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Chapter Text

“Shit!”, Maglor cursed as he got the news from Nargothrond, as told by his younger brother Curufin. They had betrayed Finrod, who had then proceeded to ride out out his kingdom to help a mortal try to reclaim a silmaril. Which was a bad idea, for multiple reasons. The Oath in him stirred like a snake, baring it’s poisonous fangs.
“What is it?”, Maedhros asked, alarmed and ready. He too had felt the grip of their carelessly sworn words.
“I got message from Curufin. He has betrayed our fair cousin Finrod, who is now going on a quest for a silmaril.”
Maedhros breathed in deeply. “He’s going to fail. The stones are upon the head of the dark Vala.”
“And what shall we do? Wait for another of our kin die at his hands?”
“What do you want me to do? Send him an army? We are barely holding on as it is”, Maedhros argued. “I cannot spare my fighters to his useless quest.”
“What are you holding back for then!”, Maglor accused his brother. “Another battle? Which has no better chance of succeeding!”
“Better than Finrod’s quest in any case. Why is he going for the silmaril? I thought they did not inspire him much.”
“Because of an Oath, sworn to one man who now wants a silmaril for the father of his bride. Who is Thingol.”
Maedhros just buried his face in his hand and sighed. “Just. No. I had thought everyone in the familyv had agreed that going for those cursed stones is a bad idea.”
“Apparently not. Shall we send help?”
“No. I will not sent my people to their death. You do whatever you want.”
“Fine.”

It wasn’t fine, not for Maglor. The Oath in him sent him into a frenzy, pushing him towards the dark peaks of the mountains and simultaneously drawing him into the direction Finrod must be in.
There was not much love left between their parts of the family now. Celegorm and Curufin’s betrayal had been rash and unnecessary. They should have gone with Finrod, but Maglor did not dare to fathom what would have been the outcome of that. If his brothers already betrayed Finrod before he went on the quest, what if they had done it during? No. Maglor would step in. He was not them. He would not betray this cousin. Finrod had always been his favourite, he would not dare raise his voice or hand against him. In him, the Oath snarled.
Maglor walked down the stairway of Himring’s highest tower with haste. Maedhros had chosen his rooms with care and the stairs were modelled in a way which was dangerous to all who dared walk upon them. They were of different height, to divert intruders – clever, but unfortunately potentially dangerous to everyone within the keep. One human guard had already fallen down and broken his neck on this treacherous stairway. Therefore it was off limits now for servants and the like. Maglor hated this particular piece of architecture. It was not helpful for storming off, as he had to walk at a reasonable pace to not share the fate of the unfortunate guard.

His feet carried him to the stables. Thankfully it was the height of the day and the sun was shining for once. Usually the dark clouds drifting over from the dark peaks were disturbing the view to the skies. Today, the wind was blowing into another direction.
“What are you doing here?”, the stable boy asked confused. He stared at Maglor with open eyes and the minstrel was again reminded of his appearance. Since his own keep had fallen, he had a scar on his cheek and his face was frozen in a grim expression. The current events had not given him any softness.
“I am needed elsewhere”, he stated. “I will get my horse. Tell the guardians at the gate I am going to ride out. They shall open the small door for me.”
“Only one horse, Lord Maglor?”
“I am riding alone.” Oh, how those words stung. He wished for a moment to have pestered Maedhros for at least three guards to accompany him. There were orcs roaming the lands and one ellon alone could not do much against them. His brother had made his stance clear and now there was no point in going back. Himring needed the strength of it’s swords and Maglor would not argue against it, if it kept his beloved brother alive.
He found his black stallion Morroch easily. He was the second largest animal in the stables, next to Maedhros’ well trained mare. Maglor had never been very creative in naming his horses, as there had been many of them in the Gap and often he had lost them to raiding bands of orcs. Morroch, Sindarin for black horse, was just the latest in the bunch. Maglor would have to lie if he said he wasn’t growing fond of the animal. He had survived the fall of the Gap and was a faithful companion, well trained and all. He also disliked leaving Himring, because he had obviously grown fond of Maedhros’ mare. The lady horse had been gifted to him by Fingon years ago and was well trained to only listen to commands given with the legs of the rider. Through this, she was the perfect horse for Maedhros and Maglor was glad his brother had such a glorious steed, descendant of the great Rochallor himself.
“Morroch”, he greeted his own stallion and stroked his nose carefully. The horse breathed in deeply and turned his ears forwards. He was a clever one and certainly sensed his master’s unease.
“Sorry. I don’t have a treat for you”, Maglor sighed. “We need to ride out today.”
The horse snorted slightly.
“Not happy about it, huh?”, Maglor replied and shook his head. His eyes turned towards the box next to them. Maedhros’ mare was watching them with her trusting eyes. There was a certain sadness in her gaze, but maybe the minstrel was projecting.
He got saddle and bridle ready and started to prepare Morroch for the journey.
Halfway through the task, the stable boy came running again. “Lord Maglor! I told the guards of your command. And Lord Maedhros sends you this pack of provisions.”
Maglor looked up at the breathless human boy. He was carrying a big pack, a bow and a quiver full of arrows. It was heavy and the boy was staggering under the weight. The ellon took the things from him and loaded everything onto his stallion. Morroch nicked a bit but did not protest further. To him, it was not that much weight, as in battle Maglor had ridden him with plate armour before. This horse knew work.

The only thing Maglor was missing was his sword. He had not carried it with him during his talk with Maedhros and it was in the armoury. Despite the rumours being otherwise, the Sons of Fёanor did sometimes part with their weapons, if they felt safe. Maglor sometimes did, Maedhros never. The Lord of Himring was never found without his trusted sword which he had received after the founding of Himring.
Maglor led Morroch to the outer court of the castle. His stallion could wait for him here until he came back with his sword. The sun was now in it’s highest place in the sky and yet it was still cold. It never grew particularly warm in Himring. The winds prevented it and Maglor sometimes missed the summers in the Gap. It was his own failure it was no longer.
To his surprise, there were several people waiting in the court for Maglor. Four guards were standing in a cluster, and someone in their middle. Someone who was a bit taller than them. Someone with red hair. The entourage parted and Maedhros strode forward.
They came to stand, face to face to each other, and silence fell. Here they were, the eldest, the leaders of their house in Beleriand. Everyone waited of how they would part. If they were not this close, this could have ended in disaster, but Maglor knew his place and how he had to behave in the public eye.
He bent the knee and knelt in front of his brother. Whilst he could argue with Maedhros in private, this was official business and he would follow. Should the elder command his stay, he would. Maedhros would not ask for it though, even if the Oath would fight against him to do otherwise.
“My Lord”, Maglor spoke. “Please grant me the leave to travel, to try and fulfil our oath.”
Maedhros, with a grim face, nodded. “Lord Maglor, blood of my blood, beloved sibling and brother in arms. Your leave be granted. There is but one command I give you and it is given with my heart.” Maedhros leant in, in show of closeness and whispered “Don’t die. Come back, with our without the stone, I do not care.”
These were dangerous words, but the command had been spoken low enough for only Maglor to hear. Not even the guards would know what had passed between them. The minstrel nearly wept. It was so much more than he had hoped for.
“Rise, Lord Maglor”, Maedhros commanded with a loud voice. It had lost it’s softness long ago, in the mists of Thangorodrim. A sword appeared in his hand and it took a few moments for Maglor to recognize it as his own. The tip pointed towards the ground and it was offered to him by a left hand.
Maglor rose up and gripped the hilt of his weapon. He raised it and spoke with a clear voice. “I thank you, My Lord. I will follow your command and uphold the honour of our House. May we meet again.”
They embraced for a last time and Maglor mounted his stallion.

Chapter Text

With a rattling sound, the gate behind Maglor came down again. Himring was now closed to him. He turned back and watched the wooden doors be drawn shut as well. From the outside, the castle seemed like a solemn animal crouching on the highest mountain. The stones were big and hewn from the rock of the mountains, of a quarry two valley over. Maglor would pass by it and probably spent a night there. It was still in use, as the construction in Himring never slept. With the awakened threat of Morgoth, Maedhros had ordered to thicken the walls of his stronghold, Maglor had seen the plans. In a few months, the first stones would be transported to the peak. It was sad to see everyone get ready for more war again. Maglor had hope a quest of stealth would go over better than a forthright attack.

Himring got smaller in the distance soon. The way he was following was a steep one down the mountain. All of this lay in Maedhros’ planning, making even the way nearly impassable to their foes. And friends, unfortunately. Fingon always cursed down the blue water of the havens when he came to visit and the weather was horrible. Snow or heavy rain could make the trek up the mountain a nightmare. Thankfully it had been dry for the past days, so there was no danger for Maglor or his stallion to misstep. Soon they were down the worst of the passage and Himring only a small spot in the distance. It was less certain whether the minstrel would ever see the home of his eldest brother and commander again. It began to settle in that this journey could very well be is last one. He was travelling to Nargothrond, to follow Finrod on his quest. A quest which would lead them over the mountains to Thangorodrim. After what had happened with Celegorm and Curufin, the companions would never come by Himring. Either they would choose to follow the Sirion river to cross the mountains at Eithel Sirion. Maglor’s hope was that someone in Nargothrond would point him into the right direction. With what his brothers had done, it was less certain if he even would be welcomed in the hidden realm.

Maglor arrived at the quarry as the sun began to set. From the west, a golden light began to spread and for a last time he looked towards the north, to where Himring was only a point in the distance. The light reflected on the bronze roof of Maedhros’ tower. It was only a blink and it was a goodbye. Maglor raised his right hand and waved in a sombre motion, his heart heavy. Then he pressed his legs against the flanks of his stallion and together they rode down the ravines to where the tavern was located.
The rocks he passed were of a dark colour, the whole mountains were. It gave Himring a gloomy feeling, even the tapestries on the walls, meant to bring warmth and colour, were not helping much. Underneath the golden sky, it was a beautiful picture at certain times. From far away, one could not see the constant fear of a siege brew in the hearts of the people. Maedhros had even begun to help those who were no warriors to move east, to where the crown city was still standing proud. The times were dire indeed.
In the valley hewn by crafty hands, Maglor found the tavern easily. He had been there before, as it was a perfect days’ ride away from Himring. He was not surprised to find some elves he knew as guest there. One even had been a soldier in the Gap, before it’s fall. Now he had sworn his loyalty to the Ambarussa. Mostly he served now as messenger between the folks, as not every correspondence could be made through Maedhros. Maglor did not sit down at his table, because he still felt unsure about his quest and did not want to share his thoughts about it. His old soldier would certainly have inquired about his reasons of travel. So, Maglor kept his hood up, and remained in anonymity. Thankfully, the tavern owner did not protest against such measures, and Maglor got served early enough. He took just a bow of stew, as he did not feel like eating much. The argument with Maedhros had taken much of his appetite away, and his own thoughts what was left of it. He mostly stared into his bowl, barely lifting the spoon.
It went like this, until Maglor grew tired. He went to the barmaid, asking her about a free bed in the establishment. She took one look at him, and nodded. “There are several rooms empty, big and small, what do you desire?”
“A small room will do”, Maglor said, and he counted the coins onto the table. Until he arrived at Nargothrond, he would have to be careful with his spendings.
She took the coins, counted them once again, and nodded. For a moment, she turned her back to Maglor, to grab something from behind her. A few seconds later, she presented a key. “Yours is room five, on the first floor.”

In the morning, Maglor rode out again, following the trail along the River Celon. At first, it was almost a street, but the highway through Doriath and Menegroth was closed to Maglor. He knew the barrier of Melian would not let him pass through. Celegorm had tried once, in the early times – it had not ended well. From then on none of the Fёanorian host had tried, not even for diplomatic reasons. All contact had been made through Artanis, Galadriel as she was called now.
Maglor had to take the path which would pass by Nan Elmoth. He hated this forest, for a good reason. The word had passed from Gondolin to all the lords of what had happened there and who had lived in these lands. Aredhel had faced a terrible fate there. Maglor had half a mind to stop, search for the cabin and burn it down. The white lady had not deserved this and if he could, he would avenge his cousin. Turgon had thankfully taken care of the abusive ellon, who had taken Aredhel as wife. Hopefully the son would not take after the father. It was out of Maglor’s hands though. He had only gotten the story told by Fingon, who in turn had learned about it in a letter from Turgon. To this day, not even the High King knew where the city was located, only it’s name was common knowledge.
Despite his wishes, Maglor did not stop at Nan Elmoth. The sounds from within the forest made him glad he was on the other side of the river and no bridge led across. Something dark must be living among the trees, something dangerous. Maglor would not risk his life for petty actions. He was on a mission to Nargothrond. Morroch seemed glad he was allowed to leave the dark lands behind, too. Dark creatures dwelled in the shadows there, and not even the closeness to Melian’s border would drive them away. These were lands, which none of elven kind belonged to, as it was overrun by spiders and other critters.
The night, they spent in an open field underneath the stars, in a safe distance to the dark lands. Still, there was no settlement in sight. These were the wild lands between the kingdom of Doriath and Nan Elmoth. Theoretically, they belonged to Thingol’s realm as well, but Melian’s barrier did not extend this far. The path was open to travellers, be they evil or good. This close to Doriath, it was well trodden, probably by merchants and marchwardens. Maglor hoped he would not meet them, for they had reason to hate him and his family for the kinslaying at Alqualondё and the minstrel did not want a repeat of that day. Against a group of wardens he would not have a chance, even with sword sharpened. There was not much wish in him to spill blood, but he would if prompted.
Thankfully, the night remained peaceful, and Maglor was on his way in the morning again.

At the point, where the Celon flowed into the Aros, a bridge led over the waters. Here Maglor had to cross. The power of Melian began tingling at his senses. It was not a pleasant feeling. He knew, if he continued on the side of Doriath, he would not be able to travel there for long. Morroch seemed to feel it too, as he grew restless and nickered once or twice as they came closer to the crossing. Maglor knew there would be marchwardens near, as there also was an entrance to Doriath, where visitors were allowed passage. Well, if they were not guilty of spilling their kin’s blood. Thankfully the crossing was open to everyone not an orc or dragon. It was the major passageway to eastern Beleriand for those coming through Doriath. From here on, the path would be a street, along the River Aros.
There were also a few buildings at the crossing, among them an inn. Maglor had never been here, but from the outside, it felt inviting. He told Morroch to stop. Standing on the ground after two days in the saddle was a bit jarring. Maglor was a good and experienced rider, but this long without a break was going towards his limits. His legs ached and he was glad for a break. A boy pointed him towards the stables. There Maglor paid a few coins of rent for a box. Morroch seemed to like it and as soon as his girdle was off, he downed his head in the hay. It left the ellon with nothing else to do than to remove the saddle and rub his horse dry. He did so. Later, he gave the lady who owned the stables instructions to keep his horse fed, but to not get too close. There was no telling how Morroch would react, as he had quite the temperament.
Once the horse was taken care of, Maglor went to the inn. There were noises coming through the windows, happy ones of people eating and some singing. Just as he liked it. He opened the door and stepped in. His gaze travelled around the room. Many tables were occupied with groups of humans of different ancestry. To the right, a group of rowdy men was drinking some ale and chattering loudly about the work on the fields. In the corner behind them, tavelling merchants from the lands of the south were sitting, marked by their darker complexion and flowing clothes. These were mixed, some women and some men, all armed with curved blades, not unlike elven swords.
On the other side of the room was a group of Doriathrim marchwardens. They wore the grey robes of their people. On the wall next to them, they had stashed their bows and quivers. Even from this far away, Maglor could tell these were of extraordinary craft. If the elves of Doriath knew one thing, it was how to work with wood. One of the group was obviously the leader. His tunic was embroidered with the motif of a black bow next to a silver arrow. From the tales told, Maglor knew who this must be and he decided to not search for the companionship of these elves.
There was a small table near the humans and Maglor went there and sat down. He put his sword on the bench next to him, having left his bow in the stables with most of his belongings. Only the sword he would not part with, as it had been made by his brother.
A servant came and took his order. The minstrel took just some of the soup, which was what human taverns were know for. Everywhere the ellon went, this dish tasted differently, for it was made from what grew in the surrounding lands. He also asked for a single bed. Not for a single room. A bed would do. Thankfully, there was one yet unoccupied and Maglor paid the rent for it. He hated sleeping on the ground and he feared there would be much of it soon enough.
While he waited for the soup, Maglor listened to the minstrels playing their instruments. These were human bards, one with a flute and another one with a small harp. It was no match to his own, but they knew how to play. The music was pleasant and thankfully did not disturb the talk around him too much. He tuned in to the conversation of the merchants. They spoke Sindarin, but with an accent. It told Maglor they probably were of different origin, and this was the only language they could communicate in. At least he could understand them this way, for he had not had the time to learn the different human tongues so far. They talked about trading with the elves of Doriath. It seemed, it wasn’t much easier for them than for the Noldor. Their desired goods for which they traded were mainly ropes and fabrics, but also leathers and pottery. In turn, they brought certain foods and fabrics of their lands. Their talk of their homelands was interesting to Maglor, who had never been able to travel this far. As the lord of a lordship, he had had his responsibilities. And now the peace was over and there was always the danger of orcs raiding the lands.
The soup arrived after a few minutes and Maglor dug in. It tasted just as expected. Also, it warmed Maglor’s belly, for which he was grateful. He tried to discern, which ingredients had been used. He was relatively certain the meat was rabbit. They were plenty in the fields and regarded as vermin by the farmers, as they tended to eat the vegetables. Of these, Maglor was able to identify carrots, potatoes and onions. It was tasty, and he told the cook so as he went to his bed.
The room was under the roof, the largest in the building. It contained ten beds, separated by swaps of fabric for a bit of privacy. It would do for the night. Usually, he would prefer more privacy as he was used to from his room in the Gap. Thankfully, no drunk humans woke him up during the night.

Chapter Text

In the morning, he retrieved Morroch from the stables and rode on. His goal was to reach the sea where the River Aros ended, and where the Sirion had it’s origin in, without another long break. Of course he would give his horse all the short rests it would need, there was no need to hurt Morroch for this. The group of Finrod could not be much faster than Maglor was on his own. They were ten people, at least if one could believe what had been passed down from Curufin. Problematic would be, that Maglor did not know into which direction they had travelled. Going for a silmaril could mean taking many ways, any would lead to the three peaks of Thangorodrim. A quest his uncle Fingolfin had taken and failed at, paying with his life.
The road was now well travelled. Many elves and humans passed by. Once, Maglor even saw a group of dwarves. They had a strong carriage with them, drawn by eight mountain goats, stubborn animals with big horns. Despite their size, they were impressive, as was the carriage. It lacked the finesse of the elves, but was unique in it’s own way, with strong geometric patterns etched into the metal.
Otherwise, there were many warriors about, in smaller groups. These were not only groups of the Noldor, but also Sindar of the Grasslands, a few marchwardens of Doriath and four or three Avari among them. None of the Noldor recognized Maglor. He only knew them by their eyes, which still reflected the light of the trees. They were getting less, the war claiming it’s due. There were now many counted among the Noldor, who had no such light in their eyes, as they were born in Beleriand.

Once or twice, Maglor felt watched. As a minstrel, he should be used to this, but the feeling made him uneasy this time. His skin tingled, and he was sure there were bows strung, arrows pointed at his head. The Marchwardens of Doriath must have seen him, and identified him correctly. Maglor hoped they would not let go of their arrows. He wished not to die today. It would make things only more complicated between the Noldor and Sindar. Politics were already abysmal. Well, if he died, he would certainly not have to care about it himself. Dying was not something Maglor liked thinking about.
To calm his uneasiness, Maglor started to watch the other travellers on the way again. They were not many, but some could be seen a the crossroads, where to paths to the east led. On the maps Maglor had seen, some of these paths even led as far as to Ossiriand. He himself had not been to these lands, and he doubted he ever would. He enjoyed hearing about these strange regions though. Much of eastern Beleriand belonged to the race of men, they had made their settlements there. Apparently, their horses were of a good breed, too, one point which once had been of interest to Maglor. He still preferred his own breeds of the Gap, as they were suited more for elves to ride. The horses of the men in eastern Beleriand were smaller, but incredibly strong for their built.
From Ossiriand, not many news came. It was so far away, not much was know of it to the Noldor. It was a realm of the Laiquendi, as they were called. Elves who had begun the journey west, but had chosen to remain in Beleriand. The Noldor did not count them among the Sindar, as they did not follow Thingol. They had once followed a king, in the time before the sun had risen. The story went, he had been killed by orcs on the Amon Ereb, and since then, the Laiquendi had not followed any other. They were a peaceful folk, and would not enter any agreement which would call them to arms. They had chosen to remain hidden, and only few of them ever came to the mainland of Beleriand, west of the mountains. Those which came, were scholars and traders. Maglor could understand them, to a degree. If he still had a choice, he would have chosen a realm far away from Morgoth’s evil lands. He sighed, for the ‘what-ifs’ were many.
The men, he saw, were a mixed bunch of people. They wore clothes Maglor had never seen before, and had not even heard about, especially in terms of colour. It was obvious they were merchants of some kind, but they spoke no language Maglor could understand as he rode by. The tribes of eastern Beleriand were obviously a world of their own.

