a part of him trembles at what she will find there.
But she only smiles, and the brilliance of it spears him straight to the heart as it had the first time she had smiled at him, she then dressed in the homespun grey cloth of her people and he in the jewels and shining mail of his house.
"I heard what he did for you and your father's house," she says. "He must love you very much, your son."
"Yes," Maglor says, and dares to bring a hand up to clasp over hers at his chest. "I do not deserve it, but he does."
"And he did all this despite knowing what you did before," she murmurs.
Maglor nods.
Her smile grows a little wider, and Maglor blinks. He must not allow his knees to give way, not now.
"Then perhaps there is hope for you yet," she says, with a teasing lilt to her voice. Perhaps she has caught his thought. "Your son loves you so, despite how much you have wronged him. He sounds wonderful. I would like to meet him."
Maglor's heart leaps. "I would like nothing more," he whispers.
Neldoriel clasps his hand tighter, and looks about them at the whispering boughs of the willow trees. "I have loved this place since I first arrived," she says, laughter in her voice. "And yet, I think I could do with a change of scenery."
The breath leaves Maglor's lungs all at once.
She raises an eyebrow. "What? I like willow trees as much as any person, but six thousand years of them is quite enough, thank you."
Maglor smiles at her. "I myself have always preferred beeches," he says.
Neldoriel blushes to the roots of her hair at the clear reference to her name. "Maglor!"
Her hand slips from his cheek, but he brings his other hand up to catch it; they stand no more than a handspan apart, their clasped hands swinging between them, like children.
"I do," Maglor says, leaning forward to speak in her ear. "I could never look at any beech tree without sorrow, after I lost you."
Neldoriel is beetroot red, now, as she stares down at their clasped hands. "Are you going to keep me waiting?" she mumbles crossly.
Maglor takes a sweet breath of relief, curls an arm around her waist as he brings his other hand up to her cheek, and lowers his face to hers.
The nightingales sing above as Arien in her splendor shines upon the waters, and by the lake of Lórellin, there is peace.
(:~:)
Elrond settles further into the boughs of the oak, and rests his book more comfortably on his knee. Below him, the forest floor gives way after a few paces to the grass of the clifftop beyond.
He had successfully given Maedhros the slip an hour ago. Celebrían had walked down to Avallónë that morning, and Fingon and Finrod, who are visiting, are nowhere to be seen. Elrond fully intends to spend the rest of his afternoon in peaceful solitude without having anyone fussing over him.
"Why, Master Elrond!"
Elrond breathes a sigh.
He puts down his book and leans down to speak through the branches. "Master Bilbo, Master Frodo," he says with a chagrined smile. "It appears I have forgotten the perceptiveness of hobbits!"
"Only that of an experienced burglar, I assure you!" Bilbo says, waving at Elrond with his walking stick and holding onto Frodo with his free hand.
"Whatever are you doing up there, Master Elrond?" Frodo calls, curiosity on his features.
"Enjoying a moment of solitude," Elrond laughs. "Not to worry – the company I am currently endeavoring to avoid is not yours."
Frodo appears bemused, but Bilbo chuckles.
"Indeed!" Bilbo says, smiling merrily. "Well, you wouldn't be the first to climb a tree to avoid a fussing relative. Frodo used to climb trees to escape my attention in his early days at Bag End."
"Bilbo!" Frodo protests, spots of red appearing on his cheeks. "I only wished to read uninterrupted."
"As does Master Elrond!" Bilbo laughs. "Come now, dear boy. We will continue our walk, and leave him be."
Elrond bids both hobbits a courteous farewell, and settles back against the curve of the branch. It really is quite lovely here, with none worrying about whether he is warm enough, or if he requires a glass of water, or if he is tired.
He has managed another few pages before the leaves shiver around him and a head of midnight hair pops up through the branches.
"Atar!" Elrond says delightedly, as Maglor leaps up lightly beside him. "You've returned!"
Maglor embraces him carefully, and raises an eyebrow at the ease with which Elrond balances on the curve of the branch.
"You are better," Maglor says, with surprised gladness in his voice. "You couldn't do that a fortnight ago."
Elrond shoves him off the branch, and hears Maglor laugh as he lands catfooted on the leaf-litter below.
"Come down and meet my wife!" Maglor calls up to him, and Elrond's breath catches in his throat.
Elrond swings himself carefully down to the grass and looks about; they are quite alone. Maglor's wife must be at the house.
"So you've reconciled?" he says.
