The star blazed bright in the western sky. Many torches were kindled all along the eaves of Nan Elmoth, which was deserted since Eöl had left it seeking his fugitive wife and son and set in motion the events that had wrought Gondolin's fall. The trees were tall and dark as ever, looming like a great black wall, but in their ebon pillars came the last of the nightingales of Melian. Here they sang sweetly and sadly under the light of the new star. For in this forest when the world was young had Thingol met his Queen, and magic lingered there still, blended now with sorrow as in all parts of the world. The star's light pierced deep into the dark wood and painted its columns silver.
Such was the hall which the Noldor chose for their feast, although they did not venture far into it, for they knew it was a place of the Moriquendi, not for them. In the waters of Celon they washed their hands. Then they feasted under the boles of the trees, dining on roast meat of speckled kine and the last of the bread they had brought with them from home. For the first time since setting out, Maglor sang for them. His voice could match even that of the nightingales, when his heart was moved, and now it was so moved.
He sang of the forging of the Silmarils in Aman, before his father's heart was darkened by Morgoth's whisperings and betrayal. He sang of the Mereth Aderthad, the Feast of Reuniting held by High King Fingolfin twenty years after the rising of the Sun, to which he and Maedhros had come while their brothers skulked in the east. He sang of the Two Trees and the depths of the Sea over which the Noldor had been borne Ages past and back again, towards hope and towards revenge as yet unquenched. And he sang of blood upon the waters of Alqualondë and Esgalduin and Sirion. At his words the company wept, save for the sons of Elrond, who ate and listened in guiltless silence.
"You sing of sorrow in the midst of celebration," Elros said, reproaching him as the night wore on. "This feast is for my father and mother."
"So are the tears," Maglor observed, his own still glimmering on his cheeks. "I am a bard and must sing the truth."
"Can you never be happy?" Elros asked in amazement.
Maglor blinked. "Yesterday you would rather die than dine with me, lad, and now you are trying to cheer me."
"I forgive you!" Elros smiled, although he also showed his teeth. "When I am older, perhaps we will be enemies. But for now, let us be friends. If I and my brother are stuck with you as our guardian, we must make the best of it. For I see now why he said you were different, although you are still of Fëanor's brood."
"You also are different," Maglor said fondly. "Peredhel -- no, do not scowl! There is something of the Sun in you, whereas we are born of the Stars. Fitting that your parents should carry the Silmaril, in which is blended the light of both." He looked around, suddenly realizing Elros' shadow was missing. "Where is your brother?"
"Looking for the sea," replied Elros with a laugh, helping himself to the wine. "Or some such nonsense-- you know how he talks. I think he has gone off by himself to be alone."
"My songs disturbed him."
Elros cocked an eyebow. "This surprises you?"
Maglor sighed. "No, but I hate my gift as much as I hate my oath. Excuse me." So saying, he rose from the torchlit circle of faces and ventured among the trees, guessing Elrond would have gone into the forest and not the field.
Nor was he mistaken. The boy stood with his back against the trunk of a tall, straight pine, staring upwards. Maglor paused, uncertain whether to approach, but the slight figure waved a hand towards him and smiled. "It is beautiful, isn't it."
Maglor craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the new star burning between gaps in the branches of the dense trees. "You think your father has it now."
"I am certain." The stargazer sighed. "The work of your father's hands. I didn't know he loved Galadriel. I suppose that's not surprising; all who look upon her do. How much of the history of the world would be different, do you suppose, if Elves and Men were not moved to do great deeds and terrible by love?"
"Or hate?"
"Or hate."
"Doriath would not be, nor Lúthien, nor Eärendil, nor would Gondolin have been betrayed or the Silmaril saved."
A nightingale broke into song somewhere nearby. Tears rose in the grey eyes of the youth. "Melian and Thingol fell in love here, didn't they?"
"So it's said."
"I wish I had known them."
Maglor shook his head, coming close to the young one. "You are a strange lad. They are your own blood, to be sure, but it strikes me that you spend so much time pondering what has been, or what will be, that you care little for what is now. Unlike your brother."
"He is the future," Elrond said laconically. "I am the past."
Maglor threw back his head and laughed. "You are a poet. Or mad. I'm not sure which. Come, boy, I had promised I would let you have a go at my harp tonight. Let me show you a thing or two, and doubtless you shall show me more before the night's ending."