At one point, Maglor passed by a smaller river, which flowed into the Aros. It came from the plains of eastern Beleriand, and it was of clear water. He rode a few metres into the direction the river came from, to find a shallow where Morroch could drink. He found a shallow, where already two tents had been erected at. Maglor approached carefully, one hand prepared to draw his sword. Out here on the road, one could not be sure not to stumble upon a band of outlaws.
Thankfully, this was only a small group of elves, Maglor had found. Based on their colours, he would say they were from Doriath. He introduced himself as a fellow traveller, who just wanted to let his horse have a break. The elves nodded, but they regarded his face with suspicion, correctly assuming he was of the Noldor. His eyes had given this much away.
“Where are you going?”, the eldest of the three light haired ellyn asked curiously.
“I am on my way to Nargothrond”, Maglor answered truthfully. “I come to seek the wisdom of Finrod Felagund.”
“I heard he is a wise ruler”, one of the ellyn said. “He is the brother of Lady Galadriel after all.”
“That he is”, Maglor said. “You come from Doriath then?”
The eldest of the three ellyn took the word again. “Yes, we are. Me and my brothers serve as marchwardens there.”
“I gathered as much, based on your clothing. What are you doing outside the borders?”
“Our Lord, Celeborn, sent us out, as some orcs had been sighted by the merchants coming this way. We took care of the problem. If you are on your way to Nargothrond, why did you not pass through Doriath?”, the youngest asked.
Maglor smiled. “I am of the Noldor, as you might have guessed, and of the group King Thingol has banned from his lands, rightfully so.”
“Kinslayer”, the middle brother hissed.
Maglor raised his hands. “I am not here to spill more blood.”
“Orophin, gather yourself”, the eldest brother said, calmly. “He does not wish us ill, and killing him would taint us as well.”
The middle brother, Orophin, sheathed his half-drawn sword again, and he narrowed his eyes.
“Thank you”, Maglor said. “How may I call you?”
The eldest shook his head. “Don’t thank me yet. I ask you to let your horse rest for a while, but then leave as soon as possible. You are not welcome in this camp, a follower of Fёanor or Fingolfin, it does not matter.”
Maglor bowed, and he was glad to not have uttered his name. The eldest was certainly knowledgable, and held himself like a warrior.
“I understand”, Maglor said. “Thank you for allowing me this short rest.”
The eldest nodded, and he and his brothers drew back a few steps. They kept to themselves, and talked under their breath, so that Maglor could not understand them anymore. He only got a few words, as they spoke, and those were in Sindarin. The dialect of Doriath had not changed much, since Maglor first learned it, so from the few words, he gathered the three marchwardens were on their way back to Doriath. They were planning on crossing the river at the earliest convenience. They talked further, with hushed voices, but the minstrel was not able to discern more words.
So, Maglor led Morroch to the shallow in the small river, and let him drink. The stallion seemed relieved for the break, and he lowered his head to drink. His greyish mane almost fell into his eyes, and Maglor chuckled softly. He liked this horse, he hoped he would not loose him in battle as the last one. In thoughts, he touched the fur of his stallion, checking if he was sweating too much. Everything seemed to be in order, a good thing, as there was still a lot of way ahead of them.
When the horse was refreshed again, Maglor took his leave from the brothers. They were friendly enough, especially the youngest one. The eldest had shown where the limits were, though, and Maglor did not wish to overstay his welcome. He would leave those three in peace.

He arrived late in the evening at the lake. The sun was tinging the whole surroundings into golden light. It reflected beautifully off the waves. These were small, dancing lightly with the wind. Truly, Maglor just watched for a moment, letting Morroch walk slowly. Here, there were more people on the road, as it was the direct connection between Nargothrond and Doriath. Many traders, and their guardsmen, had erected small tents on dry patches of land, beside the road. Going further was no good idea, as these were the lands of the fens. The street was the only passageway. Going into the fens was dangerous. Once or twice, Maglor saw broken carriages in the dirt, abandoned. He was glad there were no bones sticking out of the mud, though the crows ahead spoke of many deaths in this area.
Morroch felt the danger as well. He placed his feet carefully. It made the travel slow, but also safe. Maglor had no desire to loose his trusty steed to the fens. He breathed in deeply, the cold mist rising from the wet land stinging in his nose, and the smell was not the best. It smelled of decay and rot.
To lift his spirits, Maglor started to sing a tune under his breath. Low enough so no ears would hear him. He felt reasonable safe on the road, as in regular instances he passed by some armed elves, who bore the heraldry sign of Finarfin on their breasts. Maglor suspected them to be followers of Finrod, at least of his extended family. Not a single one of the bore the light of the trees in their eyes. Either they were young, or they were of a different elven culture, having sworn allegiance to Nargothrond after its founding. The latter was more likely, as some of the elves seemed to have seen many years already. Two even had scars on their face, speaking of battles fought a long time ago. They reminded Maglor a bit of his brother. It made his heart sting, to think of him who he had left behind. Maedhros had made his choice, but it had been with reason. Himring had lost some of his strength already, sending guards away with Maglor would have been a bad decision. After all, the hill was close enough to Angband to fear an ambush at every hour. Still, Maglor missed his brother. In their youth, they had undertaken such travels together. It was hard to see the times changed this much. On the other hand, Maedhros had his duty, and big plans ahead. Maglor was privy to what his brother and Fingon were trying to arrange. A battle, involving all the peoples of Beleriand. An effort to finally get rid of Morgoth. So far, the alliance had been proposed to the dwarves in the mountains, friends of Himring, and the more trustworthy families among mankind. It was barely more than an idea, at the moment.

Maglor was glad, when the hills to his left began to rise up higher again. According to his knowledge, he was coming closer to Nargothrond already. It would probably take him at least another day to reach it though. The way was long, but he had finally left the Fens of Sirion behind him. The hours it had taken him to ride through that haunting landscape still clung to his mind. He was feeling a bit gloomy, and his song had caught on to the mood. He swallowed and stopped his singing.

Chapter Text

Maglor kept silent. Now, closer to Nargothrond, more guards passed his way. As he had no wish to be talked to just yet, he pulled up his hood. It covered half of his face, enough to grant him anonymity. This way, he would not be recognized for who he was. Only the horse he rode, Morroch, could probably be identified as a steed once bred in the Gap. Not many from Nargothrond would be able to make the connection though. In the lands of his brothers, yes, but not here. The horses used in this part of Beleriand were more swift, bred for long runs along plains, whereas in the Gap the horses had been bred for war and steep hills.

There were mountains near Nargothrond, of course, as the realm had been built into one. It was only a small mountain-y range, through which great roads had been built. There was no real need for a special breed of horses here. Near the Gap and Himring, they were most useful.

Maglor looked up to the tops of the hills to his left. They were getting higher, the closer he came to his destination. Right now, the hills were still rolling, but there were stones at their peaks, which had been uncovered by harsh winds and rain. In the distance, he saw them getting higher, more stone than green grass. This was where he needed to go.

Morroch, Maglor’s black stallion, dealt with the oncoming people easily. He was a trained horse for war, no guards and no merchants would startle him. He was attentive though, taking in every traveller on the way. Maglor was once again proud of how well his stallion had been trained. He could relax in the saddle, as there were no dangers to be expected on this road. The way between Nargothrond and Doriath remained safe in these times. All other roads were dangerous, since the siege around Angband had been broken.

Long had it been since Maglor had last laid his eyes upon the doors of Nargothrond. He had visited once, in a time where peace had reigned the elven realms and friendship had been between the Lords. The old betrayal at Alqualondё and it’s shores laid aside to ensure the survival of all. Now, the trust was broken again. The minstrel remembered his last visit well, as it had been the only travel for pleasure he had done in all those years. Nargothrond had impressed him greatly, as it was a perfect fusion between elven and dwarven architecture. The doors of the entrance were hewn from stone. Once could not seen them from afar, when they were closed, as they blended in perfectly. Only by coming closer, one would be able to discern the beautiful engravings of historical events in the stone. Maglor had spent some time admiring them. He remembered also his wish to stay longer. Now he wished he had not returned. There would be no warm welcome.

It was the first group of wardens he tried to pass, which recognized him. Immediately, they drew their swords upon him. Maglor did not even try to make a grab for his own. He would have been able to reach it, but he had not come to fight. He told Morroch to stop and struck a non-threatening pose.

“You are not welcome here”, the leader of the group of wardens told him plainly.

Maglor breathed in deeply and hoped he would find the right words. Confrontation would not help him much. “I have a standing invitation by the last king of this realm.”

“Finrod is gone, Orodreth is now the king”, he got informed. “Turn away, Fёanorion.” The last word was spoken like a curse. Maglor swallowed. He was aware many of the followers of Arafinwё’s children were not his friends.

“I am not my brothers”, Maglor said. “I have come to fulfil their oaths of loyalty to Finrod, which they broke.”

The warden raised his eyebrows and glanced at his comrades.

“And yet, you are not welcome. Your brothers”, the word was spat at Maglor, “Have left this realm two days ago, together with their most loyal servants.”

This was news to Maglor and he gaped the warden. The situation at Nargothrond must have been more heated than even Maedhros had known. On the other hand, he should not be surprised. Celegorm and Curufin had only ever heeded their own council. They had certainly never been gentle, and neither had a mind for diplomacy. This was a failure of epic proportions. Maedhros would growl. A change in leadership of a strong realm, especially in times such as these, could spell disaster.

“You did not know”, the chief warden assessed. “I does not change the fact. No Fёanorion is allowed to enter Nargothrond.”

Maglor nodded. There was no use in trying to bargain. If the situation was as dire as he assumed, his presence in these Halls would only drive those uncertain of their loyalty to new extremes. He had not wish to destroy the realm Finrod had built from the within.

“Will you tell me where they have gone, so I can try to catch up?”

“Your brothers have gone to Amon Rûdh, to regroup there.”

“I was talking about Finrod and his company”, Maglor clarified. “I told you why I came here, I will not follow the path my siblings chose.”

The warden sighed. “He and Beren took the road through Talath Dirnen to Tol Sirion. They plan to follow the river through the mountains to the Anfauglith.”

“How long have they been gone?”

“Almost eight days.”

It could have been worse. Morroch was the best horse around and had carried him the whole way. He had not lost much time. Still, the distance between him and Finrod’s company was great. If Maglor would reach them, it would be in the mountains or on the Anfauglith, if nothing had slowed the company down.

“And where have my siblings gone?”, Maglor inquired. He had no intention of following them, but it was still of interest to him. They were family, after all.

The warden raised his eyebrows, his ears twitched in dismay. “They went along the road north-east. For a while, we thought they might try to follow Finrod anyway, but it is more likely they seek to follow the dwarven road from there along Doriath.”

“You think they are trying to get to Himring then”, Maglor mused.

“It is likely. Why? Do you think about going after them?”

“No. I am going to follow Finrod, wherever he might lead.”

The guard shook his head in contempt. “You F ё anorions are strange. Two of you betray our king, and now you claim to be loyal.”

“There is strife among the Noldor, and sometimes even brothers disagree with each other. Tell Orodreth that neither Maglor nor Maedhros would have forsaken Finrod.” Maglor got a bit angry, and his tone became cutting. The constant insinuations of the guard were slowly grating on his nerves. Yes, he had sworn an oath, but he was free to choose his way in certain situations. Of course, he could have chosen like Celegorm and Curufin, trying to hinder Finrod, or he could have chosen inaction like Maedhros and the Ambarussa. His choice had been different though. He would follow, he would help.

“I realized this much”, the guard said, and shook his head. “If you betray Finrod…”

“I know, I will gain many more enemies”, Maglor said. “I do not plan on betraying my cousin.”

“Then I wish you the best of luck”, the guard replied tensely. “But you should be aware that the lands to the north, through which you will no doubt pass, are infested with orcs these days. And worse.”

“Thank you for the warning.”

“I mean it. A lonely traveller is in danger.”

“Again, thank you. I will go, no matter what you say.”

The guard nodded. “Do not come back to Nargothrond.”

“I won’t”, Maglor replied. It had been made clear enough that no son of Fёanor was welcome in the mountain halls anymore.

He longed to see the entrance to the mountain once again, he truly did. Once, shortly after Nargothrond had been built, he had followed Finrod’s invite. He had seen the beautifully decorated doors, made of stone. From afar, they looked like part of the mountain. Only those who came close were able to see the carvings, depicting the history of the elves, and of the dwarves. Many of the small folk had had a hand in the construction of Nargothrond, and it showed. Their more edgy aesthetics blended well with the organic forms many elves seemed to prefer. Maglor had enjoyed his first, and so far only visit to the kingdom at the Narog.

“Tell me one thing”, Maglor asked. “How many have gone with Finrod?”

The guard narrowed his eyes. “With him and Beren have gone ten warriors, loyal to Finrod.”

“Who was among them?”

“None you might know, except for Edrahil, who ranked high in Felagund’s guard.”

“You said ten. Who are the others?”

“Two other elves, Dunêl and Indwen, four of the race of men, and two dwarves. A mixed company, if you want to see it that way. Now, leave, spawn of Fёanor, you are straining my good will.”

Maglor nodded. He had no wish to be impaled by the sword of that guard, and with each passing minute, the ellon seemed to get closer to consider a kinslaying. They were all doomed anyway...

With the way to Nargothrond barred to Maglor, he had no other choice than to follow Finrod or his own brothers. This decision, he had already made. He would have liked to enter the hidden realm, to gather new supplied. He had run a bit low on them, especially on water. At the next best stop, he would have to arrange for this. He would have also liked to exchange words with Orodreth, who had become king of Nargothrond in Finrod’s absence. Maybe this way, the relations between this realm and Himring could have been restored, but the damage Celegorm and Curufin had made, was too great.

Maglor sighed. All this boded ill, and again he heard the words of Námo in his ears. The doom proclaiming unrest between the Lords of the Noldor, and all their deaths. Maglor personally hated thinking about it, as he refused to believe his fate was set in stone.

Maglor sighed, once again looking down the way to Nargothrond with longing. He would have liked very much to go there. There was no use in his tarrying, so he gave Morroch the signal to turn around. He would have to travel along the river Narog, in hopes of catching up with Finrod and his company.

Chapter Text

The sky had darkened already, before Maglor had reached the general area of Nargothrond. Now, after his talk with the guard, it looked threatening. Every minute, the rain could start, and by the look of the clouds, it would not be a slight drizzle. If it started to rain, it would pour.

He just sighed and drew his hood over his hair. It also had the benefit of hiding his features again. The road he was riding down was well travelled. Now that it was becoming later, there were less people around than on the road he had come. Most of the travellers must have either reached their destination of Nargothrond or made shelter elsewhere. The few which crossed Maglor’s path were looking similarly distressed at the clouds rolling in. They saw the rain coming, too. Here, there came also two larger groups of elves down the street. One group bore the sigil and banner of Nargothrond, still carrying Finrod’s standard. The change in leadership had occurred so suddenly, they probably had not been informed yet. The other group came from the mountain, traders with a few armed soldiers. In both cases, Maglor was glad he had chosen his blue armour, the one which did not bear the star of his house. He owned a red armour set, which he had brought from Valinor, made by his father, and beautifully decorated with golden ornaments and many an eight-pointed star. It would have marked him as a Fёanorion to the whole world. He had left it in Himring, not wanting to wear it on this quest. By going, he had made a choice against most members of his house. Only Maedhros had been supportive, and probably only because of the love between them. Maglor hoped Maedhros’ support was genuine though. The blue armour was a work of Curufin’s hands, but thankfully lacked the golden stars. This had been Maglor’s requirement for it. Curufin had hated it, almost refusing the task.

Now Maglor was glad to not be openly recognized because of his clothing. His face would have revealed his identity as well, but with the rain approaching, he was able to hide it.

Absent-minded, Maglor let his hands wander through Morroch’s mane. He let his horse was a slow pace for a while, relaxing for both of them. Soon enough they would hurry again.

The rain came, and the world was filled with the sounds of the falling drops. As Maglor was passing by some big oak trees, the impact of the water in the leaves was a deafening sound. Such rainfalls were unusual for his ears. In Himring and the Gap, the summers had been dry, and if it had rained, the rain had been mostly a thick mist. Huge raindrops, combined with their sound, were not something Maglor was used to. He needed the first few minutes to adjust, but then he started to like it. Somehow, it was a soothing sound, and the water falling on his cape a gentle caress. It was something new. It also made him aware of how futile his actions were. Whether he would live or die, the rain would continue to fall, for not even Morgoth had the power to stop it. Somehow, the thought made Maglor smile, even if the possibility of his own death was a frightening. He had sworn himself to the eternal darkness after all.

Morroch did not enjoy the rain very much, Maglor found out. His stallion was a magnificent beast, but he kept shaking his head in annoyance more often than not. His silvery mane was soaked with water, and now certainly heavy. When he shook his head, the water sometimes flew up into Maglor’s face. Unpleasant indeed.

As by now, the day had almost turned into night, and no light of a tavern or town had appeared in the lands ahead, Maglor had to plan for an unpleasant stay on the floor. He would have loved to ride on throughout the night, but Morroch’s mood had become worse, the stallion clearly signalling the wish for a short rest.

He ended up with Morroch grazing a few steps away, and a branch of a tree pressing against his back.

Maglor did not get much rest during the night. His senses were constantly alert, in case the sounds of the wilds revealed any dangers. Since the siege around Angband had been broken, there was always the very real danger of orcs coming this far south. The elves slew them wherever they could find them, of course, but they were only so many of them. Often enough, wild groups of orcs just slipped by unnoticed in the dark of the night. The sounds of the wild were mostly drowned by the rain, now gently falling, but Maglor tried to discern whether a branch had cracked because of the wind, or because of orcs. It was a futile watch, but somehow there was nothing Maglor could do to relax.

Somewhen he must have fallen asleep though, as he could pinpoint the moment he woke up, in the early hours of the morning. The sun had just crawled over the horizon, the sky now only mildly clouded. Maglor was just glad that the rain had stopped. Despite his waterproof cloak, the dampness had started to cling to his skin. It was a cold and uncomfortable feeling.

He stood up from where he had spent the night against the tree. Morroch had remained in sight and trotted over when he saw his rider standing up.

After a quick breakfast of bread and an apple, Maglor told Morroch to hurry and they were on the road again.

Because of the rain, there were no tracks on the ground, which Maglor could use a sign to see how long ago Finrod and his company had passed. By all means, they should be at least a days ride ahead of him still, which worried Maglor a great bit. Maybe he would have to ride on through the night, if he was not forced to a stop by the weather again.

In the evening, as he was on his way through the plains, Morroch suddenly got nervous. Maglor could feel the unease roll off the stallion in waves. The ears of the horse twitched, and moved between curiosity and fear.

“What’s up?”, Maglor whispered to his horse, looking ahead to find the cause for the unease.

H e soon found it. There, a few feet off the way, was a burnt out pile of corpses. Orcs, by the stench of it. The most worrying thing was the obvious grave next to a formation of rocks though.

“Shhh”, Maglor tried to pacify his stallion, “the danger has already passed. Those orcs are slain and burnt.”

Maglor left the saddle and went closer to the pile of dead bodies. The marks on the not wholly burnt armour of the creatures were made by many different weapons. Arrows, blades, axes and elven blades. Only one such mixed company had crossed this street in the last days, and it must have been Finrod’s company. Maglor sucked in his breath, remembering the grave near the rocks. One of the company must have not survived the attack. With heavy feet he went over to the disturbed earth covered in smaller rocks. He let his eyes wander over the grave, looking for a marker.

