Maglor blew a frustrated breath and leaned back on his chair. The old hickory creaked under his weight. He stared at the sheets of figures spread across his desk.
None of his tradings with Nogrod were adding up. The price of steel, bronze, and iron had steadily increased, and there was only so much the Fëanorians could offer.
Most of which were relics from his father's spoils in Valinor. He and his brother had neither the wealth nor the resources to withhold the southern regions against Morgoth's forces. Nevermind reclaiming the accursed Silmarils.
He thought of his brothers, and the friends that once fought at his side. He thought of the first kinslaying. The look in his mother's eyes…
He jumped to his feet and began to pace.
What were they to do?
He stared down at the parchment. Hopelessness tore at him. What did it even matter? His kin had nothing left.
An even stronger force than the grief that feasted on him was the weariness that sucked his soul dry. He was young, yet he was tired of living.
Long ago, Beren and Luthien foolishly gave him hope that all was not lost. That Morgoth's stronghold was not as impenetrable as he'd believed it to be. He and his people had fought, yet failed. In their failure, they'd lost lives, their families, their safety and their honour. He'd seen death and destruction and he was stretched thin.
He considered the dwarves of Nogrod. His kin had recently aided them in storming the orc-infested stronghold in the north. He had freed dwarvish slaves. Surely that would bring a civility to their future bartering?
That had been the plan, after all.
He thought of the little Edain girl. When he'd first seen her that fateful day, he'd thought her a corpse. But then she'd moved. She'd looked up at him, her dark eyes full of fear. She was so small and thin, except for those eyes, too large for her ashen face.
Her arm was bent at an obscene angle. Her head was crudely shorn. Dried blood had coated her ratted gown.
Maglor remembered grasping the sword in his hand, thinking it would be merciful to kill her then and put her out of her misery.
He didn't think she would live to see the next day.
But she did.
She lived and she survived unspoken horrors. The young girl possessed a quiet, inner strength he'd not seen in Men before. Something tough and unbending and indestructible.
Oh, she'd suffered alright. He could see it in her eyes. Yet, she had peace. She had hope. She had a curiosity for life.
She possessed something which he hungered.
Tormented, he turned away from his desk. He left the room and scaled the staircase down to the second floor. His long legs led him through the passageway to the final set of stairs.
The fortress had been built by Caranthir and Amrod after Morgoth's forces broke through Angband, causing Orcs to spill into north Beleriand.
Amras, in a rare moment, chose to forsake his twin and join Maglor in the defence of Himring. The elves had fought hard to re-secure the Pass of Aglon. His cousins, Aegnor and Angrod, died in that battle. The Fëanorions themselves barely escaped with their lives, fleeing south to the safety of Amon Ereb.
The ghosts of his younger brothers now roamed these halls. The once-innocent and now-profane, cursed to the everlasting darkness.
Maglor wandered. It was deep into the night. Candlelight flickered, casting a soft glow over the inner hall's long tables. Outside, snow fell.
The little Edain girl sat bundled beside the fireplace. She'd swaddled herself in fur blankets. She looked as though she were sleeping, yet her eyelids occasionally fluttered.
He watched her, before stepping closer.
"Are you well?"
She jolted in fright. Blinking owlishly, she turned her eyes onto his. There was the flicker of annoyance in them, but it quickly faded into fear.
"You woke me," she murmured, her voice tight.
"Your eyes were closed," he said.
"My eyes tend to be closed when I sleep."
"Oh."
There was silence between them. Only the occasional crackle of firelight could be heard. Lily's eyes became half-lidded, as though she were struggling to stay awake. "Can I help you with anything, my lord?"
Maglor narrowed his eyes. Her voice sounded hoarse. "Are you certain you are well?"
"I have a cold," she said, "but that is all."
He nodded softly. Walking to the fireplace, he crouched down before it. Most of the wood had burned. It was dying. He grabbed a log from the nearby stack and threw it into the coal. Sparks flew. The fire roared back to life.
Reaching to the far right shelves, he pulled out the lever harp. It was old, and coated in dust. Using a nearby rag, he wiped it clean.
The little Edain coughed. "What are you doing?"
He gave the strings a quick pluck. The instrument felt good beneath his grip. "I will play for you. It used to help my brothers sleep."
"The twins?"
"Yes," he said to her, "I minded them when they were small children."
She stared at him from across the low-lying chaise. Once again, he was struck by her eyes, dark and wonderful in that heart-shaped face. "And your mother?"
His stomach clenched. "She minded them too," he said.
Lily smiled. His mouth went dry. Blinking, he turned his attention down to the harp on his lap.
He plucked gently at the strings. It was like learning to breathe again. His body thrummed to life. Had he truly forgotten his love for sound and strains?
Lily seemed to curl beneath the covers, her eyes flickering shut once more. Her mop of dark hair framed her face like a lovely curtain. From where he sat, he could see her eyelashes; they caressed the tips of her cheeks. She had freckles. They dusted prettily across her nose.
