XLIII.

Wide and far and rich and abundant was Endorë, and the Noldor found the freedom they had sought, the yearning for which had drawn the out of Aman; there were elven realms whose rulers answered to no-one save the High King.

(That was what they had wanted, and this was what they were prepared to accept, if only to save any worth from their ordeals.)

There was not much comment on Maglor's choice of residence; one or two raised eyebrows, skeptical glances, contemptuous expressions.

None of it voiced, barring several veiled allusions.

(They knew; and it was not spoken of.)

XLIV.

Except it was out of a sense responsibility, thought Maglor, remembering his brother's – his heir's, and he would never have another, not without–

–remembering his brother's words.

It was an act born of a sense of responsibility, even if in places it blurred into a sense of guilt (was it not the same, almost, almost, when you had made all the wrong decisions); and it was a responsibility towards the Noldor, even if not towards them alone.

'You would establish your abode this close to the Enemy's fortress. Do as you please, Kanafinwë. I shall not forbid it.'

'Thank you.'

XLV.

Before they set out, Fingon came, amidst the turmoil of preparations

'May I speak to you?'

'Always, cousin.'

'Truly?' A smile. 'I wish not to part ways with you in enmity, or appearance of enmity. Your words are a comfort.'

'I have no cause for enmity towards you; the opposite, if at all.' Pause. 'I heard of how you-'

'That is of no matter now. I merely…' Hesitation. 'Do not torture yourself overmuch, Kanafinwe. It will aid no one.'

Silence.

Again, the smile.

'And I shall attempt the same. May the stars watch over you, cousin.'

'And you likewise, Findekáno.'

XLVI.

The Noldorin princes had their temporary respite, yet the forces of Melkor never rested, never slept; the sounds of metal clashing against metal never faded (nor did the screams), the fires never died, the work never stopped.

There was naught else here, after all; nothing but the preparation, the strive to perfect the power of destruction; and the single-mindedness was in parts hollow, compelling, and grimly adequate.

Naught else. For anything else had already been destroyed (if not thoroughly; that would have come too close to mercy).

And the same awaited all (awaiting; for them – hope, for him – torment).

XLVII.

The screams.

That was another matter.

They were –

annoying, most of all.

They were a reminder, grating at an empty (nearly empty) space where there ought to be something yet was not, they were too true in the dark and in the void and in memory.

(They were still screaming-)

He had tried not to hear them, to no avail.

He had tried waiting for them to cease – to no avail.

(Some stopped screaming, eventually. Some screamed without sound.)

Idly listening was unbearable (as anything here)-

In the end, there was no other way but to make them scream.

XLVIII.

'You never did tell me,' Amrod stated one evening, matter-of-factly, and Maglor looked at him in question.

'What happened when you left that day. Before your abdication. You confided in Tyelkormo alone, and he only said-'

'That I had run off to consult with enemies, I recall. Did you believe him?'

'I did not.' The answer was immediate and came so naturally, in a quiet, doubtless tone, that Maglor felt oddly reassured.

'And rightly,' he said. 'I did not consult. I wished to… ascertain. Witness. I felt it was my duty to do so.'

'And did you?'

'Yes. I saw.'