A marker he found, a single stone carved with a dwarven rune. Maglor breathed a sigh of relief. Finrod was alive. Quickly, Maglor spoke a prayer to Aul ё, even though he was sure the Valar had forsaken his family. Afterwards, Maglor once again mounted Morroch and rode on in haste.

Maybe half a day later as night was falling, Maglor found traces of horses in the soft ground. They weren’t old, so there was a chance he would catch up with the riders soon. As it was very likely to be Finrod’s company, Maglor was not concerned about the origin of the hoof-prints. What did concern him an hour later though, was Morroch’s unease again.

As it happened, Maglor arrived at the most inopportune moment.He was certain he was following the correct path when he heard the sound of a swordfight in the night. It was loud and there were grunts of orcs about. The Fёanorion drew his own sword and broke out into a run. He knew, if it was a big number of orcs, the small travelling group of Finrod would be heavily outnumbered. He doubted his own wrath would safe them, but it was worth a try. He left Morroch behind and drew his sword.

Chapter Text

The fighting sounds emanated from behind a small group of trees. There were the distinct grunts of orcs to be heard and the noise of metal hitting metal. A few curses uttered in different languages, some of which Maglor didn’t speak, but assumed the words were curses, flew through the air. A voice, which Maglor immediately recognized as Finrod’s, encouraged the companions to fight fiercer.
Just as Maglor broke through the leaves of the last bushes obstructing his view, the last orc fell. Now able to see the scene, Maglor found himself facing the blade of a curved sword, dripping with blood.

“And who are you?”, the dark-skinned lady holding the blade asked him and smiled. The blade was pressing against Maglor’s neck now.
Maglor looked around, hoping to see Finrod, but his cousin was nowhere to be seen. For a moment, the minstrel feared to be killed by the fierce lady in front of him.
“Put your sword down, Melwyn”, a familiar voice commanded from the trees. “He is no danger to us. Not now.” Out from behind a tree stepped Finrod Felagund, the once king of Nargothrond, named Findaráto Ingoldo once on the other shores. He was the cousin Maglor had wanted to find for the past weeks and was glad he now finally had. The golden hair of his friend was unkempt and he bore blood on his armour and he was beautiful for it. A warrior, a king, as there were some in this family. An elf worth bowing before.
“You are not a sight I expected to see on this quest. You should consider your words carefully”, Finrod warned. “We already made bad experiences with your kin.”
Maglor dropped to his knees and lowered his head a soon as Melwyn’s sword was gone from his throat. “I am sorry for the grief my brothers brought you”, he said. “I have come with the intention to join you on this quest, for I regret their betrayal.”
There was silence, only broken by the heavy breathing of the company. By now, all of them were gathered around their leaders. It was Finrod who answered after a few moments. “Maglor Fёanorion, your siblings betrayed me and the whole company for the silmaril they swore to already, citing their Oath. You are bound by the same Oath, how can you guarantee us you won’t follow their footsteps?”
Maglor was silent for a moment, carefully considering the words. Finrod was right in that regard. The Oath was a power hard to resist. “I can’t forswear the Oath as I bound myself, because I swore by Eru. But I can say I do not wish any harm to come to you by my hand, for it has dealt enough death already. As long as the main goal of this quest remains ripping at least one Silmaril from Morgoth’s grip, I will be your ally.”
“Maglor. I cannot say I am glad to see you, but I will welcome you among the companions”, Finrod spoke. “But be aware, if you betray this quest, it will certainly end with me sending you to Mandos’ Halls.”
“It is your right. Know I will not willingly betray you.” The Oath was another thing. At times, I had cost Maglor so much to resist it’s call. It had almost driven him insane. He knew there was a breaking point, even for him. If there was a possibility to get a silmaril back, he would have to take it. Now, with Finrod’s quest, he could have resisted. He could have. Or he could have acted like Celegorm and Curufin. The changes were low enough to ignore the Oath. 
Finrod nodded, obviously accepting the answer.

Maglor was then introduced to the ten companions of Finrod and Beren. Well, nine. One dwarf they lost in a skirmish one day outside of Nargothrond. He had been gravely injured and sent back to the hidden realm.

Left were Finrod and two other elves, five of the race of men and two dwarves. All in all, it was a very mixed group. Maglor knew none of them, which was not really a surprise. They must have joined Finrod’s service after he had started to build Nargothrond. The Fёanorion was happy to see people of so many different backgrounds work together, even if it was likely to be a suicide mission. Even the humans were of different heritage. It left Maglor wondering how they even came to Nargothrond in the first place.

At first, he was introduced to the three other elves in the company. Dunêl, the western star, was a relatively young ellon of two hundred years of age. He was of Noldorin heriatage, but had never seen the light of the trees. Despite the constant threat of the enemy, his parents had decided on having him. They had named him for their hope to one day return to the shores of Valinor. Maglor did not comment, for he had no such hope. He was doomed, not only by his Oath. Thankfully, Dunêl did not seem to hold a grudge against the most of Maglor’s family, only for Celegorm and Curufin he held obviously no love. Next to him stood Edrahil, who Finrod described as the most loyal of his servants. He was the one who had suggested giving the crown to Oropher in their absence.

The other was an elleth, called Indwen. She was of the Avari, as she told him. Her clan came from the dark woods of eastern Beleriand. She alone had chosen to travel as the sun came up and had found a home in Nargothrond as well. Maglor, who had not many of her people before, was interested in her history, as she also remembered the time before the sun.

The two dwarves, Gab and Moïn, came from the blue mountains and spoke Sindarin only in broken pieces. In private, they preferred the secret language of Khuzdul. Moïn spoke Sindarin better than Gab, so most conversation went through him.

Of the four humans, three were of Beren’s fellowship. They were two males, Edrin and Dirog, and a woman called Andwen.

The fourth was the easterling woman with the darkest skin Maglor had ever seen. She introduced herself as Melwyn, but she did not mention her heritage. Maglor hoped to be able to talk to her some more, for her culture was so very different from the people in the Gap. Her people had not much dealings with Beleriand, as they came from the other side of the Blue Mountains.

The group as a whole was a marvel to Maglor. Such diversity he had not seen often in his years in Beleriand. In Himring, there had been humans and dwarves as well. These groups had mostly kept to themselves and Maedhros had let them. Of course, the warriors had been trained with each other, to keep the unity in a fight, but outside of this, he let them mingle in whatever capacity they wanted. Even the guard duty had been arranged to place the peoples together.

Maglor felt a bit out of place, as most of the company eyed him wearily. He would have to accept this, as his brothers had already set a bad record with this group. All of them must have witnessed the falling out in Nargothrond. If he wanted these adventurers to accept him, he would have to work for it.

Unfortunately, no chance presented itself for him to get into conversation with the others easily. The first task after the fight was to dispose of the bodies of the orcs. As nobody wanted to bury them, they just laid the bodies on a pile, for nature to run its course. This was the task Finrod gave to Edrahil, Indwen and the dwarves. Beren and him as well as Andwen opted to set up a camp for the evening. All the others, which included Edrin, Dirog, Melwyn and Maglor, were sent to gather wood and berries, if some could be found.

The minstrel saw the sense behind the command Finrod gave and followed it. It was a beginning, an option to show how serious he was about joining the quest.

On the way of searching for wood and berries, Maglor also called out for Morroch to come back to him. The stallion was a bit nervous because he could still smell the orcs, but he trusted his master enough to follow him.

Once Maglor had found enough reasonably dry wood, he brought it back to the campsite. Berries he had not been able to find, but he would share some of the dried fruit he had brought with him in Morroch’s saddle bags. These fruits only grew in the lands of the Gap and he had intended them to be a gift for Finrod, presented to him in private. Many things had gone different than Maglor had anticipated, so those dried fruits would now not go to Finrod. Maybe the other companions would like them.

Maglor arrived almost in time with Melwyn back at the campsite. The lady had found dry wood as well and had started to built a fire. Maglor knelt down beside her.

“You know how to built a fire?”, she asked.

“I do, but I am sure you are more experienced.”

She grinned. “I may be.”

Maglor nodded and resorted to giving her one piece of wood after the other, just to have something to do. He noticed that Melwyn was very efficient in building and lighting the fire.

Chapter Text

It was the elven lady Indwen, Maglor first talked with for longer than a minute. She came to him as he was sitting near the campfire, eating a few hazelnuts. Finrod was making plans with Beren, them talking back and forth with hushed voices. Maglor was too far away to hear them and he felt he had no right to intrude. It was their quest. If they needed help with the planning, they would ask. At least if they were clever, which Finrod certainly was. So Maglor kept to himself, sharpening his sword. It had not taken much damage during the short fight with the orcs, but the blood needed to be cleaned off. He used a rag from his hip bag to do so. It came back stained black. He would need to wash it at the earliest possibility. Under his breath, he hummed a melody he had learned from the guardsmen at Himring. It remembered him of those good days in his brothers home, before the Gap had fallen.

A movement next to him ripped him from his thoughts. He looked up and saw Indwen. Her smile was shy, and she pointed at the space next to Maglor. He recognized it for the offer it was and nodded. She sat down next to him.

“Are you a minstrel?”, she asked. “You humming is beautiful.”

“I am”, Maglor said and then thanked her for the praise.

She laid her head aside and turned her eyes towards the fire. “Edrahil does not like you.”

“He has reason to”, Maglor just replied. The ellon was faithful to Finrod and had gone with him over the Ice. He had been among those who had come late at Alqualondё, but had chosen to travel to the realm beyond the sea. Maglor was sure he had gone because of a desire to explore new lands and stay in the service of Finrod, not because he distrusted the Valar and certainly not because of allegiance to Fёanor. He was here, so Maglor would do his best to not antagonize him. He feared for the day his Oath would force him to.

“Why does he?”

Maglor sighed, but there was no use to hide his past. “Because I am a kinslayer, one of those doomed by the Valar. I swore the Oath to regain the silmarils, that is why Finrod should be weary of me.”

“Oh”, she said. “I understand. I heard that story.”

“It is more than a story, it is a terrible compulsion we brought upon our family. I promise, Iwon’t hurt you, as long as you do not touch a silmaril”, Maglor tried to reassure her.

“We’re on the wrong quest then”, she sighed and laughed bitterly for a moment. Then she seemed to reconsider and decided to change the topic. “What melody were you humming just now?”

Maglor was glad for the change, as he disliked talking about Alqualondё and his family’s deeds. “A song I learned from the guardsmen of Himring.”

“It is a mannish song? I never heard the bards in Nargothrond play it.”

“Apparently the cultures of men are very diverse and songs are not necessarily shared between them. As it is for us elves. The Noldor have other songs than the Sindar. I once met their greatest minstrel, Daeron of Doriath, and he taught me a bit in exchange for my knowledge.”

“I have heard of Daeron before”, Indwen said. “But I haven’t had the pleasure to hear him sing. Some of my clan did, and they spoke highly of him indeed.”

Maglor grinned. “He is a genius, able to spin legends with his voice. Unfortunately, the relations between his and my people have soured, so I was not able to meet him again. He dwells within the borders of Doriath these days.”

Indwen nodded. “I don’t think I will ever be able to listen to his voice.” Her tone went dark for a moment, until she switched back.

Maglor was now curious for her own experiences. He just had to find a way to ask her for them. “Which songs were sung in your home?”

“Not many”, she murmured, sounding a bit sad. “Loud music tended to attract evil things. The songs of my clan were mostly sung in hushed voices.”

He nodded. “I understand. What are your songs about?”

Indwen smiled and looked up, to the sky were the stars were out. “We sang about the stars”, she whispered. “For so long, they were our only guidance and light. We did not sing about the Vala who made them, as her name was not known to us and to this day, we do not praise her for them.”

“Why don’t you?”, Maglor asked. Avari customs were strange to him. He had grown up in a society, where the praise of the Valar had been a daily occurrence and a source of inspiration for the artists.

Indwen shook her head. “The Valar are a nice story, but I do not believe in their deeds. If I must, I will accept the stars were thought of by Eru, but Varda, as you call her, is not praised by my people as a whole. Some adapted to your customs though.”

Maglor swallowed and looked up at the stars too. Indwen’s view was a new one, but not unreasonable. The Avari had never met the Valar, had never believed in the safety of Valinor and had chosen to stay in Beleriand. They had not even thought much about going on the journey. The Noldor had often shaken their heads when talking about their cousins who remained in the shadow of the world. If one thing had to be said, they had been better accustomed to the dark and the survival in Beleriand as those who had arrived with the ships or later on foot.

“Oh. I guess, there was never a time for me when the Valar were only stories”, Maglor told her. “I grew up with their influence clearly visible in every corner of the land.”

“For me, it never was like this”, Indwen shrugged.

“Were the stars really your only light?”

“We had fire, but it was a risk as it attracted attention and predators our location. There were a few plants who emitted light, mostly vile mushrooms.”

“Oh. I have never seen such”, Maglor told her.

“They died with the sun. I was sad to see them go, I liked the blue colour they emitted.”

“Did you have songs about them too?”

She shook her head. “No. We had some about the monsters in the dark though. Do you want to hear one?”

“You sing?”

“A bit. I’m no minstrel, but I liked the songs of my kin and wanted to keep them in my fёa.”

“Then please.” Maglor longed to hear her voice in song.

She hummed for a few moments to find the right tone, before she started to sing. The language was a strong dialect of the Sindarin. It took Maglor some verses until he could understand it. As son of one of the most notorious linguists of Valinor, he had a certain skill with tongues. Hers was new to his ears, but not that different from other dialects he had heard so far. The song told about a single hunter who ran underneath the stars. The meaning was twofold. On one hand, the hunter was after a deer which he had spotted, on the other, there was a darker presence watching him. The song was actually written from the perspective of said watcher. It gave the tune a haunting quality.

When she stopped, Maglor smiled at her. “You have a beautiful voice”, he praised her.

“Thank you.” She looked at the ground. “Many of the songs of my home are like this. If you like, I could teach you some more.”

“Of course, I would love to hear them.” Maglor was glad he had found one person in the company who was a potential friend. Indwen seemed clever and musically gifted. Maybe he could even teach her a thing or two.

They split the hare between all of them. It was not much meat, but it was a tasty addition to the roots, vegetables, nuts and rations they had. While they ate, silence fell over the company. Maglor glanced sideways at Finrod and Beren. It seemed they had finished their conversation about the planning for coming days. Beren was clearly exhausted after the fight and talking, and Finrod did not look that much better. Maglor’s golden cousin did not glow here in the dark, having left his jewels and ornate clothes behind. The journey had left its marks on everyone in the company. Their clothes already were mildly stained with dirt and blood. That was not important, important was the moment of peace they had carved for themselves.

The food was good, the minstrel thought. Despite being on the path for multiple days now, the company still had enough in stock to keep everyone fed. It did not make them travel fast though, because they had to spent everyday some hours to hunt and gather. The road to Tol Sirion was not well travelled anymore, so no inns were built their. It made feeding everyone not an easy task.

Maglor almost missed the moment Finrod stood up and came walking the few steps over.

Hence the minstrel was surprised as he was suddenly talked to. “Hey Maglor”, Finrod said.

Despite the unthreatening tone, Maglor shuddered. He then looked up and stared at Finrod. His cousin was standing in front of him, golden hair falling around his shoulders. He had a benevolent look on his face. The minstrel smiled back and slid a bit to the side, making room for his friend to sit down beside him. Only a few seconds later he felt the warm presence next to him.

“We haven’t had much time to talk yet”, Finrod mused.

Maglor snorted a bit, not daring to look at his cousin. “We used the time to threaten each other instead.” There was bitterness in his voice and he hated himself for it.

“Yes, we did.” Finrod turned his eyes away. “I can’t take my words back though, and some things needed to be cleared up, for the company at least.”

“I understand”, Maglor said. It was true, Finrod and he had had to set some borders, because their goals in this quest were a bit different. Yes, right now, they both would aid Beren. Finrod because he was bound by his word, and Maglor because it was a possibility to regain a silmaril. If they managed to get the stone though, Maglor’s own Oath was a dangerous factor.

“How are you doing, Maglor?”, Finrod asked, concern in his voice. “There was not much communications between us during the last years.”

It was true. Since the Gap had fallen, not many messages had been exchanged between Nargothrond and Himring. The only correspondence coming through, was about the ongoing war and the rising threat of the enemy. Most of those letters had gone to Maedhros directly, with Maglor only being his second in command.

The question was a kind one, but he struggled to answer it. In truth, he was not feeling too well. The destruction of his lands had taken much of his hope. He did not want to burden Finrod with it. Also, there were too many people around he did not know or trust.

“There was not much correspondence, I agree. I am as well as one can be in these lands.”

Finrod nodded. “I am glad you managed to flee the destruction of your lands.”

“I miss the plains and fields”, Maglor sighed. “They were my home for so long. At least many of my people made it to the relative safety of Himring.”

“How is life in Himring?”

“Cold”, Maglor said. “Very cold. Even in summer. And to be honest, I miss grass and greenery. How are you doing?”

Finrod sighed. “I miss Nargothrond. My goodbye was not a gentle one, I am sure you heard the story from different perspectives now.”

“I did. I’m sorry about Celegorm and Curufin. I can’t say their behaviour was surprising.”

Another sigh. “Not to me either. I knew there was the possibility of them going rogue when I announced the aim of the quest.”

“And still you did it.”

“You should know how it feels to be bound by one’s word.”

Maglor nodded. “Yes. I know too well, and I don’t blame you for it. It is unfortunate it came to this though.”

Finrod agreed.

“How is my nephew?”, Maglor wanted to know.

The blonde laughed. “Celebrimbor is fine and remains at Nargothrond.”

“He did not go with his father?”

“You haven’t heard? He renounced his relationship with Curufin and decided to not follow him. Last I spoke with him, he wouldn’t even talk about his father, saying he doesn’t want to be named in the same breath as him.”

Maglor was torn between two feelings. It broke his heart to hear Celebrimbor did not want to be part of their family anymore, but at the same time, it gave him a bit of hope. Maybe his nephew would be the one to survive the doom and find happiness. He had not sworn the Oath and was clear of its influence.

“Maglor?”

He sighed. “It may be for the best. This decision can save his life, and he has never been guilty of the crimes of his father and uncles.”

“You like Celebrimbor very much.”

“He is the only sane one in this family.”

“You may be right.”

Maglor was silent for a moment, before he switched the topic again. “Why this quest, Finrod. Why?”

“You know why.”

“Your own oath.”

“I had never thought it would come to that, my promise colliding with your Oath.”

“Fate seems to hate our family.” Maglor laughed bitterly.

Finrod however, looked thoughtful. “Have you thought about it?”

“About what?”

“About what you would do, should our quest succeed.”

Maglor shrugged. “Kill everyone and run away with the silmaril, back to Himring.”

“You would die yourself.”

“The Oath would force my hand.”

“But am I not Fёanor’s kin as well?”, Finrod wondered. “I never asked you how specific the Oath is in that regard. I am related to your father through mine.”

This was a new thought indeed.

“Father probably swore the Oath with only himself and his children in mind.”

“But it is not worded that way.”

Maglor shook his head. “It isn’t, but I am not sure if the Oath is bound to word or intent.”

“So you would have to kill your mother, should she hold a silmaril?”

“I don’t know”, Maglor repeated. “I don’t know.”

Chapter Text

The new day dawned and a red sun rose in the east. The rays touched Maglor’s face and the slight bit of warmth was what woke him up. He opened his eyes and after some adjustment, he saw the others sleeping beside the cold ash of the fire. Edrahil and Moïn were awake, having had the last watch that night.

During breakfast, Edrahil laid out the plans for the coming days. It was obvious they would not rest again until they reached the mountain range to the north. The plains in between their current location and the mountains had been deemed unsafe by the few merchants trying to take the straight road between Dor-Lómin and Nargothrond without passing through Doriath.

“We need to make good time”, Edrahil said with a stern voice. “These lands aren’t safe, and with every minute we tarry, the chance of the enemy spotting us will get bigger. We had luck last evening, the yrchs were few, but we won’t be so lucky a second time.”

