"But they took Vingilot, and hallowed it, and bore it away through Valinor to the uttermost rim of the world; and there it passed through the Door of Night and was lifted up even into the oceans of heaven … and Eärendil the Mariner sat at the helm, glistening with dust of elven-gems, and the Silmaril was bound upon his brow."

Maglor

"Maedhros,

You haven't answered any of my letters. By that, I'm sure I can assume that you are well and simply busy, and there is nothing at all for me to worry about."

Maglor dipped the barbed tip of his quill back into the inkwell. It was a pleasant evening, unseasonably warm for late autumn up north. He curled his knee up onto the bench and leaned against the stone wall of the balcony. In a few minutes the stars would come out.

He chewed his lip. "I know things have been different since we got back from Sirion. Perhaps you blame yourself for what happened to Amrod and Amras; perhaps you blame yourself for – "

The thought slithered up in his mind. For the slaughter you led us to. For the doors that lined the streets in Sirion hanging open on their hinges and the deep wells we had to carve in the earth afterwards. For the guilt we must carry now, after Sirion and Doriath and the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, when we rode out under your banner and your orders.

Maglor had frozen with the quill hovering in the air above the parchment. He exhaled slowly and resumed writing. " – for everything that happened. If it's a comfort, I don't hold it against you. After Feanor died, someone needed to hold us all together. If it hadn't been for you – "

His internal monologue lashed out again with sharpened teeth. Then maybe my brothers would still be alive. You were supposed to lead us. Now Curufin is gone, and Celegorm and Caranthir and Amrod and Amras. Even you have abandoned me, and there is no one left to help keep me in one piece.

Maglor's fingers loosened involuntarily. The quill dropped to the bench, leaving a wet smear on the stone. An exasperated puff of air escaped from Maglor's lips. "Damn it all." He scrubbed frantically at the black splotch with his sleeve.

"Maglor?"

Maglor's eyes flickered upwards.

Elrond stood with his arms around a pillar, just outside the doors.

"Yes?"

"May I have some water?"

"Are the maids still out and about?"

Elrond swung back and forth on the column. "Marta's folding the linens."

"Then ask her; there's a good lad."

Elrond let go and stepped back inside.

Maglor looked down at his hand. A dark stain now spread across the skin of his palm. He sighed. " – If it hadn't been for you we would have fallen to pieces long ago. I feel as though I am falling to pieces now. Please come home." In the silence the only sound was the scritch of pen on parchment.

Once, Amrod would have been there with him on that balcony, lying on his back on a bench trying to recognize a few constellations amid the scattering of stars above them.

"'Which one is the swan again?'" Maglor quoted to an audience of only himself. His fingers stilled. He closed his eyes. "You always forget, Amrod. Three close spots, and then a far one, and then another far one on the opposite side. You know, how swans look in real life." Maglor looked up at the stars.

He froze. A shimmering, far above in the dark of the heavens. It hung just above the silhouette of the tallest pine tree in the distance, perhaps just beginning its ascent over the world. That pinprick of light seemed to flicker in Maglor's vision, like a bonfire seen from across the shore.

I would know this light anywhere.

"Maglor?"

"What?" Maglor glanced back down at the earth, just for a moment, before staring back up at the Silmaril suspended above him.

Elrond stood before Maglor again, backlit against the hanging lamps in the corridor. The light made a halo around his rumpled hair. Black as crow's feathers; Elwing's hair.

Elwing's Silmaril. No.

Feanor's Silmaril.

Maglor's belly burned.

"Will you tell me a story?"

Perhaps Elrond was smiling hopefully, or perhaps his face was sullen with pre-emptive disappointment, in case Maglor would say "no". Maglor didn't know. He sat frozen on the stone bench, head craned upwards. "Not tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps."

"Oh. But you said that last night before Tamblin came to fetch you, and you said – "

"Go to bed."

"But I have to have a story at night, and I have – "

"Go to bed." Maglor's heart pounded against the walls of his chest. He tore his gaze away to briefly focus on Elrond.

Elrond seemed to shrink in that instant. He nodded meekly, and then darted back down the corridor without another word. He didn't even wave Maglor goodbye.

The – Fear? Anger? Longing? Maglor didn't know – washed out of Maglor in a cold wave, leaving only guilt. The hurt on Elrond's face. Maglor gently set the letter down.

Had it been like that back in Aman, with Caranthir or Curufin or even Amrod? There had been sharp words at times, particularly with Caranthir, and sometimes even bloody noses and skinned knees. Surely that was normal, for brothers and growing boys.

Nevertheless, the look in Elrond's eyes at Maglor's curt dismissal – Maglor, towering over the child with his immense height in the same way that everyone is a giant when you're only four feet off the ground – sent an entirely new regret aching through Maglor's chest. And now it was up to Maglor, and only him, to patch things up.

Maglor rose to his feet and walked to the doors. He paused mid-step and looked up again.

Feanor's Silmaril twinkled down on him with smug innocence. It had last been seen, by Maedhros at least, glimmering around Elwing's neck before she had tumbled down helplessly into the surf below, just a few leagues away from the bloodshed at the Havens. And now it had arisen, unlooked for, in the sky by some ineffable grace of the Valar.

I can't go. But why not? Safely sailing through the sky, it would still be there in an hour or at the end of the night, for Maglor and anyone else that wanted to peer at it. Maglor drew in a shuddering breath.

I suppose it's mine now; mine and everyone's. That's not so bad, is it? Maglor clenched and unclenched his fingers until the wild thump in his chest subsided.

And now I must make things right with Elrond. Maglor opened the doors and stopped, again.

He dashed back and tucked the sheet of parchment safely under the inkwell. Next to that, he nestled the quill. Elrond first. And then – Maglor brushed the brass seal and stick of wax on the edge of the bench – he had a letter to finish.