To Elrond's surprise, Maglor actually flushes. Elrond feels his smile widen, and is rewarded with a slightly embarrassed grin from his foster father.
"I take it things went well," Elrond laughs.
"Come," Maglor says exasperatedly, as he throws an arm around Elrond's shoulders. "Come meet my wife, and you and Maitimo can get the teasing over with later. You should have seen him when Neldoriel and I came to the gate. He looked like a cat that had spotted a particularly delicious mouse."
"You do know Cousin Findekáno and Findárato are visiting?" Elrond says as they approach the house.
Maglor's step actually stutters at that. He looks at Elrond in horror, and Elrond cannot help it; he laughs until his breath comes in wheezes.
(:~:)
The setting sun casts great fiery columns across the crashing breakers along the sandy shore.
"More, Elrond?" Maedhros offers.
"Thank you, Atarinya," Elrond says, accepting another serving of grilled fish from his foster father. He curls his toes in the soft sand, and smiles in the salt-tinged air. His tunic is spattered with sand, but could not care less.
"This is excellent," Eärendil says to Maglor as he puts down his fork to refill Maglor's cup. "I've had my fair share of grilled fish, but this is remarkable."
"I've had little to do for six millennia apart from testing endless variations of cooking fish," Maglor laughs as he salutes Eärendil with his goblet. "It has been so long since I had butter and herbs at my disposal! I would have wept for butter and thyme, a century ago."
Lights are slowly budding southwards in Avallónë, but here the beach is cool and quiet under the darkening sky, and the pool of firelight just wide enough to bathe the four figures around it in golden luminance.
The past few weeks have been of tranquil peace; Neldoriel had been easy to greet and easier to like, and to Elrond and Maglor's surprise, she had become fast friends with Celebrían.
At noon, Elrond and his fathers had left Celebrían and Neldoriel whispering conspiratorially, and gone down to the shore for an afternoon by the sea.
The detritus of their supper has been cleared away, and Maglor has just begun to pick soft silver notes from his harp, when Eärendil clears his throat.
"Elrond," he says, a little awkwardly, "Did you ever – were you ever concerned that you had no father-name?"
Maglor stops playing abruptly. Maedhros looks up from where he had been packing up the dishes, and Elrond lowers the stick with which he had been stoking the fire.
"I can't say I haven't thought about it," Elrond says, frowning. "I don't recall Mother ever telling Elros and I the origin of our names. I had assumed you decided on them together."
"That isn't untrue," Eärendil says carefully. "But it was mostly your mother's decision. There was never any question the two of you would be named after the stars, but your mother chose the full names." His eyes glimmer with regret. "I had always intended to give you father-names after I returned from my voyaging."
Elrond notes with some alarm that Maedhros and Maglor are holding their minds tightly closed, as though afraid the mere mention of Sirion might spoil the peace of the evening.
"Stop that," he says sharply, swatting Maedhros with a sleeve and reaching across the fire to squeeze Maglor's hand. "None of that."
A breath, in which the intensity bleeds slowly from his foster fathers' gazes.
Elrond turns towards the sea.
He watches the tide recede eastwards. East across the sundering seas, past the straight road, are his children – Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen and Estel. He had received their latest letters that afternoon, kindly delivered to Tol Eressëa by one of Círdan's people, and had laughed and wept over them in kind with Celebrían.
From their words, it would appear his letters to his children after his return from the Void had thankfully reached them not more than a few days after his initial letters of farewell.
But Elladan had been angry, and Elrohir quietly disappointed. Arwen and Estel had been surprisingly understanding, but Elrond had sensed grief in their written words where there had been none before.
Elbereth, but he misses his children.
"I never gave them father-names," Elrond says suddenly. "My children. Celebrían and I decided their names together. I suppose Estel was the only one I truly named alone, and that was to keep his true name hidden from the servants of the Enemy. I do not think my children minded."
"But would you like one?" Eärendil says, voice quiet. "A father-name."
Elrond looks to him, and to Maglor and Maedhros, who suddenly appear to be hiding something.
"Adar. Atar. Atarinya," Elrond says, incredulity seeping into his voice. "Do you mean to tell me you have had father-names for me all this time but never thought to tell me?"
"I thought it inappropriate to speak on it when you were kneeling before Máhanaxar," Eärendil volunteers, a trifle awkwardly. "I called Elros's father-name across to him over the waves when we met at sea."
Maedhros winces. "I didn't think I had any right to claim you, after what I'd done."
"Nor did I," Maglor says quietly. "No matter how much I wished to."