“How can you be sure the mountains will afford us protection?”, Andwen interjected. “From what I remember, goblins prefer the dark caves in the stone. Who tells us we are not camping right in front of their doorstep, so to speak?”

“These are the mountains south of Dor-Lómin, and still under the rule of the Noldor. No warnings of goblins in these mountains has come to Nargothrond, which allows the assumption of relative safety there”, Finrod told her. “But I would say, a third person on watch at night would be good.”

“First we have to get there”, Andwen remarked. “Will we stay on the road?”

“Yes.” Edrahil rolled his eyes a bit. “With the rain of the last few days, we have to expect the plains to be muddy, hard terrain for our horses.”

This seemed to pacify Andwen, and she just nodded. Maglor understood her concerns, considering the likelihood of the road being watched by the enemy. Edrahil’s point was sound as well, and the ellon had made the decision already, probably last night, together with Finrod.

It took not long to pack up the camp and saddle the horses. Morroch had spent the night nearby and came as soon as Maglor whistled for him.

The stallion rubbed his snout against Maglor’s shoulder for a moment, as if to ask for some kind of treat. The minstrel found a dry piece of bread to give to his horse, which seemed to satisfy it.

As soon as the company was read, they all mounted their steeds and were on their way north again.

Maglor rode beside Melwyn for the first day. The warrior from the east did not talk much and concentrated for the most part on her own horse. It was a bit uneasy around Morroch, but hopefully this would settle with time. Ahead of them rode Finrod, Beren, Dunêl and Edrahil. The others followed behind. Maglor could hear some talking from Edrin and Dirog, Beren’s friends. If he was correct, both of them were not in favour of him joining the company, having seen his brothers desert. Maglor tried to shrug the thought off. He hoped he would not be forced to desert as well.

To their left, the River Narog flowed in its bed. The rain of the previous days had filled the river up, and the water was running dangerously close to the edge of the river bed. Should it rain again, there was a danger of the path being flooded. Gazing over the plains, Maglor could see that Edrahil had been right. The rain had made the lands around a muddy region. Going anywhere else than the path would have been a bad decision. The terrain would have made their horses slow and a danger to their health. If they lost the horses, it would be a big problem. Maglor especially did not want to loose his stallion. Training him had taken long and made them comfortable with each other. It did not change the fact, that Morroch had a quality which made other horses a bit nervous around him, though Melwyn’s steed got used to that soon enough.

There was not much talk or movement between places in the company. Everyone tended to stay next to those they were most comfortable with.

Hence it was surprising, was that on the second day, Beren let his horse fall back a few steps and he came to ride beside Maglor.

“Finrod speaks highly of you”, the man said to start the conversation.

Maglor turned towards him. “He does? Somehow I find that hard to believe, after what my family has done.”

“Your family, isn’t that the point? Felagund says you’re different than them.”

“Not everyone thinks so.”

“I trust his judgement, he should know you best.”

Maglor resisted the urge to raise his eyebrows. Edrahil knew him well, too, and this ellon wasn’t too happy with him joining the company. Than I am thankful that you are listening to his council and no the one of your mates.”

“They are good friends, but quick to judge. I would rather get to know you for myself, and for the person you are, not who they say you are.”

“Thank you. But I must warn you. Part of what they say is true. The moment you lay your hands on a silmaril and claim it as your own, I will be forced to kill you.”

Beren shuddered, finally a sensible reaction from the man. “Then we shall not let it come to this.” Then he smiled. “I am grateful for your decision to come along on this quest.”

“For better or worse”, Maglor just remarked.

“We will see. Until then, a truce?”, Beren offered.

“Good”, Maglor agreed. “I really don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Why the Oath then?”

“Loyalty. At that moment, it seemed like the best option.”

Beren nodded. “I understand why, and I don’t.”

“I only know the basics of why you chose this quest.”

The man sighed. “Love is a foolish thing. I fell in love with Luthien of Doriath, and for her hand, her father Thingol demands a silmaril as prize.”

“He wants to see you fail.”

“He does not expect my return, that much is true.”

“What did your girl, Luthien, say about this?”

“She raged, but I had already agreed by that point. She hates I have to go on this quest.”

“She’s half Maiar”, Maglor remarked. “The quest would have been much more easy with her accompanying you.”

“Her father forbade her leaving Doriath until my return.”

Maglor sighed. “He must hate you.”

“That he does. But I love Luthien and she loves me, so I will deal with every stone laid in our way.”

“Good luck then, and for all our sakes, I hope you will lead this company true. Love can be a bad influence when making decisions.” A memory of Fingon following Maedhros blindly at Alqualondё flashed through Maglor’s mind. The love had clouded his dear cousin’s mind and made him rush into battle without question. His family was now doomed as well, as was Maglor’s.

Beren nodded once again and grunted. He made no promises, which Maglor appreciated. He had heard to many promises and he had seen so many broken before the day ended. The man let himself fall back farther, to ride beside his friends he brought along, which left Maglor again with silent Melwyn as company.

Maglor knew the maps, of course. He knew where they were headed. At the foot of the mountains, where the Narog flowed, were the Eithel Ivrin, a place of beauty. The crystal clear water of the mountains gathered there in many shallow ponds, surrounded by some of the oldest trees of Beleriand. In spring and summer, it was a sight to see, with flowers blooming everywhere. Once, Fingolfin had chosen to host the greatest feast there, the Mereth Aderthad. It was a feast everyone who attended it would remember forever.

As he rode along the road to that fabled place, Maglor started to wonder if it remained as in his memories. Now, with orcs raiding the lands, there was a high probability of the Eithel Ivrin being disturbed. It would be a loss for all elves to see this beautiful lands blemished and gone. Unfortunately, there were only few strongholds remaining, and not enough warriors to spare to protect these gems of creation.

“You are looking ahead”, Melwyn interrupted his thoughts. “Are you expecting an ambush?”

Maglor turned to her and shook his head. “I was remembering something about the place we are about to reach.”

“Will you tell me? I am afraid I know almost nothing of the lands north of Nargothrond. I never left after my arrival from the eastern lands.”

“How much do you know?”

“I saw maps and got told some about the cities and castles. About the High King in Mithrim, and about the Lords Maedhros and Caranthir up in the cold hills near the enemy. As I can’t read your language well, the knowledge of books has been kept from me.”

“Then you know about the most important strongholds we have”, Maglor replied. “How much do you know about elven history?”

“Again, not much. I got told about the kinslaying, with started your journey. By the talks in the company, I know you belong to the family they all blame; Finrod and the High King must be your cousins then.”

“That much is true. I was looking ahead, because if we are following the road, then we will come to a place important to our history. Shortly after Fingolfin was crowned as High King, he held a great feast and invited many. It was later called the ‘Mereth Aderthad’ which loosely translates to Feast of Reunion. It was held at the Eithel Ivrin, a landscape with small yet beautiful waterfalls.”

“This is where we are heading?”

Maglor nodded. “If we do indeed follow the road. It would be a good place to rest.”

“I for once, would like to see that place”, Melwyn said. “Maybe you can tell me more stories about that feast, when we are resting?”

“I would love to.”

Chapter Text

Maglor knew his maps well, of course, and he was right. The road they followed led them straight to the Eithel Ivrin. From afar, one could not see them at first, as the pools and small rivers were hidden behind the trees. Most eyes were drawn to the looming mountains overhead anyway. Maglor, Finrod and Edrahil might have been the only three of the company to have seen the place and witnessed the Mereth Aderthad. It had been so long ago after all.

“You are remembering the Aderthad, right?”, Finrod’s voice woke him from his musings.

Maglor turned to him. His lovely cousin had fallen back from where he had ridden at the front of the company together with Beren and Edrahil and was now to his left. “You could guess?”

“Of course!” As he laughed, Finrod’s face shone with the light of the Trees of old. “There was fondness in your gaze, but also a bit of distaste at the memory. And I know you would not look this fond upon these mountains, so it must have been a memory. Hence, the Aderthad.”

“Perceptive”, Maglor muttered. “For once.”

“I remember well the quarrel you had with the minstrel Doriath sent, Daeron, right?”

“Stop teasing me. I command it.”

“You have no ruling power here”, Finrod replied and winked. “Is he still a sore point for you?”

Maglor thought about it for a moment. It was true, Daeron of Doriath was an excellent musician and many had said he was at the same level as Maglor himself. It had once stung, this comparison, maybe because their styles were so different. “Not really. I came to realize our niches of song were different, so any comparison made would have been based on the opinion of the speaker and not been objective. Still, I don’t like it if people try to tease me about it.”

Finrod nodded. “Alright, I won’t do so again. What are your thoughts on the company?”

“It is a colourful bunch of characters, I’ll give you that. You must have inspired great loyalty in them to tag along on this suicidal quest.”

“It’s not suicidal.”

“Keep telling yourself that, if it makes you sleep better at night”, Maglor remarked. “It was a fool’s decision to try and go around Tol Sirion.”

“The other option was going through Maedhros’ lands and all of the company have seen what two of your brothers are capable of. Maedhros is the eldest, I could not have convinced them to step a foot closer to Himring.”

“Fair. Celegorm and Curufin must have done a number on you.”

“You have no idea.” Finrod’s eyes grew black and cold. “Their betrayal hurt, especially because I gave them shelter after they lost their lands and homes. How did you know about their betrayal? To be here, you must have been halfway to Nargothrond to meet a messenger.”

“I was in Himring at the time of their betrayal. Curufin sent Maedhros a message through the bond of our family. Curufin is the only one who is able to communicate short messages this way over longer distances and it tires him greatly. I rode out a day later, with Maedhros’ blessings.”

Finrod sighed. “I sometimes forget how skilled Curufin is in certain things. Maedhros truly gave you his blessings?”

“Well, he told me I could do what I wanted, he was not going to send you an army. The day I rode out, he wished me luck, agreeing that a stealth mission was at the moment our only hope of regaining the stones.”

“Sometimes you Fёanorions are a mystery to me. Even now I can’t be sure if your desire to help is genuine, or if you are planning to stab me in the back.” Finrod sighed. “Alas, this is the fate I have chosen.”

Maglor felt bad, because Finrod was right about not trusting him completely. “I suppose it won’t help if I tell that I don’t know yet?”

Their darkened conversation came to a halt as the first trees appeared in the distance ahead. Despite the war not having spared these lands, the trees stood tall and their leaves were raised to the light.

“I had almost forgotten how beautiful this place is”, Finrod said and sighed. “The Mereth Aderthad was a marvel and this landscape was one of the reasons for it.”

Maglor just nodded. He remembered as well. “Melwyn asked me if I could tell her more about our history, especially about the Mereth Aderthad. She comes from the east and hasn’t grown up with the stories.”

“She is a clever one. The day she arrived at Nargothrond I should count as a blessing.”

“You remember the day she joined your people?”

Finrod grinned. “It was a bit of a commotion, as she is the first person to ever make the long travel over the mountains. Neither elves nor men have done it, the men even say that the mountains are the end of the world.”

“So her arrival did away with this theory?”

“Not many believe her.”

“But you do.”

“Yes, I do. We talked for a long time, about her people and mine. Let me tell you, the ways of the men in the east are interesting. If you two talk more, I am sure you will find out a bit more.”

Now Maglor was interested. He wouldn’t run to Melwyn and ask her though. If she wanted to tell him about her culture, he would wait for her to share.

“What do you think about a bit of a storytime, telling everyone about the Aderthad?”, Finrod stopped his thoughts.

They found a place to rest beneath the trees near the water of one of the ponds. It was in sight of the bigger flat space, where once the high table for the honoured guests had stood. By now, all traces of the feast were gone, washed away by rain, wind and time. The trees had grown taller and new ones had sprouted. Here the passage of the years was clearer than in other parts of the elven realms. Maglor welcomed the change, but he also mourned a bit for what was lost.

“It looks different”, Edrahil commented, as he came to a stop next to Finrod.

“There was growth here”, Maglor said loud enough for the other ellon to hear. They weren’t friends, but maybe Edrahil could at least be civil during the quest.

At least right now the other seemed to be in a peaceful mood. “Yes, the trees grew stronger.”

A fire was built to keep everyone warm and food from the provisions was shared. Andwen and one of the dwarves even crafted fishing rods from their weapons and wire, in the hopes of catching some fish.

“The lady told me there is a lot of your history that happened here”, one of the dwarves spoke up. If Maglor remembered correctly, their name was Moïn.

Finrod nodded. “Yes. Important for our people, the event that took place here was.”

“I think I know about it”, Moïn said. “But my memory isn’t fresh. Will you do us the honour of a retelling, King Finrod?”

“I will and Maglor too.”

“Let’s get comfortable first”, Maglor suggested, “It is a longer tale.”

“Our people, the Noldor elves came to these lands in two groups, which did not really like each other, despite the Lords being related to each other”, Finrod began the tale. Maglor had to hold back a snort though. ‘Not liking’ was putting it mildly.

“The first one was led by my family, we came by boat which were stolen in a bloody uprising. Shortly after we arrived at these shores, my father, king of the host, died and my elder brother Maedhros was taken captive by the enemy.”

“Our cousin Fingon, who came with his father in the second host who walked over the grinding ice, went and through some miracle, was able to free him. He and Maedhros were inseparable for a long time.”

Maglor just nodded, but again, he almost laughed inside. Fingon and Maedhros were more inseparable now than they had ever been, but he doubted Finrod knew about that.

“Well, my elder brother then took the crown and gave it to Fingon’s father Fingolfin, effectively uniting our people again.”

“I can image that wasn’t without problems”, Moïn said, their voice low. “I know how much fighting there is between the dwarf-lords, I image it to be similar with you elves.”

“It wasn’t.” Finrod sighed once again. “So to truly get these two factions to mingle, Fingolfin invited everyone to a feast and he called it the Mereth Aderthad.”

“The feast of Reunion”, Maglor said, this time laughing a little. “Already the name told everyone what was the goal of the feast. Which wasn’t unwelcome, as I personally have a distaste for backhanded politics. And to everyone’s surprise, even Thingol sent a few elves, but not more.”

Finrod grinned and Maglor could almost feel how much effort his handsome cousin had in biting back a few comments about Daero n and the rivalry.

“Did it work, the Reunion?”, Beren asked, clearly engrossed in the story.

Chapter Text

“To a certain degree. It did not endear Thingol to our people, but the divide between the groups of the Noldor lessened.”

“How so?”, Melwyn asked.

“We came to terms that we were to be always of two minds. The followers of my father would fight for justice and the return of the silmaril, while those who followed Fingolfin would fight for their life, the people and the king. Which made us allies underneath the same king, but the agenda of my family could not be changed. The Oath we swore is binding, even today.”

Finrod nodded. “Which none should ever forget. This alliance works for everyday politics and for fighting against the enemy, but when the silmarils are concerned, we have to tread carefully, lest dear Maglor here turns into a driven maniac.”

“Do not joke about this,” Maglor growled. “It could very well happen.”

Beren at least had listened to the story very intently, Maglor could see it in him. The man was thinking deep thoughts about this history. “How did you word the Oath, to have it being so binding?”

“I’d rather not repeat those words.” Maglor was well aware that it was a bad idea to tell others how to swear binding Oaths. It was better if nobody ever attempted to follow this as a tradition. “I can tell you though that it is a very bad idea to swear oneself to the everlasting darkness should one not regain the silmarils from those who are not kin in the name of Eru and the Valar.”

“Oh. And. I don’t know if I should ask, how does the Oath feel?”

“Like a push and a pull. As long as Morgoth holds them, it is subdued, because we are not strong enough to regain them and there is a bit of self-preservation in the Oath. But if one was held by your kin, or by Thingol, I do not know what will happen. Likely, it will be bad.” Maglor thought about what the Oath had driven them all to already. He feared it could become worse, but his companions did not need to know about his dark thoughts.

“You predict your future to be bleak?” Finrod sounded weary when he came to Maglor a while later. After the retelling of the Mereth Aderthad, the minstrel had gone for a walk. He had needed a bit time alone and here he did feel a bit safer, maybe because he knew this place. Finrod must have come in search of him, he had stayed away for a while after all.

Maglor looked at his cousin. There was a light to him in this darkness underneath the stars where the brightness of the campfire did not reach them. He was almost a beacon in the night. “I know the evil which I am capable of. Do you see something different?”

Finrod’s family was gifted with the foresight after all. Artanis, Galadriel as she now called herself, had been the one with the strongest visions of the future and she had rarely been wrong. Finrod, Maglor knew, was able to catch glimpses of what could come, too.

For a few moments, there was silence between them. Finrod stared at Maglor, which made the minstrel feel a bit uneasy for a moment. “I see us both standing in the tower I built”, Finrod confessed. “But before you joined me on this quest, it was only me alone. But I have never been able to see farther than this.”

“So your prediction is that we will die?”

“No. My prediction is that this is a turning point for us and no outcome is set in stone.”

Maglor raised his eyebrows in doubt. “But it is likely we will die.”

Finrod’s silence spoke for itself. It was not a novel idea for Maglor, that this quest could end in his death, in him being cast into the Void he swore himself to.

“You fear it.”

No point in denying it. “Yes.”

“Come here,” Finrod said, opening his arms in an invitation for an embrace.

For a moment, Maglor was uncertain if he should accept the offer, but then he just stepped forward, into the waiting arms of his brilliant friend.

“Let’s make a promise”, Finrod suggested.

“Finrod”, Maglor protested, muffled against the shoulder of his golden cousin.

“No oath, no witnesses. Let’s promise to each other that we will do our best to survive this. Can you do that?”

Maglor nodded.

Maglor and Finrod soon returned to the campfire. Finrod was whisked away by the dwarves almost instantly which left Maglor to sit with Melwyn. She was a women from the east and had come to Nargothrond as emissary of her people, just as Bór had dealings with Maedhros. Right now, she applied some sword oil to the blade of her weapon. Her sword was unusual for a human warrior, curved in the style some elvish swords were. It had a distinct different feel though and she allowed Maglor to hold it once.

“These swords were made for moving combat, in horse-drawn wagons”, she explained. “It is easy to take the head off a foe with it.” A dangerous smirk crossed her face for a moment. How the conversation had gotten this dark in but a moment was beyond the minstrel.

But also the idea of wagons in combat seemed impractial. “ Wagons?”, Malgor asked, for he needed some clarification.

She nodded. “Yes. On the plains and deserts of my home it is most efficient. Your battlefields however might be unsuited to such tactics, as far as I can tell.”

“Does your blade have a name?”

She shook her head. “No. Do you elves name every tool you own? For my people, a sword is nothing more, easy to exchange.”

“No, we do not name our tools”, Maglor conceded. “Swords are different, for we know a craft how to enhance them with what you would call magic. It makes them, well, personal to us.”

“Magic? How does this work?”

“I am no expert”, Maglor said. “I do not know how it is achieved, as I am no smith of considerable craft. I know the effects though. My blade is enchanted to ward of thieves and to not dull as easily. It is the blade of a murderer made by another.”

She nodded. “Useful enchantments”, she judged.

“Have you been raised as a warrior?”, Maglor asked her.

Melwyn shook her head. “No. Children are raised so they can choose for themselves.”

“How does this work?”, Maglor asked her. In the elven community, the profession was chosen based on talent.

“As I grew up, I had the chance to be an apprentice in every craft I was interested in”, Melwyn explained. “At first I tried those crafts preferred by many women, weaving fabrics, embroidery. I found no love for them, so I went to a smith, but the work was not for me either. Hunting was close, and later I ended up with the guard.”

“You were able to learn from educated craftsmen?”

“Yes, of course. How is it for you elves?”

“We learn much from our parents. And sometimes, we find our interests elsewhere despite it and search for teachers. We have much more time than you do though.”

She nodded. “Yes, the time for our kin is limited. What is your craft?”

“Songcraft.”

“You are a minstrel? I thought you were a warrior.”

[Melwyn, human warrior from the east]

“Almost every elf is a warrior these days, we have to be. But my true talent, the one I was educated in, lay somewhere else.”

“Past tense?” Oh, she was a clever one. She had easily picked up on his evasion tactic.

Maglor grimaced. “You must understand, for us elves, music is a way to channel the magic of this world. These days, my songs may still sound beautiful, but I seem to have lost a big piece of my connection to the craft.”

“You elves are strange, talking about magic and such. But, what are you doing differently?”