Maglor played his harp and tried not to stare.
"You play so beautifully," she murmured, "I feel as though I'm in heaven."
"Heaven?" He felt oddly flushed.
Her eyes peered open. "It is where your spirit goes when you die."
He forced a smile. "Does one feel at peace in heaven?"
"Yes," the Edain said, "One does."
"Then I am doing my job well."
Maglor lulled the girl to sleep. Afterwards, he continued to gently strum until his fingers ached and his wrists swelled.
Beside the fireplace, he felt solace.
The land awakened with the coming of spring.
The snow melted. The hillsides splashed with pink daisies and purple eglantines, red paintbrushes and the white of wild snowthorns.
The walls of Amon Ereb were smothered with tangled vines of ivory. Maglor and his brothers departed, abandoning the stone walls for the wilds of Ossiriand. Deer were plentiful and wild rabbits dotted the countryside - all thriving with the promise of regrowth.
Maedhros and Maglor continued their dealings with the Avari. They reforged old alliances and traded steel for seedlings. They rode north, following the river Gelion upstream to the ford of Sarn Arthrad, where the dwarven trade route met the rugged wilderness.
There, along the bridge, they waited for the arrival of Duick.
The brothers heard him before they saw him. The jangle of pots and pans on the side of Duick's wagon reminded Maglor of the wind chimes his mother had made for him as a child. At the thought of her, his gut clenched.
The old, dwarven peddler whistled to himself as he rode his pony. At the sight of the elven brothers, he waved. From the load of his wagon, it was clear he hadn't sold any of his stock on his trip down the mountains. Duick was clean and trimmed but worn out and bent over. Apart from his beard, most of his hair was gone. As were his prospects. But he had kindly eyes beneath grey, beetled brows.
"Aye, if I don't believe my eyes," he grunted, "what in the hairy hound are ye doing here?" At Maedhros' stare, he added, "not that I ain't glad to see yer faces."
Ignoring his brother, Maglor slid off his horse and came to old Duick. "Greetings, mellon nin," he smiled. He held up a hand, offering to help the dwarf off his stead. As usual, the old coot shooed him away. "Stop with ye nonsense, you weedy fool. I ain't that old." Despite his grumbling, Maglor knew he was happy to see them.
"We came to do business," the elf-lord said, nodding to his saddlebags.
"Elves doing business with dwarves?" Duick squawked, "what's next? Goblins dancing on tabletops, drinking mead?"
Maglor and Maedhros laughed. "It would certainly be a sight," the elf-lord said. Duick grumbled. "A'ight," he said, "show me what bounties ye got for me."
The elves did so. Old swords, elven leather from fallen comrades, priceless family heirlooms. Duick held up a diamond and gold necklace to the sunlight. He appraised it. "Where ye lads get this from?"
"We stole it from our grandmother," Maedhros said casually.
He chortled. "Ye did, did ye?" There was a mellow glint in his eyes. "Ye boys must be not doing so well."
"We are running low on supplies," Maglor replied, leaning back against the wooden wagon. "Our blacksmith has passed." He folded his arms against his chest. "Have you got anything useful for us?"
Duick nodded. "Aye, a few things." He ambled over to the back and unclasped the tarp. Inside were iron ingots, scattered pieces of armour, some broken, others not. There were bundles of chainmail, boots, and helms. "I thought I'd be runnin' into ye both. Call it an inkling."
Maglor smiled. He reached out, holding up a curved sword to the sunlight. It looked elvish; noldorin made. The design felt horribly familiar. "Where did you get this?" He asked slowly.
"Ah," Duick looked grave. "Found it in the ruins of Helevorn. Not much else left there - it's an orc graveyard. Real tragic."
The words were a kick to his stomach. His elder brother reached out, clasping a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We will take what you have," Maedhros muttered. Maglor tossed the sword carelessly back onto the heap. The touch had burned him.
Duick watched them beneath his hairy eyebrows. "A'ight," he grumbled. He opened his mouth, then shut it. "I, ah…" he stopped himself.
Maedhros stared down, annoyed. "What is it?"
He scratched his head. "Look, I know ye boys won't hear it from the rest of my folk in Nogrod, but we are grateful for what ye did all those months ago."
Maglor tilted his head. "What are you on about, you old fool?"
"Don't ye play coy with me, beanpole. I know what yer did," he looked ready to cry, "my son came home to me. Only ye boys could've done that."
Maedhros looked uncomfortable. "The fortress needed to be destroyed. It threatened the south of Beleriand."
"Well I thank ye," Duick said, "And don't go telling nobody I said that, either."
"Of course not," Maglor replied.
"Ye both are welcome to visit my kin, if ye need to." Duick's gaze was soft. "But don't call on ye other elvish friends, I don't wanna see 'em pillocks on me doorstep."