"Elros and I had already claimed you for ourselves!" Elrond exclaims. He turns to Eärendil. "And it was ten years I knelt before Máhanaxar, Adar. You would think that would be time enough to mention you had named me anew!"
All three of his fathers have the grace to look abashed.
"Well," Maedhros says, clearing his throat as he exchanges a glance with Maglor and Eärendil. "Where do you think?"
"It would have to be Tirion," Maglor says, as Eärendil makes a noise of agreement. "Mother's garden? Father wouldn't hear of it anywhere else."
"My father would have wished it to be at Nolofinwë's house, but I will speak to him," Eärendil says contemplatively. "I should think a fortnight from now would be enough time for the invitations to be sent and replied to?"
"Ample time," Maglor agrees.
"I'll see to it," Maedhros says.
"Excuse me," Elrond says sharply. All three of his fathers startle and look at him. "What, exactly, are you speaking of?"
Maglor blinks. "Why, your Essecarmë, of course," he says, as Eärendil and Maedhros nod sagely. "Your naming ceremony. We will have to work out some of the procedural differences, of course. The ceremony is traditionally planned for newborn children, and we could hardly fit you in a crib–"
Elrond holds up a hand to forestall Maglor's speech as Maedhros snorts a laugh beside them.
"I will agree to the ceremony, if it is tradition," Elrond says, "But I have waited far too long to have all three of my fathers together in one place." He swallows against the tide of emotion at this throat. "Announce my father-names for all Tirion to hear in a fortnight, if you must, but tell me now. I wish to hear them here, where there is none else to witness it. I care for all of you too much to share the moment of my naming with anyone else."
The fire crackles in the sand between them.
Maglor's eyes are wet. Maedhros looks as though he is valiantly trying not to sniff. Eärendil wipes surreptitiously at his face.
Elrond stands and pulls his fathers to his feet, one by one. The light of the fire shines bright in all their eyes.
Eärendil looks to Maglor and Maedhros, and receives a nod from both of them.
"My son," Eärendil says, turning to Elrond, "Kneel."
His heart in his throat, Elrond kneels in the sand, and his birth father places a sea-roughened hand against his hair.
"Long have I wished to see you, despite the sundering seas between us," Eärendil says, voice hushed. "I name you Aerîdhir. May your seas always be peaceful, and your journeys fair."
Elrond feels the blessing settle over him as Eärendil stoops to press a kiss to his brow.
And then Eärendil stands aside, and Maedhros is there, unshed tears glimmering in his eyes, the light of the fire turning his hair to orange-red flame.
"Elrond," Maedhros says, softly placing his left hand against Elrond's hair. "You and your brother are my greatest treasures. Greater than the Silmarils, greater than all the silver and gold of Tirion. I name you Mírëfinwë, my most precious treasure."
Maedhros presses a kiss to Elrond's hair, warm and gentle, and then he moves aside and Maglor steps forward.
There are tears running freely down Maglor's face, and his hand finds Elrond's cheek, achingly gentle.
Elrond too is weeping, now, even as he smiles.
"Elrond, my bravest, brightest star," Maglor murmurs. "I treasure you and your brother above any other. You have more courage than I, and are of far better heart. I name you Canyafinwë, my utterly incorrigible, brilliantly brave child."
Elrond's smile widens.
Canyafinwë, bold-Finwë. The similarity to Kanafinwe cannot be missed; Maglor has claimed him twice with a single name.
Maglor kisses Elrond's brow, and Elrond reaches up as he stands to wrench Maglor into a tight, almost desperate hug.
Maglor clings to him just as tightly, and Elrond takes a choked breath, steps back, and flings himself at Maedhros, then at Eärendil.
There are more tears, but at the end of it four figures stride shoulder-to-shoulder in the starlight up the cliffside path towards the house above, their laughter sending the gulls calling from their nests.
Next up: The years pass with the sun, and there are new beginnings.
Telperiel - Quenya, Silver-daughter
Neldoriel - Sindarin, Beech-daughter
Aerîdhir - Sindarin, Lord of the Peaceful Sea
Mírëfinwë - Quenya, Treasured Finwë
Canyafinwë - Quenya, Bold/Brave Finwë
Apologies for the longer gap between chapters, I've rotated to a new department at the hosptial and work is very tiring. I have another 26 hour shift tomorrow and I'm exhausted. But the next chapter is finally the last for this fic, and I have many continuing fics and oneshots for this series planned!
For updates on writing, follow me on tumblr at eirianerisdar tumblr com (replace spaces with dots) or follow the the series on AO3!