“Nothing.”

“There must be”, she insisted.

Maglor shook his head. “Maybe it’s because I killed so many.”

Melwyn nodded. “Now, let’s talk about the magic. What were you able to do with it?”

Maglor did not know why he felt the urge to answer her. She was curious, and this was almost too much. This was deeply personal and an aspect of elven culture. “I was able to feel the nature around me and could fix cracks in metal and stone. Not especially useful with a father as skilled as mine, but it was something no other of my siblings could do. Later, I found out how to make elves feel better who were sad. I lost the talent in the first years in these lands.”

Melwyn raised her eyebrows. “I almost can’t believe such talents exist. Most of my people will call you a liar, for magic is not something we have access to. Those who claim to practice it often do so with ill intent and are pretenders. Maybe magic is a thing of the land you came from, which does not work here?”

“It is inherently a part of Valinor indeed”, Maglor said. “But the loss is still great in my heart.

“Understandable. I wish you the best of luck, maybe you will regain your talent, even if it may be in a different form.”

He nodded in thanks. She was gentle about it, even if she not fully understood, which made him glad. The conversation was over and he left her to her own thoughts.

Chapter Text

For the following day, the goal had been set to reach the spring of the river Teilgin, which was to the east. The company would have to follow the feet of the mountains to get there. It would be a long ride. Making the spring of the river the goal to reach was a strategic move though. It meant they would not have to cross the river in a place where it was more dangerous to do so. There was another river to cross after that one anyway, which would likely become a challenge.

To Maglor’s surprise, Finrod ordered him to ride with him and Edrahil together at the front of the company. Beren had apparently some with to discuss with his warriors, which was why he was with them in the middle. The dwarves rode directly behind Finrod this day.

“I had not expected to ride beside you today.”

Finrod smiled. “I wanted to spend some more time with you. I think we could catch up a bit, I mean we were friends once.”

“I like to think that we might be again”, Maglor told him.

Beside them, Edrahil made some choked sounds. “You sometimes seem to forget what happened.” The dark look the elf was shooting Maglor spoke more than his words could.

“I am not my family.”

“And what do you want to say with that?” Edrahil sounded upset. “That you are only a part of it?”

Finrod obviously wanted to step in and end that discussion, but Maglor was faster to reply. “Please air your grievances with me now, otherwise it will overshadow this whole journey.”

Edrahil shut his mouth. “You know them well, you were among those who set fire to the ship, condemning many to death on the ice. Your branch of the family has their own agenda, with the Oath, which will on day be the downfall of us all.”

“I won’t deny any of this”, Maglor said. “But know that I am not my siblings and that I am trying to do what is necessary for this quest.”

A low grumble came from Edrahil.

“Peace now, old friend”, Finrod suggested. “If you can’t accept me trying to be friendly with Maglor, you should probably ride with Dunél.”

It was a dismissal. Maglor thought that Finrod was a bit harsh in his words. He and Edrahil were friends, better friends than he and Maglor were, after all.

Edrahil at least took it with grace and bowed out. “You know where to find me.”

“That was a bit harsh”, Maglor said. “His worries are founded and you know it.”

Finrod shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He will come around eventually.”

“Or I’ll prove him right.”

“We’ll see, I guess.” Finrod shrugged again. “Now, let’s change the topic. How was life in Himring for you?”

The question caught Maglor a bit off guard, so it took him a while to answer. “It was good.”

“So Maedhros was lenient with you and didn’t put you to work?”

“Oh, he gave me tasks as soon as I took my residence at Himring. He put me to work very early on. But. It was work I liked, dealing with the horses and other animals. Well, mostly the logistics around it, to help his steward.”

“I wasn’t aware that Himring had more animals than horses for riding out. I assumed the hill is too barren for much to grow.”

“That’s mostly true. The hay for the horses comes from the fields down the mountain, but some sheep and goats can survive on what grows between the stones.”

“I didn’t know that. So, you were able to cuddle with the sheep all day?”

Finrod hardly left Maglor’s side that day and they talked about a lot. Especially about Maglor’s time in Himring, where he lived since the fall of the Gap which he had governed. Sometimes Maglor managed to throw in a small question about Nargothrond, but those were few in between.

Thankfully this day, too, went by without a battle or even a sighing of orcs. It was a relief for the whole company. With the ground thankfully drying up after the days of rainfall, they were able to traverse some distance and came to the spring of the River Teiglin by nightfall. Here they would rest until the morrow, to not have to travel throughout the darkness.

At its spring, the river was nought but a trickle which flowed out between a formation of rocks. It was easy to jump over. Farther downstream a crossing would have been almost impossible, because this one was fed by many smaller streams.

They set up camp for the night there, where they could still hear the water run over the stones in the river bed. As was usual, Finrod and Beren took themselves a bit away to discuss something Maglor had no right in hearing. He wasn’t left alone though. As soon as the fire was burning, Indwen sat down beside him.

“Will you teach me a song tonight?”, she asked. “I’d love to hear one.”

Maglor wasn’t too enthusiastic at first. They were all getting closer to the north, to where the enemy was. They were at the foot of the mountains. There was a chance the voices would be carried far.

It was Andwen, the human woman, who encouraged him. “I doubt your voices will be our downfall. If the enemy hasn’t seen or heard us move today, we should be safe. Also, I think some song is what this company needs tonight.”

So, Maglor sang a song he had once written in the Gap. It seemed so far away, the green plains long lost to fire and ruin. He remembered it well, the hills stretching out to the south-west of the narrow gap between the mountains. The Gap, which he had been tasked to hold and failed.

He let the song come to an end and looked around. There had been no magic in his voice, but his audience was awed nonetheless. Even the men in the company, who decidedly did not like Maglor, were watching him with baited breath.

“That was beautiful”, Indwen told him. “I hope I managed to put it to my mind correctly.”

“Want to sing with me the refrain one last time?”

She nodded and so Maglor began. After the first few words had left his mouth, she joined him. It was glorious indeed.

“Now teach me one of yours?”, Maglor asked her.

She nodded. “But I think I need to explain the contents of the song, for you to truly understand it.”

“Please do.”

“It is a song I developed shortly after the rising of the sun for the first time. As you can imagine, it was quite the surprise for everybody and so much changed in such a short time. Those you call now the Avari people had to change quickly. We were very much adjusted to having the stars to guide us and them and the plants being our only light. Now much of our way of living had been upturned and many were frightened. The glowing plants died quickly and even with the moon, our nights were now different enough, too.”

Maglor nodded. He could of course not fully understand the scope of what she was telling, because he had been born in the light and never experienced the darkness. It was hard for him to grasp the images her voice painted. The feeling of living in times of change and being afraid of it, that he could emphasise with.

“So, I made a song about hope. About accepting the change and coming to terms with it. About courage in the face of trying times.”

Then she opened her mouth and started with the first tunes. Her voice was very different from most Noldorin singers, whose first priority had always been to convey power and strength. Indwen however, her tunes were almost sweet, but there was an edge to it. The Sindarin she used was infused with some sort of dialect, one which Maglor would not be able to reproduce. He assumed it was the dialect she had come to speak after learning Sindarin. He would have to ask her one day about it.

The song was indeed of hope and courage and it spoke to Maglor on a deep level. He came to the realization that she was singing it for everyone in the company, as they all needed some encouragement going forward. They were maybe two of three days worth of travel away from entering the valley with would lead to Tol Sirion. Maglor committed every word of the song to memory and just as she had done with him, joined her in the last refrain.

After their songs, quiet fell over the group until Melwyn let herself sink down next to Maglor and Indwen.

“That was beautiful. I have to say you elves have some real talent for songs.”

“Thank you”, Indwen murmured.

“But, to be honest, I have a very very different question about something. Though it might be impolite. At least my people would not really like that question.”

“Ask away”, Maglor told her. “I think with the quest we’re on, we can deal with uncomfortable questions, too.”

“Alright. So… How do you elves deal with such long hair?”, Melwyn asked in a rush, shaking her own head of short black braids. The few wooden pearls in them were clinking against each other.

Maglor and Indwen looked at her.

Indwen was the first to respond. “The length usually doesn’t bother us”, she said and shrugged.

“But. Isn’t it like, hindering you in combat?”

“No”, Indwen replied, clearly not seeing the relevance in the question.

“You keep it open?”

Maglor saw what this was about, but just nodded. “Most of the time. When we march into battle, we sometimes braid it and hide it in the backs of our armour.”

“But what if an orc grabs it?”

“Usually, they won’t be able to hold on”, Indwen said and shrugged.

“How?”

Maglor felt the need to explain, even if he did not understand the matter himself. “Elven hair is very sleek and somehow most orcs can’t hold them. It gets problematic when they wear gloves or substances”, here he wrinkled his nose a bit, “on their hands though.”

“Oh? And how do you braid it then? How do ribbons hold?”

Again Indwen shrugged. “My tribe used cloth made from a certain plant for it. The Noldor have a special kind of fabric for it, too. Why, is it different for you?”

“Yes, that’s why I was asking.”

“How is it for you?”, Indwen asked, now curious about the differences between their people.

“It differs. Where I come from, most people have very curly black hair, just as I do.” Melwyn explained a bit more about the hairstyles in her home. Most warriors actually wore their hair very short, sometimes even went bald, with a cloth to protect them from the sun up in the sky. The other popular hairstyle among fighters were braids, often with beads. If one chose braids, they could be kept in for a longer period of time until they had to be redone. It depended on the regrowth of the strands.

“Yours is curly?”, Indwen asked. “I did not know that, in your braids, it looks very straight-ish.”

“Oh, mine is very curly.” Melwyn shook her head, letting the beads clink again. “It takes forever to add these braids though.”

“I can imagine”, Indwen said as she appreciated the work. “Why don’t you leave it unbraided?”

“It sprawls into every direction if I keep it open, one could even say it poofs out and in battle this is dangerous. Enemies like orcs could grip it easily and hence hurt me. Or kill me.”

“Oh”, Indwen said. “So that’s also why you keep your hair rather short, right?”

“Indeed”, Melwyn said. She then went a bit into different braiding styles, clearly a topic she knew a lot about, especially about the traditions of her home. “Over time, some intricate styles of braiding evolved. They can tell much about the station and profession of a person.”

“What do yours tell?”, Maglor asked, now curious.

“Nothing”, the easterling warrior laughed. “Alone, I can’t braid them with these intricate patterns, and there is none other who I can ask. It is a bit of a sacred ritual between warriors of my kin, you need to understand.” Much quieter she added that she missed her old travelling companions a bit, not only because of the braiding.

Indwen actually smiled. “Your traditions considering the braiding of hair are not so different from ours. We also have some hairstyles with meaning and don’t let everyone touch it. Elves in general don’t like anyone touching their hair.”

Melwyn nodded. “There our cultures may overlap.” She grinned. “Maybe we can find some other similarities?”

Chapter Text

As it was their habit, they did not rest for longer than the rising of the sun. With the first rays of light, they rolled up their sleeping bags or whatever they had put on the ground to make the sleep more comfortable and put them back on their horses. Today the goal was, as Maglor understood it, to reach the River Lithir and if possible, to cross it.

“You think we can make it?”, Maglor asked Finrod shortly after they had left their resting place.

Finrod grimaced. “We can reach it, yes. The crossing however, that could be a problem.”

“Why that?”

“The bridge burned when the orcs came”, Finrod told him. “The river is already deep and running fast in that place, but it is coming like this from the mountains. Finding a place to cross it will be complicated, especially with the horses.”

“We may need to ride a bit further downstream, if we can’t cross near the bridge”, Maglor mused.

Finrod nodded. “I don’t like that this part of our journey depends this much on luck. The rains of the last weeks may not have helped either. I fear the river will be much broader than it usually is.”

“We can’t know it yet, I guess it depends if it rained in the mountains, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.” Finrod sighed. “Still, I worry.”

“But you knew the bridge had been destroyed before you embarked on this quest. Why did you not choose a different way?”

“You know why I could not dare the crossing of the plains west of Amon Rudh.”

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the dwarf Moïn, who needed to discuss something with Finrod as well. Maglor smiled at his cousin one last time, before Finrod turned his horse apologetically around.

For a while, Maglor rode without a companion by his side. In front of him were Indwen and Melwyn locked into conversation. Ever since the last night, the beginnings of a friendship had formed between them. Indwen especially seemed very interested in the traditions and workings of Melwyn’s home country.

Soon though, both Dunêl and Beren pulled up next to Maglor.

“We were just deep in conversation and your family came up”, Beren began, “and I think Dunêl here might have a question for you.”

“Oh? About what?”

Dunêl seemed a bit shy. “Nothing important.”

“That’s a lie.” Beren rolled his eyes. “This elf here wants to become a smith and is looking for a master to teach him.”

Dunêl blushed, a very rare sight in an elf, but he was still a young one, born after the rising of the sun.

Beren almost laughed. “I see, I have to do the talking.”

“I am no master of this craft”, Maglor interrupted him. “I am a minstrel first and a fighter second. Though my father has tried to teach me, I do not have any talent with metalworking.”

“Dunêl here was thinking about Celebrimbor. Do you think your nephew could take him as an apprentice, if we return that is?”

Maglor thought about it for a moment. “I haven’t seen Celebrimbor in years, but he was never against teaching the craft to others – in that he is quite different from both his grandfather and father. I would encourage you to ask him, when you see him next”, Maglor advised. “Celebrimbor is certainly the easiest elf of my family to get on with.”

“Thank you, my Lord”, Dunêl whispered. “I will ask him.”

“Please do so”, Maglor encouraged him further. “I think it is time he teaches someone his craft and you sound very enthusiastic.”

“I am, my Lord. I already learned some basics from a blacksmith in the town I was growing up. Sadly he passed away in battle, shortly after I moved to Nargothrond.”

“Then you should get along with my nephew well”, Maglor told him.

“Again, thank you.” After that, Dunêl seemed to realize the conversation was over and fell back to talk to Edrahi some more, which left Maglor to ride beside Beren.

“He’s very eager”, the man commented.

“Yes, he’s very young, too, not even two full centuries yet.”

Beren chuckled. “Well, he’s probably lived thrice the lifetime of a man already, so I wouldn’t say he’s young.”

“From your perspective”, Maglor grumbled.

“But on to something else. You almost constantly look troubled, my companion”, Beren said and changed the course of their conversation.

“I am often wondering about the future.”

“What is it that concerns your mind?”

Maglor sighed internally. Why did Beren steer every of their conversations into the directions of the Silmaril. It would not do to antagonize or threaten him, not even as a warning. Maglor found he quite enjoyed talking to Beren, even if the topic was this difficult. Maybe talking with him wasn’t the worst he could do, maybe then Beren would better understand the gravity of his promise and this quest. “How much do you know of the silmaril?”

“Not overly much. I mean, Finrod told me they are connected to your family somehow - your father made them? And you already spoke of the dreadful Oath which led to the betrayal of Felagund by your brothers. I guess it is the important bits.”

Maglor grimaced. “There is much more to it.” He sighed, unsure if he should try to educate the man. His kind had proven to be resistant against knowledge before.

“Will you tell me?”, Beren asked. His interest was genuine at least. Maybe there was hope for him.

“It is a long story”, Maglor started. “It began in Valinor, before the sun had risen in the sky.” Alone this left Beren staring. For him, this was certainly beyond his imagination. Nevertheless the singer continued. “My father, in Sindarin he would have been called Fёanor, he was the greatest smith. In his greatest work he used the light of the Trees, a work of Yvanna and Varda, and he called the gems the silmaril. He claimed he would never be able to surpass his work and thusly was reluctant to share their glory with any other. Even my siblings and I, we weren’t allowed to look upon them often. Only with grandfather Finwё he shared.”

“Finwё? How is he related to the current high King? I am sorry, but I have no complete picture of your royal line.”

“High King Fingon is his grandson, to me he is a cousin, Son of my father’s half-brother. I am sure you know my eldest brother abdicated in favour of his line.”

“I heard of it”, Beren stated. “How does the story go on?”

“Morgoth, then still Melkor of the Valar, learned of the stones and he hated them for the light of the trees. He poisoned father’s mind, I think, for him to become so covetous. Father drew the sword upon Fingolfin and was exiled for it and we with him. One day Melkor returned, with a beast from the darkness. He destroyed the trees and it became lasting night.”

Beren nodded. “This was before my people were around.”

“The rest of the Valar had a plan to revive the trees at first, but it included the destruction of the silmaril. My father was not pleased, for they acted as if he owed them to them. And this was a treatment my paranoid father did not take well. He refused and went to his exile. Where he Finwё slain and the silmaril stolen. In pain and anguish he rallied our people to his cause. Oh, how evil were the things we did!”

“Thingol said he would slay you, if you ever came to Menegroth.”

“And rightfully so. We slew his kin, the Teleri, at Alqualondё. We are murders, now bound to an Oath.”

Beren was silent for a moment. “Again, why don’t you just break the Oath?”

Maglor laughed bitterly. “We are elves of Valinor. Any oath sworn to the Valar is binding. Only they can release us.”

“Then ask them. As I understand it, they hear your prayers.”

“My father worded this Oath, and he was the most cunning linguist in all of Arda. We swore to Eru, the one above. We are bound for all eternity.”

“So you cannot break it?”

“Never. It is a compulsion, pushing us forwards. At times, we can ignore it. As long as the dark Valar, which we call Morgoth, has them, we stand no chance. Hence me and my brothers are not running into Angband. As soon as any other being holds one, we are forced to fight them. Fight them with the intent to kill. We swore this.”

“You were idiots, swearing this way.”

“I don’t deny it. But we were our father’s sons and owed him allegiance. Would you have sworn, had your father asked you to? You don’t have to answer now.”

Beren was silent. “So. If I take the silmaril, then you would be forced to kill me, even if you did not want to?”

“Yes. That’s why Finrod is not happy to have me on this trip. I am sure he told you we were friends once.”

“He did. That’s why I am listening to you.”

“Thank you for your graciousness”, Maglor joked.

“What would happen if I took the silmaril, but gave it to you? Would you then be forced to kill me still? I laid hands on it.”

“I suppose not. Because for this stone, the Oath would be fulfilled. But I can’t give it away, because then the Oath would turn against me.”

“Tell me the exact wording”, Beren commanded. “I think I want to understand how your father bound you this way.”

And Maglor did. Everything in him rebelled against ever uttering these damning words again. He hated the day he had to enforce the Oath, when his father died. Fёanáro had been many things, but kind he had not been in his last days. Maglor could not say the words he said, about asking Eru as witness. He could not. He just told Beren about them. The rest of the Oath, he spoke.

“Thank you”, the man said. “It took much out of you, did it?”

Maglor grimaced. “These words are cursed. I am not going to repeat them for you again.”

“At least I will know why your sword will draw my blood.”

“Not necessarily. You have heard Finrod. He will kill me before I can put my blade to you. He is better at sword-play than I am, so I do not doubt his words.”

“I have doubt that he would kill you”, Beren said. “He warned us about your family, but you, he spoke most kindly of.”

“And yet he is bound to you by an oath. It may be less harsh then the one I swore, but an oath nonetheless.”

“I did not wish him to be so bound.”

“It was not you he bound himself to. Also, he bound himself by his own free will. Just as I did.”

“Was it?”

“What?”

“Your own free will? Or did you swear at your father’s command?”

The question alone left Maglor reeling. He thought about it for long, and Beren left him to it. The man did seem to understand the minstrel’s need for quiet. They could talk more on another day.

When they came to the river, Maglor saw that Finrod had been correct. The bridge was nothing more than splintered wood, partially swept away by the flood. It was a tragedy, as it would have been the only easy crossing of the river along their path.

So all of them turned to Finrod, expecting him to make the decision. The blonde elf regarded the river with narrowed eyes. “Here we can’t ge through it.”

Maglor agreed with that statement. The bridge had once been built where the river was narrow. But it being narrow meant it was deep and the current strong. He could even see the telltale circles on the surface speaking of danger there. If they tried to go into the water with the horses here, all of them would surely drown.

“Let us ride a bit further downstream”, Finrod finally decided. “If I remember correctly, the river will get broader there and thus shallow.”

There was really no other thing to do than to follow Finrod’s decision. He had taken this way before on scouting missions.