Maglor laughed. "Of course, we wouldn't dream of it."
Duick nodded. "Good, good. Now come, share some cold meats with me. Ye both look hungry."
The hours passed swiftly after that.
Upon his return to Amon Ereb, Maglor searched for the Edain girl. He found her at home in the gardens, digging up weeds that had sprung up around the cabbage patch. She was humming softly to herself, content in her little paradise.
"Firíel!" he called out.
She glanced up, and smiled politely when she saw him. "Oh! You're back early."
Maglor nodded. "Yes," he replied. "I hoped to join everyone for the endmeal." He looked her over. To his unfortunate surprise, she'd adorned herself with breeches - rolled at the ankles - and a tunic that looked for someone much bigger. She was covered in dirt, and her dark locks were tied into a loose knot. She looked comfortable. His chest strangely stung. "I also came because of a promise I'd made to a certain Edain."
"Oh really?" She looked curious.
"Yes, one to bring you back to your people."
Her eyes, dark and beautiful, became guarded. "Oh," she murmured softly. "Of course."
"I plan to leave early tomorrow morning, if you will have your things ready by then."
She said nothing. Turning away from him, she began pulling at her weeds once more. Frowning, Maglor walked towards her. "Is tonight enough time to say your goodbyes?"
"Yes, of course," she said brusquely. "I just forgot, that's all."
"Right. I'd just thought you'd be happy to -"
"I am happy, Maglor," she bit out. The elf-lord was chagrined.
What was with her odd, sudden attitude?
He crouched down beside the girl, his knees digging into the soft garden bed. "If you'd like more time, I understand. My people have treated you kindly," he said, "It is only natural to feel upset."
"I'm not upset," she retorted, "Why would I be upset?" She furiously ripped up another weed.
"I didn't say you were. I said it's only natural to feel that way, fíriel."
"Please, stop calling me that," she said, refusing to look at him.
Maglor frowned. He felt his own temper rising. "What would you have me call you then? Little mouse?"
"Lillian," she bit back, "my name is Lillian."
Lillian. The word sounded like poison on her tongue. "Alright, Lillian," he corrected, "I'm sorry if I've offended you so."
"You haven't offended me," she said, "I am simply tired and don't wish to talk."
"So am I," he said sourly, "but there is no need for your childishness. I understand you are young, and have no proper breeding, but you should behave better."
She suddenly stopped. Her face rounded on his, her eyes burning like flaming, hot fire. The anger in them almost rivalled his brother's. "Behave better?"
The hot flush of her cheeks made her look even more beautiful. Maglor thought of making her angry more often, but hastily brushed that idea aside. "Yes. Look at you," he chided, "does all your kin allow women to traipse about in men's clothes like so? It is wholly unbecoming, and you have filth up to your neck."
She looked as though she wanted to slap him. "Believe it or not," she said, "women not only dress in men's clothes but also swear, drink, and go to war like men. If dressing like a man bothers you so much, my lord, I shall gladly leave your sight!"
He scowled at her. "Good!"
"Fine!"
Straightening, he watched as she stormed into the kitchen, nearly knocking over Melieth as she passed. The woman, holding a jar of fruit, watched her go. "Oh my!" She exclaimed.
Anger mixed with exhaustion tore at him. Ignoring Melieth, he rubbed at his face with his hands.
"What did you say to the poor girl?" She asked, her motherly features marred with concern.
"I didn't say anything she didn't deserve," he muttered.
"Oh, really now?"
Maglor glared at her condescending tone. "Yes. And she is leaving this place tomorrow, whether she likes it or not."
Melieth's face downturned with displeasure. "And where are you taking her?"
"Back to her people. Where she belongs," he said.
"Back to the mountains?"
"Yes."
Melieth's eyes flashed. "The girl survived a horrific nightmare and you want to take her back to that place?"
"I -"
"Maglor, did you not see the state of the girl? How could you even think of such an idea?"
Maglor looked weary. His shoulders slumped. "She wants to go, Melieth."
"Does she now?"
"Yes," he said, "I promise I will not leave her if it is not safe. Do you not trust me on this? The Edain belong with their own kind."
Melieth looked sad. "Nestariel and I have grown very fond of her. We will miss her greatly. And the twins will be beyond upset."
"I know," he said, his own anger simmering, "I know. But I'm only doing what I think is best."
"Of course," Melieth said. Maglor saw dissatisfaction in her eyes and refused to acknowledge it.
He was bone-tired and worn down. "I'm going to bathe and then I'm going to bed," he said brusquely, brushing past her. "Don't bother waiting up."
When night came, Maglor found it difficult to sleep. He tossed and turned, restless. Lying on his back, he stared up at the ceiling, wondering if he truly was making the right decision.
Once again, he was alone with only his thoughts as recompense.
And once more, they all circled back to the stubborn, mortal girl.
