'Oh Lorien! The Winter comes, the bare and leafless Day;

The leaves are falling in the stream, the River flows away.'

- The Lord of the Rings

JRR Tolkien

~

Journey

For Cirdan

- Part four

 "Did you see my harp?"

Maglor looked around the small clearing they had stopped in. In fact, she had noticed, his clothes were of a dark burgundy. At the moment, he was wrapped in a heavy leather cloak, as they all were; the weather was starting to get chilly.

"It's over there."

Turgon pointed to a spot some feet away. There was no knowing how the instrument had got there in the first place, but it just had, and Maglor seemed relieved as he picked it up.

"Thank you." he said softly, while brushing nimble fingers on the wooden frame.

She tried a smile.

"Will you not play for us?"

Maglor shook his head.

"I can't. It's broken. See?"

Turgon walked up to him, and took the harp in his hands.

"I do not see."

"No, you wouldn't. But it is broken. Right here."

The older elf bent over Turgon's shoulder and pointed to one of the cords; which seemed to the two others just about as perfect as it could be.

"Hear." He ran a sorry hand over the strings, producing a series of sounds which seemed to her the most beautiful she had heard in a very long time. "It doesn't sound right."

There was a minute of silence, during which all three listened to the inconsequent chirp of a bird nearby.

"How sweet is the song!" she exclaimed, suddenly delighted for a reason she could not place.

"Very sweet." Maglor agreed, with a tiny smile.

Turgon handed the harp back to its owner.

"Why is it broken?"

"Oh, I don't know." Maglor shook his head, and observed his instrument just as a puzzled child would a book. "I have been wanting to understand for a while, but I don't know yet. It just is. Do you know?"

The tall elf shook his head.

"I don't. But why don't you get another?"

Maglor trailed a finger down a fine carved line on the frame. The wood was so worn that it was impossible to see what the artist had meant to represent anymore.

"Oh, I could." he said softly. "Easy job. But this one's a gift from my father. I would want to see it repaired anyways."

"Oh." Turgon shot him a shy smile. "You can have mine for the length of the trip if you wish. It's not like I'm going to use it. It's not like I can use it like you do."

Maglor looked up, surprised. She did not see what passed between them at that moment, but suddenly both their faces broke into mirrored grins, and joyful, almost naïve laughter burst from their lips as Turgon handed his silver harp to the shorter elf.

"Well, thank you. If that isn't kind of you." A wistful smile lingered on his lips while he ran a hand across the strings; a smile denied only by a strange light in his eyes. "But it seems that I have misplaced my gift along with this wretched instrument. I guess I will find it again also when it is repaired. Do you know of a good craftsman who could do that?"

Turgon looked up skywards.

"I am sorry. I do not doubt that there are some under my rule that should be fit for the job. My nephew himself is greatly talented with his hands. But I fear that they are far."

A shudder ran through his spine. He was not very sure indeed where exactly they were. Maglor looked away from him.

"Understand that I do not wish to entrust this task to anyone."

Turgon sighed.

"I understand."

A short silence passed.

"But I will try to play for you."

With a smile, Maglor swept down to seat cross-legged on the riverbank, and shut his eyes; and to the sound of his singing the river itself ran in silence not to mar the music's flow.

~

The falsely warm voice made her flinch.

"Hail, brother."

"Hail indeed. One good day, isn't it?"

"A very good day."

The brown-headed elf lowered his bow, and smiled.

"What do you think?" He threw the wooden weapon towards Maglor. "I carved it myself this fall, with only my dagger. I have already shot several deer with it, and one great bird; but I did not know what kind of bird it was."

Maglor fiddled with the bow several minutes.

"I think the arc is too cambered."

The younger elf laughed aloud, and his eyes shone with a new gleam.

"Yet you know that I have always liked them better that way!" He extended a hand, demanding the weapon back. Maglor handed it to him very carefully, and looked away as he addressed him.

"Are times good, Pityo?" (1)

The other elf kept on smiling.

"I am not Pityo."

"Ambarussa." (2) The word was pronounced so stern and low that she afterwards wondered if she had truly heard it or not.

Amros laughed again, a fierce laugh she thought she remembered having already heard somewhere before; and looked up frankly to stare Turgon, then herself in the eye.

"Very good, brother. Very good. Best winter I've had in years."

And then, in the blink of an eye, he loosed an arrow skywards.

"I've been shooting clouds and stars! The sun itself is down."

For a second, her heart stopped beating, and after a silence Turgon turned to her with a sorry look.

"It is night. We shall have to rest."

~

1 – Pityo: short for Pityafinwë, Amros' Quenya father-name.

2 – Ambarussa: Amros and Amras' mother-name. According to Cirdan –thanks for the idea, Cirdan! After all, this is your fic.- the twins were both indifferently called Ambarussa, together as well as each of them.