They found a possible crossing, where the water was shallow and quiet enough to dare the passing it. Of course the horses weren’t very fond of this, as they weren’t able to see the ground underneath the water. It could be rocky and uneven, dangerous for horses in short. Judging by the smaller stones washed on the river shore, this wasn’t the case – but the animals weren’t able to know this.

So Maglor took the chance and rode ahead. Morroch was a loyal steed and he would not let Maglor down. Also, the stallion had quite made an impression on the other horses, so they would likely be willing to follow if he made it.

The first few steps into the river, Morroch made without a fuss. Maglor was so proud of his stallion and its loyalty. He loved that horse. Then it got more complicated though. The current of the river wasn’t as strong compared to where the bridge had been, but it was there. Morroch hesitated for a moment as the water splashed against his legs. Every step from now on would be a difficult one. From up above, Maglor could not estimate how deep the water would be here.

Very deep still was the answer. Soon the water reached Maglor’s legs and he slipped from Morroch’s back, holding onto him by his mane. They drifted a few metres downstream until the horse had ground under his feet again. Then they were almost through.

Dripping wet and now on foot, Maglor turned around and waved to his companions. They looked defeated as they led their horses into the stream.

Chapter Text

They were almost dry again by the time they came to a stop at the entry of the valley. Underneath them, the Sirion flowed, but its water was darkened.

“We need to find a way to pass by Tol Sirion unseen, my King”, Edrahil said. “I can feel the corruption emanating from there to here.”

Dunêl agreed. “We should try to slip past in the cover of night.”

Moïn was of the same opinion, but they had something to add. “We can’t count on the valley being free. We need scouts to find a way.”

“Scouting could be dangerous”, Edrahil remarked.

Finrod nodded. “I want to send scouts, but none against their will.”

“So you’re asking for volunteers?” Beren sounded dubious. “Would anyone go willingly?”

“We could scout ahead”, Dirog offered, pointing at Edrin and himself. Maglor not expected this of them. So far, he had thought rather negatively of the two men. Their willingness to do the dangerous scouting route redeemed those two men a bit in his eyes.

“Anyone else?”

“I could go”, Maglor offered.

Finrod grimaced but did not protest. It was clear he wasn’t too happy with this, but would also not speak against the offer made. He was the leader of this group after all and did not allow himself to show any favouritism.

“I will go with him”, Moïn declared with a steady voice. They held their axe gripped tight.

Gab looked at them furiously and signed something Maglor could not decipher. The dwarven sign language was a mystery to him.

“That was rude”, Moïn remarked, which told Maglor at least a bit about the content of the message. “And my decision is final, my friend. I’ll go with the elf.”

Gab did not look happy and signed something else, this time directed at Finrod.

“It is their decision. I won’t forbid them from going.” Finrod shook his head slightly.

Gab grit his teeth and pressed out air in a huff, turning away.

With this, Maglor found himself paired off with Moïn. All he knew about them was that they hailed from Amon Rudh and had helped in the construction of Nargothrond. It was obvious they spoke Sindarin and the sign language they used to communicate with their friend Gab. Otherwise, Maglor had not had much contact with Moïn during the travel so far.

“Let us go, Master Elf”, Moïn whispered, their voice low, sounding almost a bit tired. “To the right or the left?”

Maglor watched as Dirog and Edrin vanished to their left, scouting their chosen side of the valley. “To the right then.”

“Do you think we could cross the river?” Moïn sounded unsure.

“Doubtful. It is very likely well guarded and we would make too much noise in the water.”

This seemed to satisfy Moïn and they nodded. A few moments later, they asked: “From how far away can you spot orc guards?”

“From a good distance away, if they aren’t in hiding. Otherwise…”, Maglor shook his head and trailed off. “But for now, I think should not worry about hidden guards, this is the enemy’s territory, they should feel very confident here. As it is, I can see the fires and smoke in the dark, farther ahead. There are guards, or camps, for sure.”

Moïn nodded. “I’ll count on you. My eyes don’t see as far as yours do.” They narrowed their eyes until only a flash of green could be seen between their eyelids, just to prove their point, before laughing a little.

Maglor instantly found them sympathetic.

They made their way through the trees growing on the mountainside, closer down to the treeline than the two men had chosen. To Maglor’s surprise, Moïn was very light of foot and careful not to stomp on any branches. Having them for company on this mission was a delight. It was clear Moïn was a skilled dwarf, adept in the art of being silent. It was kinda unexpected for Maglor, who had so far only met heavy armoured and battle-ready warriors of their kind. If he had the chance one day, he would have to ask Moïn about their training and experience. Now, on their hidden mission, it was not the time for long conversation.

They came closer to the tower than expected. The remaining but dying vegetation gave them some cover in the night. They managed to walk around some campfires, around which orcs were gathered. Maglor watched them eat and drink the most disgusting things – whatever it was they drank from the barrels, it smelled like a mix of blood and alcohol and the meat they roasted over the flames stank to the sky. The orcs spoke the dark tongue of their masters, a language Maglor had heard far too often from his own brother to be completely unaware about it. Some words he knew and he didn’t like them. Far too often blood, pain and torture, war and death were uttered for anyone to feel any ease. Maglor felt for the blade at his hip. It was there and a reminder of his duty, his family and his Oath. In this moment, it anchored him. He was here, on a mission to fulfil his Oath or to die on the way. Any wrong step could mean the orcs discovering and surrounding him – his death and some of theirs.

Maglor pushed onwards, Moïn always close behind him. Together they found out that only one bridge remained and it was well guarded indeed. A crossing of the river was impossible – which meant the company had to sneak by on the side of the tower.

They saw the tower Finrod had build getting closer. It was only a mockery of what it had once been. The white stones were long since covered with black soot. If it was dirt or blood, Maglor could not tell in the dark of the night. The red of the flames flickering in the campfires tinged the walls in a golden light. The top of the tower was almost hidden in the smoke.

Moïn pulled on Maglor’s cape and pointed ahead. The plains in front of the tower were bare. Nothing grew there and no hiding spot remained. It was a barren wasteland with fires burning in even distances. There were benches for the orcs to sit and feast on, but no other structures. There was no way for an elf and a dwarf to pass through without being spotted.

Moïn nodded to their behind, a clear sign to turn around. Taking the route along the river would not lead the company past the tower. Maglor dearly hoped that the men had been able to find a safer route.

They made it back to the hiding spot of the company without big issues. Only once they nearly stumbled into an orc who was relieving itself. Moïn knocked them out with the butt of their axe. Which was less suspicious than straight up killing if they were found by their pack, but still a danger. Moïn just shrugged. “Drunkard anyway”, they hissed. “Will think they just passed out in their own piss.”

Maglor left it at that, not wanting to discuss the matter any further. Anyway, by the time the orc awoke the company would have either passed the tower – or away.

Dirog was already back from his scouting tour along the mountainside. He was in a hushed discussion with Beren and Finrod when Maglor and Moïn stepped into the circle the company had built in the shadows.

“We could try sneaking past the tower through the woods”, Dirog was just explaining. “But to be honest, the guards are vigilant there. Me and my guy there weren’t able to get through their patrols. At my best estimate, we would have to take out at least one patrol group silently to make it that way.”

“Maybe Maglor and Moïn have better news?”, Finrod whispered with hope in his voice.

Maglor shook his head. “Moïn and I did not make it through. Too many orcs roaming around. We also can’t cross the river, it is even more well guarded. ”

Finrod sighed. “ Do we have other options?”

Maglor waited silent for a moment before he added to his previous statement. “And we can’t take the horses with us - I know, that’s been one of the initial hopes when you chose this route, but there are too many orcs. We’ll never slip past them with our horses.”

“And ponies”, Moïn added just for good measure. “But essentially what the elf says is true.”

Finrod grimaced, well aware that after they passed through the valley, the way to Angband was still a long one. It would not be fun to cross the burned plains on foot. Unfortunately the presence of the orcs would force them to do so.

“We could still try to cross the mountains”, Dirog suggested. “Walk around the orcs.”

“The mountains are almost impassable”, Moïn translated for Gab who had joined them. “Even for dwarfs. There is an old path, barely trodden, but it leads to Mithrim. It’s an old route, which can’t be used with horses either.”

“And none of us can pass through Mithrim. It will throw us off our course by months and the chance of the High King letting us continue on our quest is slim.” Finrod knew what he was talking about. Fingon would not let them go if they came to visit him. Maglor knew this too. Fingon had once said he would never again let anyone of his family go to that cursed mountain – he had lost a part of his husband to it, not only of body, but also of fёa, and he had lost his father there. Fingon’s stance was a reasonable one, even if it clashed with the Oaths his beloved ones had made – all for the Silmarils.

“So we basically have to go forward from this point on”, Dirog concluded.

Maglor nodded. “You’ve all decided very early on this route and against the secure ones through Himring or Mithrim.”

“Sorry”, Finrod said. “But with what happened with Curufin, nobody wanted to take their chances with Maedhros or – you.”

Maglor ignored the jab. He didn’t like it, but to a certain extent, Finrod had been right to make the decision. He questioned the idea to go through Sirion though - and not use the passage near Mithrim. Certainly it would have required of them to travel more to the west, to pass the mountains to Nevrast and then once again to Dor-Lómin. Maybe they had decided against it because of the extra time it would have taken. Incidently, they had chosen the most dangerous route.

“It seems that our last option is to take Dirog’s path. Along the mountainside. Without the horses and in hopes of stealthily killing some orc guards”, Edrahil summarized the planning. “Somehow I don’t think I’m going to like the chances of our survival.”

“They were never good to begin with”, Melwyn added and shrugged. “We knew that and we chosen this path.”

Finrod nodded. “Anyone who wishes to turn back can do so.” He looked around in the circle of the company. “Nobody will think you lesser for it.”

A few moments of silence passed until Melwyn held her hands out, into the middle of the group. On instinct, everyone did the same. “The path, may it lead to death, damnation or the fulfilment of our quest, we chose it – we will walk it.”

“I chose it – I will walk it”, Maglor echoed.

And everyone joined in.

They said goodbye to their steeds and got the packs from their backs. From now on, the company would have to carry their own provisions. For a moment, Maglor snuggled up to Morroch and whispered to his beloved stallion. He told him to take care and to lead the flock to safety. If not to Nargothrond, then to Himring. Morroch shoved his snout against Maglor’s head in understanding.

Then the horses were off into the night, vanished and gone in the blink of an eye. Now, truly, only the way ahead remained.

Chapter Text

Of course luck wasn’t in their favour. Maglor should have expected it. All his undertakings were cursed after all.

The made their way carefully, always in the shadows of the trees and out of the sight of the orcs. It was a hard task to be this stealthy. They were a big group after all and most shadows were too small for all of them to hide in. They got closer to the tower with each step, but also the places to go unnoticed became so small that only one or two of the company could hide in them and not every member had a talent for stealth. It was Dirog, one of Beren’s friends, who struggled the most. The dwarves were surprisingly skilled, despite wearing the heaviest outfits. Maglor was impressed.

In the end, he did not know what or who it was that betrayed them as they were trying to sneak past a small group of orcs.

As Maglor watched them, they sniffed the air and suddenly were alert, searching the area. In the Fёanorion’s ears, he heard the echo of Námo’s words, the Doom he had promised to everyone following Fёanor to Beleriand. He turned his head back to Finrod, who was behind him, making a sign to abort the mission. Finrod shook his head though. Any movement would give them away instantly.

The company froze, hoping for a miracle.

If was all for naught. The orcs came closer, their crude weapons pointing at the small bushes. It was obvious that they suspected something. One of them had a horn ready to blow.

In a heartbeat, the fight was upon the company. Maglor had put his focus upon the orc with the horn and jumped the moment they were discovered. His intent was to kill the horn-bearer before he could alert the reinforcements. He failed. The only thing he managed was to cut the sound short, but it echoed over the area anyway and ended in the dying sound of the orc.

“Run!”, Finrod commanded the moment they had taken down the few guards that had initially discovered them.

T hey did not get far until they were surrounded by their enemies. Maglor tried to fight his way out of the situation and managed to fell quite a few orcs, but in the end he was throw to the ground and overwhelmed.

The orcs bound his hands and legs and dragged him towards the tower, towards the dungeons. He could not see what had happened with the others in the company and could see even less.

When the dragging began in earnest, Maglor had to grit his teeth. It hurt. It hurt very much. The orcs had only gripped him by the legs and pulling there. His back was hauled over the uneven ground and he felt every stone in his spine. He barely managed to protect his head on the way to the dungeon, but the way down the stairs was the end for him.

He hit his head hard on one of the steps and lost his consciousness.

Maglor awoke with the worst headaches of his life. He groaned as he tried to open his eyes. Only blackness greeted him and for a moment, he feared he had lost his sight somehow. Then his eyes adjusted and he could tell that he was in a dimly lit cell, facing upwards to the ceiling. There was straw under his head and an awful stench to the air.

“Ow”, he whimpered.

“Shhh”, someone shushed him. It sounded like a woman. He knew her, but as disoriented as he felt, he could not remember her name.

He pressed his eyes closed for a while, hoping to fall asleep again. He could not, so he tried to get up. It made his head hurt even more and his legs. What was with his legs?

Looking around, he recognized that he was in a dungeon indeed. In a cell with old straw, smelling like something had died in it. It probably had, he realized as the memories slowly came back. This must be the dungeons of Finrod’s tower, only that Finrod wasn’t the reigning lord anymore. This was Sauron’s keep now.

Maglor looked up at the woman who had told him to be quiet and saw Indwen in the cell with him. Beside her was Andwen, who had leaned against her in exhaustion.

In that moment, it hit Maglor that it was a wonder that he was still alive and in Sauron’s keep. This was strange, because he was certain that his face was very well known to the enemy, being one of F ё anor’s sons and thus one of the mayor threats. He had always imagined that should he fall into the hands of the enemy he would suffer either a quick but painful death or just have a painful forever.

A stay in a cell, mostly unharmed, had not been something he had ever imagined to happen in that scenario, but he could work with that.

He crawled over to Indwen and Andwen, slowly as to not aggravate his injuries further.

“What happened?”, he whispered into Indwen’s ear.

She looked around in fear before she whispered back. “You were out for what we estimate to be two days. Finrod feared we might have lost you. He wove a spell so you and he look like siblings to Dunêl, rather than who you really are, the moment that you and he got thrown into the cells. It is quite convincing.”

That answered one of Maglor’s internal questions – He wasn’t dead or being tortured because so far neither orc nor Sauron had bothered with him.

“They took away Edrahil for questioning yesterday. We heard him scream.” Indwen’s voice broke. “I do not know if he is still alive. He stopped screaming a while ago, but he wasn’t brought back.”

“Finrod?”, Maglor croaked.

“Two cells over, but he took a beating when they took Edrahil away. He hasn’t spoken since we last heard of Edrahil.”

Maglor nodded, despite his head hurting. He needed to make contact with Finrod. Together they might be able to get out of the dungeon. They needed a plan.

“Thank you”, Maglor whispered back and crawled to the iron bars of the cell.

He looked into a round pit with five cells to one side. Maglor was caged into the one of the left side, whilst Finrod was in the middle. Maglor, maybe because he had been cloaked with the same spell saw his cousin unchanged by the magic.

Finrod sat at the bars of his cell, looking towards the stairs leading up and out of the dungeon. He had gripped his head with his hands and belatedly, Maglor registered that his cousin was shutting his ears with his fingers. There were tears and blood drying on Finrod’s face and he was shaking all over. As Maglor saw this, his hope for Edrahil began to fade.

Still, he needed his cousin to react.

“Cousin!”, Maglor hissed, not daring to call him by his name. If the orcs had not broken their disguise yet, it would be ill advised to lift it now and the walls of the keep could have ears.

Finrod did not react, he kept staring at the hallway and had not even heard Maglor. How could he, covering his ears like that? For a moment Maglor considered shouting, but he doubted it would have more effect. He was at a loss at what to do.

Finrod was alone in his cell, so there was nobody else Maglor could sign to, nobody who could help him. Beren, Dirog, Melwyn and Mo ï n were in the opposite cell. Where the other men and dwarves were, Maglor did not know yet. Probably in a cell out of sight.

Something rustled in the straw next to him and Maglor shuddered. Andwen had thrown something at him. It was a piece of wood, obviously a little toy or something alike. He looked at Andwen. She made a throwing gesture. Maglor nodded and hoped he had good aim.

Through two sets of iron bars and over the space between the cells, he managed to hit Finrod’s knee. It made his cousin finally look up, catching his eyes. Maglor made a helpless gesture, which at least made Finrod grimace, but he took the hands away from his ears. For a brief moment, there was happiness on his face. Then Finrod looked at the stairs again and turned his head from one side to the other, clearly listening for something. New tears gathered in his eyes and he sobbed, looking at the stairs again. It told Maglor at least something about Edrahil’s fate. The elf must be still alive, for Finrod to keep looking for him. The connection they shared had not broken yet.

T he whole situation left Maglor with a huge problem, because as long as Edrahil was gone, Finrod’s attention would be diverted, which could be deadly.

“Cousin”, Maglor tried again.

Finrod at least turned back to him.

“We need to get out of here. Help me”, Maglor commanded.

Chapter Text

Getting Finrod to focus was hard, but Maglor did his best. His efforts were broken twice, because the orcs returned from time to time, making rounds. Once they brought Gab and Dunêl with them, who had obviously been held prisoner somewhere else.

Dunêl explained to them, that the orcs considered Gab unimportant because of him to being able to talk the conventional way, there was no information to be gained from him. When Maglor asked why Dunêl had been brought over from the other cell as well, the elf shuddered. He slowly revealed that he had been deemed unimportant, because of the reaction Finrod had had when Edrahil had been taken, but he had not shouted for Dunêl before. It meant Dunêl would probably escape torture for now, but only because the orcs had no interest in ‘staining his delicious flesh’. Maglor shuddered as well and offered the other elf some comfort through the bars of their cells. The future was bleak indeed.

All the more reason to make a strategy, how futile it might be. His cousin was still distressed by the absence of one of his closest friends. Edrahil was still gone, taken away by the enemy. At least his screams had stopped, which meant he was unconscious. Or dying, Maglor thought, but he did not voice his concerns.

His task was made even harder by the distance between the cells. He could not touch Finrod and help him focus that way.

“Maglor”, Finrod said quietly after a while. “Do you think there is a chance for…”

“Yes. He’s strong, he can survive this.” Maglor bit his tongue and hoped Finrod would not notice. After all, Maglor had seen what torture did to elves, he had seen the impact on his own brother, who had become so different. And Maedhros had been significantly stronger than Edrahil.

Finrod was quiet again, looking at the stairs. “We should save him.”

Maglor nodded. “Of course we should, but for that we would need to break the chains and get weapons. How do you think we can achieve this?”

“Gab can pick locks”, Moïn said. “He could help.”

As if to prove this, the other dwarf showed them his legs, which had no chains attached anymore.

“Gab, can you pick the other locks, including the cell doors as well?”, Maglor asked.

Moïn translated the question using his hands and Gab nodded.

“You can tell this by just looking at it?” Finrod wasn’t convinced.

Gab signed something and Moïn laughed. “He says it’s orcish craft, not that of the big evil guy, so it isn’t very sophisticated, therefore easy to crack.”

“Alright. I would be amazing if you could open the doors, but we have to find the right point in time to do so.”

“He’ll need at least fifteen minutes to open all doors and chains”, Moïn informed them. “Which means that our plan should be set so that we can make use of the next unobserved moment the guards give us.”

Their planning was almost done when the orcs came in and stopped their conversation. With them, they brought Edrahil, who was unconscious, just as Maglor had predicted. The orcs had stripped him of his clothes and had beaten him until he bled. He must have lost quite a lot of blood.

The orcs gave no care to their prisoner and threw him into the cell between Finrod and Maglor, where Dunêl had been alone so far. The sound Edrahil’s body made when it fell to the floor was jarring. Finrod tried to reach him through the iron bars of his own cell, but he could not reach him.

“’Rahil”, he whispered, “Wake up, please.”

Maglor watched as tears ran down his cousins’ face. Edrahil had been Finrod’s closest friend in Nargothrond, his personal guard. For a moment, Maglor wondered if there had been more between them, but he shoved the thought away. Finrod would have never let Edrahil come along on the quest if that had been the case. Finrod had always protected those he loved.

Dunêl crawled over to Edrahil’s body, checking it over. The elf’s healing was already working, closing the worst gaps in his skin, but he was still covered in blood and very naked. Without water, there was no chance of cleaning him, but they could not leave him naked.

“Do we have spare clothes?”, Maglor asked loudly. “I could spare my jacket or my shirt, but not both.”

“He can have my shirt”, Finrod said.

“I have a cloth which could be fashioned into underwear”, Melwyn offered.

In the end, they managed to wrap Edrahil into fabric at least, even if Maglor would not go so far as to call them clothes. His upper body had been blesses with Finrod’s shirt and Maglor’s jacket, but none had had trousers to spare. In the end, they had used several scraps of fabric each one could give and Dunêl had tried to sew them into something with a sewing needle Indwen had somehow kept hidden when the orcs had searched them for weapons.

As it became clear that Edrahil would not wake up soon but would not die either, Finrod relaxed a bit. Before they could get on with the planning of an escape though, the orc guards returned and thus the talk had to be postponed again.

It soon became clear that the guards would not leave soon, so Maglor settled himself in for a long wait. After a while, his companions began nodding off, seemingly exhausted from the day.

“They must have stashed our weapons somewhere”, Beren said. “or at least some weapons must be nearby, even if they are orc blades.”

“Yes. I would still prefer my weapon, but I can fight with strange blades as well”, Andwen agreed. “But we need to find those, because as we are we are defenceless. We might be able to get out of these chains, but that will not stop us from dying on the next orc sword.”

Melwyn also nodded, but made a shushing sign, pointing towards the sleeping orc on a chair in close proximity.

“We also have to consider how to get Edrahil out.”

Dirog shook his head. “I am not sure that we can get him out. He isn’t awake yet and therefore dead weight.”

Finrod narrowed his eyes. “You suggest we leave him here? To death?”

Again, Maglor refrained from saying that death would be a blessing for their friend, if they left him behind.

Dirog nodded. “I don’t like it either, but there is no chance for us to carry him out.”

“I will carry him if I must”, Finrod said.

“That would be unwise, my friend”, Dunêl interjected. “You are our most talented warrior. We need your strength.”

“I will make sure he makes it out, if I can”, Melwyn spoke up. “I swear it.”

“Don’t!”, Maglor stopped her, the memory of his oath flaring.

Melwyn ignored him. “I will swear an oath if I must to get you to focus on the important parts of this discussion.”

“You’re using him only as a tool”, Finrod accused her.

“Yes. Is it working?”

They did not come to a conclusion regarding their plans before the orc that had been sleeping woke up. He rubbed his eyes very dramatically before scurrying off, up the stairs.

His footsteps weren’t gone for long, before he returned with other guards.

“What is happening?”, Edrin asked confused as he watched the orc point at Finrod, Maglor and Beren.

Maglor stared for a moment in disbelief before fear gripped his heart tight. Three of the orcs came over and opened Maglor’s cell, two of them grabbing him. He tried to evade them, but the shackles on his legs made it impossible for him to escape. Indwen tried desperately to keep hold of him, but her hands soon slipped away. The last Maglor saw of her was her frightened expression, Andwen clinging to her shoulders. Then the orcs dragged him off, away from the cells.

He was the first one, but by the sounds behind him, he could hear that Finrod and Beren were not far behind. Finrod was putting up a fight, kicking and biting. Once or twice he must have hit or bitten someone, because the orcs grunted twice and yelped thrice. Maglor refrained from such tactics. He knew he was outnumbered and would to better keeping to his strength.

As the orcs dragged him up the thousand steps of the tower, Maglor came to the conclusion that the orc who had been guarding them must have faked his sleep and found out this way who were the leaders of the group. At least they had not heard who of the group was able to pick the locks, but they had heard enough other information.

Enough information for them to be brought to the ruler over this dark fortress.

Sauron.

Chapter Text

The closer the orcs brought them to the top of the tower, the lower Maglor’s spirits sank. With every step, Finrod fought less against his captors, too. He had been the one to design this stronghold, he knew how close they were to the highest room. From tales, Maglor knew that he had to expect a great hall, once destined to be Finrod’s seat.

When the orcs dragged him through the doors of heavy wood, a wave of evil intent brushed against Maglor. He could feel it in the air, could almost taste it. He took a look around, at least as far as he was able to. The position the orcs held him in was an uncomfortable one.

The great hall Finrod had once designed was still there, but it bore no longer the beauty it once must have held. The stone shimmered still white, but most of it had been hidden behind tapestries of red and gold. They lacked the organic ornaments most elves preferred, the ornaments woven into these fabric were geometrically oriented. Maglor was just glad that there were no scenes depicted.

Between the tapestries hung torches and nobody cared about the blackened spots of soot they left on the walls. Finrod’s once homely stronghold had been thoroughly desecrated.

They were forced onto their knees in front of an empty throne. Maglor risked a glance at Finrod. His cousin was focussed on the throne. There were tears in his eyes, though Maglor wasn’t sure if those were a result of his fear or of his grief over the loss of the place. At least Finrod still kept the illusion up that was hiding their identities, even though it was clearly drawing on his power. Maglor wanted to help him, but he could not. Once again, he mourned the loss of his connection to the magic of the world.

The orcs were grunting something in the black speech and Maglor tuned it out for the moment. He inspected the throne he was forced to kneel in front of. It was a crude thing, hewn from white stone as the walls once were. There were carvings in the stone. The letters were itengwar, but they formed no words known to Maglor. Black speech, most likely. The single letters had been filled with red wax which reflected the lights of the torches. One could almost mistake it for blood. Red as blood were also the cushions on the throne, there to make the seat more comfortable to his owner.

The whole arrangement seemed overly flashy, like it had been made by someone who could not do without a show. And wasn’t that part of Sauron’S character? Had he not been in such a precarious situation, Maglor would have chuckled, he wasn’t stranger to dramatics either. These dramatics of Sauron could very well mean their end though.

Still, Maglor did not want to give up yet. Maybe he could attempt a diplomatic play, one clever enough to be set free. Maybe they could use their disguise, claiming to be merchants, to strike some kind of deal. Of course that was only possible if Finrod was able to keep up their disguises and Maglor was not sure how long that would be possible. He could almost feel his cousin getting weaker by the minute.

Maglor was driven from his thoughts as heavy steps upon the stairs announced the arrival of someone. The orcs who had dragged them up the tower cowered down, which was sign enough to understand who had come to the throne room. As the one entered fully, he was accompanied by a gust of warm air and the smell of burnt wood.

Silence stretched out for a moment, in which one could almost hear the flickering of the flames. Maglor risked a glance in the direction of the newcomer. From his kneeling position on the floor he could only see the edges of a long yellow tunic with fancy red and black embroidery.

This was Sauron, the bane of the tower and enemy to Finrod. This was Sauron, who had tortured Maglor’s elder brother and left him to die. This was Sauron, right hand of Morgoth and enemy to all elves.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” The voice made Maglor shiver, for it was laced with malicious interest. He dared not to speak and just waited.

A mirthful laugh sounded throughout the room and Sauron strode around his captives, coming to stand in front of them. He grabbed Finrod’s hair for a moment and looked him in the eyes. “Too afraid to speak, are you?”

Maglor wanted to protest, to step in, to free Finrod, but his hands were still bound. He could do nothing but helplessly watch as Finrod endured the staring contest with his old enemy.

Finally Sauron let go of Finrod’s hair and fell down upon his cushioned throne.

“Unchain them”, he ordered the orcs that were still hanging around the room.

“Sire?”

“Unchain them”, Sauron commanded once again. “Their pitiful crawling on the floor does not amuse me.”

“But…”

No further argument was made and the chains and ropes that had bound Maglor were loosened. He did not dare to stand up though. He was well aware this would not amuse the Maia and would probably lead to a very quick end. Thus Maglor waited on his enemy to start talking.

“My helpers tell me that you are the leaders of your merry little band of strays”, Sauron continued his monologue. “Which bears the question what you wished to achieve by crossing my lands.”

Another wave of hot and burnt air washed around Maglor.

Obviously, Sauron had already started with his dramatics, but so far he seemed almost playful. Dangerously so. There was no question that his mood could swing in every moment.

“You are not very chatty”, Sauron mused. “In my experience, people who do not talk are people who are trying to hide something.”

The enemie’s voice dropoped towards the end of the sentence. It is part of the show and in part a threat. Maglor knew very well that Sauron has tactics and strategies to make people and elves alike talk. Namely torture. Not many were able to withstand him.

“We are merchants”, Finrod said, using the cover they had established earlier. He added nothing more and stared at Sauron again.

“Merchants then. Pray tell me, what wares were you hoping to sell?”

Maybe they should have thought out their cover better. There is nothing in their belongings that they could reasonable claim to be selling. Maybe their weapons, but drawing Sauron’s gaze upon them could also ruin the disguises. At least Maglor’s sword was very obviously made by Curufin and stamped with the Fёanorian seal.

At least Finrod wasn’t completely thrown off by Sauron’s words.

“We were hoping to offer our services to you in fact.”

Maglor looked up at Finrod and then at Sauron. Finrod was good liar, his voice hadn’t even wavered.

Sauron laid his head to the side, his eyebrows raised. “Which services?”

“It has come to my ears that you have trouble with your supply lines”, Finrod continued in a sure voice. “Too often your orcs get plucked off the streets by unforeseen attacks from the elves. Especially those that try to get near Melkor’s stronghold.”

Maglor bit his tongue at the name of the worst of them all. The name of the thief. He was clever enough to realize that Finrod had chosen his words carefully to not antagonize Sauron.

“You have a lot of information for one as small as you are.”

“I am a merchant, I get around and hear a lot.”

“Too much knowledge can become quite dangerous”, Sauron whispered.

Finrod smiled. “Or open up new opportunities. Of course the elves will attack a group made up of orcs, but a travelling group such as mine would slip past their notice.”

Maglor nodded to strengthen his cousin’s words. He desperately needed to help him, but also wanted to know how good an actor Finrod had become. This performance was almost perfect. Sauron seemed almost convinced.

“You have some talent with your words, merchant. Somehow I do not believe your story though.” Sauron raised a hand a twirled a strand of his hair around his finger. “Your words may be enchanting, but the facts of your coming here do not add up.”

“And at which point does our story not match history?”, Maglor asked as non-threatening as possible. “Maybe we can clear those misunderstandings up?”

Sauron turned to him, fire in his eyes. “I was not talking to you. Your words do not interest me.”

Maglor swallowed and turned to Finrod, letting his head sink to show that he was sorry for interfering. Outwardly he showed fear, but on the inside, Maglor was fuming. Never had someone called his words uninteresting. He was the greatest minstrel of the Noldor after all. On the other hand, it was probably for the better that Sauron did not -

“We only attacked your guards because they attacked us first”, Finrod replied to something the evil ruler of the castle had said. “Had we approached your stronghold by the street, our flesh would have been nothing but fodder for your troops.”

“We do value our own lives after all”, Maglor added as civilly as he was able to muster.

“Shut your mouth”, Sauron commanded coolly. “And keep it shut, or I will take your tongue.” This time it was Finrod who swallowed. Maglor could feel his anger and his fear, but was not able to place it. Surely Finrod would not feel so protective over him.

“Despite what the stories tell, my troops are not mindless creatures”, Sauron continued. “Something you would have known had you truly listened to your spies.”

“It can be hard discerning truth from fiction from third party sources. Too often those who tell stories have their own agendas and their own prejudices. Do you truly fault us for being careful?”

“Of course not, but it makes we wonder if I can trust you. You killed some of my soldiers and I take that personally.”

For a brief moment Maglor wondered if the company had truly killed an orc of a higher rank in their attempt to defend themselves.

“We could prove our worth by working for you”, Finrod offered. “You could send us out with a small delivery first, nothing important, to your master, to assure yourself of our honesty. This way you won’t loose anything.”

M aglor nodded again to sign his approval. Finrod was amazing in the negotiation for their lives. So far, he managed to keep the concentration to talk with the evil Maia and sustain the illusion at the same time.

“And what can you offer to transport? To understand what you are able to do, I need to know the scope of your services.”

“Whatever you need that can be hidden on a person or wagon at most.”

“Which would include, but is not limited to messages, funds, weapons and food for your armies.”

Sauron grinned. “Tempting, but so far there is still the problem of your loyalties. If I let you go now, there is no guarantee that you will return.”

“You could send us out in a trial, to Melkor’s keep”, Maglor suggested, momentarily forgetting the Maia’s dislike of his talking.

“A good idea”, Finrod interjected.

Sauron had already narrowed his eyes though, his anger at Maglor shining through. “A good idea you say. Tell me, who is he to you?”

Finrod looked at Maglor, finally sensing the danger. He swallowed. “A trusted second in command.”

“Second, you say. That means he is important. Important enough for you to return for.”

“What it is you are insinuating?”, Finrod asked in a whisper, barely containing himself.

Maglor shuddered as well as Sauron stood up from his throne in one smooth motion. He stepped towards Maglor. So close in fact, that the minstrel could see every stitch of the embroidery on the tunic of the Maia.

“That means”, Sauron explained, “That I will keep this one in my care.” He let his hand fall into Maglor’s hair, pulling his head slightly back. “You will get him back once you return from your trip. Should you fail to return though, his life… Well, I’m sure you heard the tales.”

The grip in Maglor’s hairs burned so much, he whimpered. He felt extremely violated, nobody outside of his family had ever been allowed to touch him there. He wanted to rip himself free, to flee, to get out.

“Let go of him, he is not up for negotiation”, Finrod said.

Sauron sneered and did not let go. “From your reaction I can see that he is the thing that will keep you in line.”

“Let him go, please”, Finrod said, trembling.

“No. He will remain here and I will teach him how to keep his mouth shut. Or how to become a little songbird in a cage for my amusement. I am not sure yet.”

Maglor wanted to do everything to get out of the grip. His scalp felt as if he was on fire. Logically he knew that this was only a fraction of what his brother had endured, but it was almost too much for him. He wanted to tell Finrod to agree, that he should sacrifice Maglor, for with the deal Finrod had basically a free way into Thangorodrim as messenger of Sauron. His life was a good price to pay. He could make his peace with that.

But Finrod could not. “LET HIM GO!”, Finrod shouted in anger and this time there was power in his words. Enough power to push Sauron back and to make him let go of Maglor’s hair.

Maglor fell to the ground as the world around him wavered and a cold shiver ran down his spine. The sign that Finrod’s illusion had fallen.

All of Maglor’s hopes fell, for they had lost. This would be the end of the company. They would die here. He looked up and saw Sauron rise up from the ground, his fury written in his blood shot eyes.

The Maia took in the scene before himself and then started to smile. “Hello Makalaurё”, he whispered and grinned. It was evil and Maglor shuddered, because this greeting was also a promise of what was to come.

“Sauron.”

“I knew that there was a reason why I hated your voice so much during our previous conversation. I must have remembered you. How kind of you to bring your cousin to my keep. What a pity that you did not bring your brother as well – I do so miss my little pet.”

Maglor pressed his lips shut, bile rising in his throat. He would not answer to that taunt. He was glad Maedhros was far away from here. He had endured enough at the hands of this monster. But he was weak sometimes. “The feeling isn’t mutual, I can assure you.”

“Oh, you got a mouth on you. I should really like to keep you as a songbird. A golden cage would suit you so well.” Sauron took a step closer, reaching out once again for him. Maglor ducked away from the grasping hand, trying to get out of reach. If he could help it, he would not let that happen again. During the movement he saw that Finrod’s earlier use of magic must have knocked out the orcs in the room completely. They were on the floor, out of it.

At Maglor’s side, Finrod growled furiously again. “You will not touch him.”

“Oh Findaráto, do you think you have any power here?”, Sauron taunted him. “This is my castle, my keep, mine to keep, where I will keep everyone I want to keep.”

“You could try.”

Sauron laughed. “It is surprising that you still think that I will let you go. No, you are to valuable. With your help, I will be able to finally wipe out all of elvenkind and your hidden realms. And until then, I will keep you both as songbirds, until you have seen the death of everyone you care about. Once your voices are tainted beautifully by the pain and the doom, I will gift you to my master” He licked his lips. “Oh, you will be perfect.” Sauron seemed almost gleeful.

Maglor was disgusted, but fear kept him silent. Fear that was growing. Fear that was stealing his words and song.

And then Sauron reached out for Maglor’s throat again and there was nothing he could do. He knew if Sauron touched him, the touch would burn again, so hot that it would burn a mark into his skin.

“You won’t touch him!”, Finrod shouted again, his voice a roar. Once again, he pushed Sauron back with his magic, with the might of his words and with his connection to the land.

Maglor had not know Finrod was capable of channelling magic this strongly.

Judging by Finrod’s expression, he had not known either. The power the Noldor had access to had never before been used for such an act. An act of defence and violence. The Noldor so far had only been able to use it for arts, crafts and healing. This was new, dangerous and something Sauron had not counted on.

Finrod helped Maglor up to stand, but Sauron got to his feet as well.

Instead of frightened he seemed delighted by the turn of events. “You have a bit bite to your bark then. Fine. Let’s see how long your teeth are.”

Chapter Text

With a gust of wind the heavy door of the throne room closed and the torches seemed to burn brighter. Sauron raised his hands, effectively locking them in. He was a powerful presence, sure of his might and victory in whatever twisted game he was setting up. A game, Maglor was sure, he and Finrod were meant to loose.

Finrod however stood up straighter, raising his head as if to say that he was ready to fight. He looked gorgeous, Maglor thought. His dear cousin had always been so full of life and strength and in this tower, his expression was regal.

Maglor was fascinated and horrified at the same time. He could do nothing but watch as Sauron opened his mouth and started to chant. His song started with a chorus, laden with power, pushing at Maglor’s mind even if he wasn’t Sauron’s focus at the moment. I could barely imagine how Finrod had to feel, bearing the brunt of the attack.

It became clear to Maglor, that Sauron tried to break Finrod’s spirit and turn him into a songbird, a prisoner in a too small cage only kept for entertainment. The words of the song told of a dark future. One that Maglor did not want, neither for himself nor Finrod. He wished he could help his cousin against the dark magic, but he had lost his connection to his magic. All he could do was to join Finrod in his answer, as additional vocals, but without any strength.

Maglor hated himself for his weakness. He dreaded what would happen and a glance at Sauron told him that the dark lord was sure of his victory. He had the expression of a cat on his face, that was only toying with its prey. It was perhaps the accurate description of the scene. Sauron was by nature one of the Maiar, a fallen one, but still a Maia. As such he possessed talents and a connection to the magic of the world that no elf could hope to achieve. Maglor and Finrod were fighting a battle they could only loose.

Had Maglor been someone else, he would have turned to pray to the Valar, but he was his father’s son. His trust in the Valar had been destroyed once and he had never regained it. Instead he had turned his back on them and their rules. He had doomed himself. He wasn’t Fingon, he had no redeeming qualities. Even if he would dare to pray, his worlds would only echo in the Void.

Finally, Sauron lessened his assault upon Finrod, who had held his ground.

“Is that all you have, Sauron? Darkness and chains you promise, maybe because this is what you have become yourself? A being once again in chains of a dark master? Your power does not frighten me.”

Then Finrod raised his voice in song himself. Instead of falling in tune with Sauron, he chose to sing of hope. His words told of the sun, of the life and of the strength of the elves. Maglor could identify the melody Finrod had chosen. It was an old one, originating from Valinor, one Maglor knew well himself. Of course Finrod made up his own lyrics, so that Maglor could not join in, but he could hum the tune under his breath and so he did. It was the most he could do. He could still feel confidence from Finrod. His cousin had obviously still hope to win this battle. More so than Maglor. Maybe he should try to not broadcast his insecurity this much. Finrod used not as much power as Sauron had. His words were like a cocoon, a shield, meant to protect against the evil intend. Maglor could feel the magic settle over himself and Finrod. He wanted to wrap his arms around Finrod, thanking him for being this clever.

Finrod was settling in for a long game, saving his strength. Maglor hoped it would be enough to shield them and let Sauron tire himself out. Maybe this would allow them to get out of the tower or give their companions more time to escape. Once again, Edrahil’s fate came to his mind. It was less likely that he would be able to be of much help, but Maglor had confidence in Melwyn, Andwen and the dwarves. They were a crafty and strong group. They had a real chance of escape, if they managed to work together with Beren and his two friends. Beren would probably work well with the group, but his two friends could be a bit difficult.

His thoughts were interrupted by Finrod finishing his song with an exclamation, solidifying the magic shield around Maglor.

Sauron did not seem impressed. Instead, there emerged fury on his face. Finrod defying him had obviously not been part of his plan.

“It will be such a pleasure to see you in chains”, Sauron purred. “You’d look good with a necklace of iron and my seal stamped into your skin. And you”, Sauron continued as he turned to Maglor, “I am not sure what to do with you. I’m tempted to have my fun with you and then send you back to your brother. That would be a good message to him, am I right?”

The words alone carried poison and they almost choked Maglor. Sauron did not only mean to shock and to sow fear, he could really well make true his promises. So far, he was entertained and had not called his forces to take down Maglor and Finrod. He could do so the moment he became bored or tired. The fear turned Maglor’s stomach and he was sure that Sauron had to see it in his eyes, because the Maia laughed.

“Soo pathetic. To think that you had once been called on of the great ones of your people. See how much you have fallen, you even became weaker than the family line your father regarded as useless. Maybe I should take care of you first.”

“And still I am standing and have not fallen before you yet”, Maglor taunted him. “That must make you furious – or say something about your power?” A furious Sauron would be more dangerous, but there was a chance he would not call backup to prove himself.

“Let’s see for how long you can defy me”, Sauron snarled and raised his voice again, channelling the music again. This time he directed his anger against Maglor. He wove the tale of Maedhros’ suffering at his hands, about how the eldest Fёanorian had begged for mercy first and then for death. Maglor could almost hear his brother’s voice. It made him shudder, but Finrod’s shielding power kept him sane. Otherwise he could have lost himself in the illusion, a thought that scared Maglor.

It scared him so much that he felt the need to answer Sauron’s dark music with his own. He chose a song he had written for his brother and for the people in Himring. A song of defiance, of standing strong and of watching over the free lands. After the first chorus, Finrod joined him the way Maglor had done before.

Chapter Text

It took all Maglor had not to rush forward when Finrod’s power waned. He saw how his cousin was pushed back by the force of Sauron’s song, him mentioning the laughter at Alqualondё. Maglor himself felt the draining force behind those words. He was a bit surprised how much they affected Finrod, who had not shed the blood of their kin that day.

And then Sauron stepped towards Finrod, the invisible barrier of song broken and his claws sharp. The Lord of Wolves raised them and let them fall towards the blonde king’s chest.

And Maglor himself raised his voice, breaking his own disguise at that, revealing just who he was. It was enough to draw Sauron’s attention away.

“We came here, in the dark of night”, Maglor sang. “Robbed of the trees’ light. And still we lived, we build, weighed down by the guilt, stone on stone and wood among it.” It was not particularly polished, but the barrier was up again. With Finrod down, all Maglor could hope for was to get Sauron to flee. He would never be able to defeat the Maia. Maybe they would live for a few moments longer.

Then Maglor remembered that the tower they were currently in was once built by Finrod and his people. It had been taken by the enemy, but it was Noldorin at it’s core. Which meant it should still respond, for most structures were interwoven with the craft of their maker. Now, if Maglor found a way to access this. He was unsure if his song could help. The magic was old and felt darkened. Maybe it would not respond.

He tried it anyway, calling in his song to the tower, calling it by it’s name and history while simultaneously holding up the barrier against Sauron and inching closer to Finrod. All these jumbled motivations were in his head. Foremost was the thought to keep up the song. His craft. His power.

It was a small victory when the stone began to crumble, dust enveloping the room. Sauron, who had been waiting with a snarl, unable to break through the barrier. He waited patently, he could. He had the considerable more power than the two elves and would stand. Maglor was overjoyed to she the uncertainty on the dark Maia’s eyes when the dust grew thicker.

“You think you can beat me this way?”, Sauron hissed through his teeth. They were long and sharp, a predator ready to hunt.

Maglor did not dare to reply. He focussed all his last strength onto the walls and was rewarded. With a huge crack, the ceiling gave in, dropping down on Sauron’s throne. The lock of utter shock on the Maia’s face was rewarding and Maglor grinned fiercely, baring his teeth in return. His own body was struggling to cope with the energy he had used for his craft. Beren at last was alright, he was kneeling next to them, seemingly out of it, but alive. The tower was groaning, as if the stone itself was dying.

Maglor concentrated on the music, he tried to ignore the headache and exhaustion coming on. With every word he sung, he felt his craft and magic drain. He tried to keep focussed on Sauron and the tower around them. Next to him, Beren groaned and sat up. At least he wasn’t dead. Once again, Maglor cursed him for taking Thingol’s bait, condemning them all to this suicidal quest. Him dying now would be highly unfortunate.

Thankfully, Finrod was attuned to Maglor’s expressions and commanded the man to run, as long as Sauron was pre-occupied and the tower still standing.

It took for too long for Beren to get up and going. He crawled more then he walked out of the room. The dark force of Sauron was trying to stop him, kill him on the go, but somehow Finrod managed to distract him, by lunging forward. He did not get far, because Sauron’s darkness pushed him back again.

And then, finally, Finrod joined Maglor’s song and stone began to break and crumble.

Maglor awoke in pain. He did not know where he was and what had happened. This was the first time for him to feel this lost. Something heavy was pressing on his left leg. It hurt. It hurt so much. He tried to move, but he could not get the weight off. The pain was flashing through his mind and he nearly passed out again. What had happened? He squeezed his eyes shut, tears escaping him. He hurt, he was stuck, and frightened.

“Mags?”, someone groaned next to him.

The sound alone made Maglor’s ears hurt. Despite the pain, he tried to answer, but he found his voice to be silent. Panic. How should he tell the other person he was alive now?

How to communicate?

He tried again, but his voice remained silent and his body mostly unmoving.

How did he get here?

His most recent memories were all running through his head. The road to the tower, being incarcerated and the threat of torture. They had brought him to stand before Sauron.

By all accounts he should be dead, but this wasn’t Mandos’ halls. The pain was too strong for that.

He remembered. He had collapsed the tower. The tower he and the company had been in. It had crumbled beneath them. It was a miracle they were still alive. It also made some kind of sense, that his voice was damaged. He had woven magic again, after all those years he had not been able to access his craft. Someone of the Valar must have looked favourably on them to allow their survival. Sauron, must have been taken by surprise and was nowhere in sight. Good riddance. At the moment, it would be all too easy for the Lord of Wolves to kill and dispose of him. Him and Finrod.

The voice, the one he could not answer to, it had been Finrod!

As if on cue, there was rumbling to his left and then a curse. “Shit!”

Maglor wanted to whimper. The noise still hurt in his ears. Why couldn’t his cousin speak at a lower volume? This was torture. He clicked his tongue in a disapproving manner. It was enough to get Finrod’s attention and suddenly his face hovered over Maglor. The collapse had not killed him. Finrod had only a few scratches on his face, some of them from the fight with the wolf earlier. The building must have fallen in a way which had allowed their survival.

“Maglor?”, Finrod asked concerned, shifting closer. For some reason he avoided touching the rubble that kept Maglor trapped.

The minstrel only managed a small nod in answer. His voice was not ready. A stray thought of honey passed his mind. Honey, the colour Finrod’s hair. Oh. Finrod.

“I need to get this off you”, the ellon croaked, pointing at one of the logs. “Can you move?”

Maglor shook his head. He had tried to move before, but it had hurt. He did not wish for a repeat of this. Right now, the pain was manageable. Finrod investigated the ruins for a moment. He shook his head.

“I’m sorry Maglor. Staying like this is not an option. You have to move once I get the weight off of you.”

Maglor laid his head to the side, conveying confusion.

“I can lift the log from here”, he pointed at the end, which was elevated, “but once I do, you have to move out underneath. My strength will not last for long. It will hurt.”

Maglor wanted to cry, but he nodded weakly. Finrod looked grim as he positioned himself, both hands on the log. And then he lifted.

Immediately, the pain flared up again and Maglor cried out, soundless as he was.

“Move!”, Finrod commanded, his voice allowing no protest.

With the last of his strength, Maglor used his arms to pull himself back. He had abrasions on his arms, too. They hurt as well, but he managed to pull himself back, leaning onto some stones behind him. The motion had exhausted him and the pain was rushing through him. He understood now, his leg had been crushed between the floor and the log, which Finrod let down right now.

The blonde came rushing over, Maglor saw it through the slits his eyes were drawn into.

Again, Finrod cursed. “Shit. I had hoped…”, he trailed off, his skilled hands drifting towards Maglor’s body. “I have to take care of this, else you’re going to have a serious problem.”

This time, Maglor let his eyes drift downwards, along his body. His torso seemed to be relatively fine, even the clothes he had worn seemed to be intact. But. His leg. He did not understand. It did not look much like a leg. It looked. Somehow deformed. There was not much blood, but the form was off. Swollen. And squeezed in other places.

Again, Finrod whispered, “I’m sorry.” Then he laid his hands on Maglor. Blinding pain. He passed out again.

Chapter Text

Maglor awoke with his back on a scrap of fabric, over him a bit of stone and then there were the stars. He now knew he was in the ruin of what had once been Minas Tirith, the great watchtower Finrod had built. It was not a tower anymore, only a damaged piece of architecture. Damaged. Maglor suddenly felt a strange kinship with the building, as he remembered what had become of his body. The pain was dulled now, his leg feeling numb. He almost did not dare to look at it. He knew what he had seen. He did not wish to see it again. He had to, he needed to know.

To his relief, his leg was now wrapped in strips of fabric. They were clean, so Maglor did not know where they came from. The only clean things he had seen, had been their clothings, which they had carried with them in bags. It came to Maglor, that these strips must have been of their clothes once. Based on the colours, Maglor assumed the fabrics had once belonged to Dunêl. The ellon had worn green and beige, before they all had dressed up as orcs. What had become of their companions? Maglor looked around. A sickening realization came to him. He had not thought about them, when he had brought the tower down. There was a real change he had killed them. Maglor wanted to cry, but his eyes remained dry. Based on all chance, they were dead. He would miss them, as so many others he had lost. There was another makeshift bed next to him. It was the only one in the ruin. It strengthened Maglor’s suspicion about the death of their mates. This must be Finrod’s, based on the fabrics chosen for the bed. These had been spun by elves, so ribbing them apart for strips was not practical.

He tried to sit up, but his leg protested immediately. Moving it was definitely not a good idea, so better not. Even with elven healing, it needed rest.

Where was Finrod? With every minute that passed, Maglor grew more restless. He was in the ruins of an enemy stronghold, alone, and unable to move. It was the worst predicament he could be in. He listened to the sounds around him, pleased to note they did not hurt his ears anymore. His last awakening had not been a kind one. The only sounds he could hear, were of the owls and other animals around the ruin. Thankfully, he did not hear wolves or howling. Based on the history of the tower, these would have been a bad sign.

A rustling brought a near movement to Maglor’s attention. He hoped this would be Finrod, because otherwise, he would not survive long. He had no weapon, and even if he did, he would not be able to move. His leg was not cooperating at all. With help, he should be able to heal.

“Maglor?”, a voice asked, and the minstrel was glad it was his cousin, indeed. “Are you awake?”

“Yes”, he croaked in answer. Ah, his voice was back. It hurt a bit to talk, but in time it should get better.

A sigh was the first answer. It spoke of relief. “I am glad you are coherent. I was beginning to worry.”

“Huh?”

“It’s been more than a day since you collapsed the tower”, Finrod explained. “You did not wake up… I was just gone, gathering more herbs and getting some water. Here, you should drink something.” He crouched down beside Maglor and offered a bag of water to him. The minstrel did not recognize this one, so he wondered where Finrod got it from. With the state of this throat, he was unable to ask.

The water helped a great deal. It soothed some of the pain and enabled him to speak. “Herbs?”

“For your leg. It is a bad injury. The herbs numb the pain. I’m sorry. I had to cut you leg open.”

Maglor raised his eyebrows. There had been only minimal bleeding. “What?”, he asked.

“The log cut off your circulation”, Finrod said. “It also caused internal swellings. I had to deal with the internal pressure, because otherwise you would have lost the limb.”

“How?”, Maglor croaked. He hoped Finrod would understand his real question. How had he know how to care for him? Injuries of this kind were not common. Of course, Finrod knew about the basic healing techniques, but this seemed very specific.

His cousin smiled a sad smile. “Among dwarves and humans, these injuries often occurred during the building of Nargothrond. I learned there from the healers. For a good reason, it seems.”

“Sauron?”

“Gone, for now. He fell off the tower”, Finrod said. “Whatever it was you did, it was powerful. I did not know you had such power.”

Maglor shook his head. Neither did he. All he knew was, he had had to save his friends. It brought him back to the first question. “Beren?”

“Gone as well. I have not found his body, so I assume he is still alive. How he got out of the range of the destruction you caused is beyond me.”

“And the others?”

“Indwen, Andwen and Edrin are dead, so is Gab. I’ve found their bodies in the halfway collapsed cellar. So far, I’ve found no trace of Dunêl, Edrahil, Melwyn and Moïn. Beren and some stranger’s traces point north.” Finrod swallowed heavily. “We’ve lost half of our companions and it’s my fault.”

They lost half of their friends. Tears began streaming down Maglor’s face as the terrible truth set in. Andwen and Edrin had been good companions and he had liked them well enough. Gab hat not exactly been a friend, but an ally nonetheless. Now they were dead, because of him. What stung the most was the loss of Indwen. She had been a minstrel like him and they had shared that.

“It wasn’t your fault”, Maglor argued against Finrod’s words, even though it stung terribly to use his voice. “Mine.”

Finrod shook his head. “You did what you had to do. Otherwise none of us would have survived. It was me they followed to this cursed tower in the first place.”

“I collapsed it!”, Maglor protested. “I killed them.” Could Finrod not see it? Maglor would gladly take the blame, he was tainted enough by all the murders he’d committed.

“It was the only way to escape Sauron!”, Finrod interjected. “He or his wolves would have eaten us alive. Once my magic would have been drained, our costumes would have failed us, too.”

Maglor shook his head. He did not have the voice to continue arguing with Finrod over who to blame. It was obvious who those deaths would be blamed on, and it wasn’t Finrod. Maglor would not argue, when the time came for his judgement. He tried to wipe his tears away, but then the pain in his leg flared up again. So, it took him a while to calm down. Finrod hovered next to him, daring not to touch. The minstrel would have wished for a warm hand upon his shoulder, but the plea died on his lips. Between him and Finrod was too much history.

“How is your leg?”, Finrod asked a while later.

Maglor considered his answer. The position he was in, on the hard floor, only a few rags underneath him, was not comfortable. His muscles in his lower back started to cramp. The pain in his leg was still numbed by the herbs. The effect was lessening though. He told his cousin the truth.

“I’m going to change the leaves then”, the blonde promised. “Am I allowed to touch you?”

Maglor nodded, surprised by the sudden patience of his friend. He was glad for the kindness of his cousin. With his current position, he was not able to reach his wound himself. The pain became too great with the motion. So Maglor was reduced to watch as Finrod bent down and unwrapped the bandages around his right leg. Most of them were unblemished, not much blood having seeped into them. It was a positive sign. Maglor saw rather then felt the touch of his friend. It was clinical. His nerves only told him of a dull pressure against the appendage.

The final layer became unwrapped. Now only the leaves lay against his skin. He knew that plant. He had seen it in the Gap, used for brewing pain reducing medicine. The horses had never touched them, that’s how the Noldor found out about the usage of it. The leaves were of a dark green colour, the edges smooth. If he would be able to touch them, he would feel small hairs against his fingers. Pressing on them too much would make his fingers become numb.

Then Finrod lifted them away from his abused skin and Maglor saw his handiwork. His mind blanked out a bit again, as there was still much damage to his leg. Logically, he knew it wasn’t as bad as Maedhros had been, but healing would take some time. Thankfully, Finrod tried to work fast and covered leg and wound in fresh leaves. He pressed them hard against the skin for a moment. Maglor sighed as the numbness spread again. He laid back and let his cousin do the honours of wrapping the bandages around his leg again.

“Maglor?”

“Yes?”, he mumbled, his throat still hoarse.

“You need to drink something.”

“Hmm.”

Finrod did not relent and poured some water in Maglor’s mouth. He had not other choice than to swallow the liquid. It tasted a bit of the leather flask it had been kept in, but not foul in any other way. It helped. Maglor felt a bit refreshed, but still sleepy. He closed his eyes and yawned. He fell asleep quickly.

Maglor woke up because someone moved him. Roughly. At first, he panicked, fearing the servants of Morgoth had gotten to him. He flailed with his arms and legs. Not a good idea. He hit his right leg against something soft, which was enough to sent a shock of pain to his mind.

“Shit!”, Finrod cursed again. “Maglor, it’s me.”

Maglor stilled. It was Finrod. He calmed down, letting the movement happen. He was being carried by his cousin, feeling an arm behind his back and one holding his legs. The warm thing his leg had hit against must have been Finrod’s shoulder.

“Why?”, he croaked. The sleepiness and his hurt throat did not make speaking easier than the day before.

“It started to rain. The water ran into our hideout. I searched for something dry and found a small shed, which should accommodate us better.”

Maglor nodded and finally registered the drops falling on his face.

The shed Finrod had found was a bit to the side. From the entrance, they had a great view to the collapsed structure which had once been Minas Tirith, the watchtower of the elves. For a moment, Maglor wondered how Finrod felt about this. He had been the architect of the building once. He had drawn the plans and made the arrangements. The stone, alabaster, had come from a quarry, not too far away. It had been given up as the elves moved on. Maglor was sure the nature had reclaimed some of it. Now, nature would reclaim the ruins in time. It was sad, to see one of the first building on these shores so thoroughly destroyed.

In the last light of the day, obscured by clouds, the white stone shone wetly. Under different circumstances, Maglor would have paused for a while and just enjoyed the moment.

Finrod carried him over the threshold of the shed. It was truly not much more. The roof was made from wood, covered with straw. It was old and started to rot in some places, but inside the hut it was dry. Maglor was grateful for this. Here, they also were sheltered from the wind, which seemed to pick up on the outside. The pain in his leg had gone back to manageable levels, so he became a bit sleepy again.

“I have to leave you alone for a few moments”, Finrod announced. “I will get the fabrics before they get wet.”

Maglor nodded weakly as he was let down. He leant against the wall as Finrod went out again. He watched the door fall shut, which left him in the shade of the room. The shed had not been damaged by the destruction of the tower itself. A smell clung to the inside, which Maglor had a hard time placing. It took him a few moments until he came up to the realization it was the mixed odours of mould and rotten dung. The shed had been primarily constructed for keeping animals then. As it was the only building near Minas Tirith still standing, it was as good a space as any. It provided shelter from the elements and hid them from any orcs and wild animals. Maglor was glad Finrod had found it and carried him here. He would not have been able to walk. Now he owed his life to his cousin twice over.

He’d never be able to repay this debt.

Chapter Text

“We have to think about the future”, Finrod said. His tone was grim. “We can’t stay here, in the ruins of this tower.”

Maglor like the thought of moving at all. His leg was still hurting and sometimes it was twitching without input from his brain, intensifying the pain. He was miserable.

“Where to?”, Maglor asked, because what Finrod was planning sounded unpleasant. Currently, he’s unable to even really consider leaving the ruins. His leg had almost been crushed after all and rendered completely useless. Even with his elven healing, a full recovery was more than questionable.

“Hithlum.”

“Walk? To the capital? That’s impossible. A weaker elf might call you mad.”

Finrod sighed. “At least you haven’t lost your spirit, even if you lost your voice for a while. But, do we really have anther choice?” Finrod shook his head. “The collapse of the tower and Sauron’s flight may have bought us time, but not much. The orcs will return, and with them the wolves. If they find out we survived, we won’t be alive for much longer.” And whatever of their life remained, once captured, they would spend in excruciating pain, torture in retaliation for what they did to Sauron.

“Finrod, I can’t even stand up, let alone walk”, Maglor whispered. “Hithlum is too far.” He’d die on the way there, and up until that point, he’d have to lean on Finrod so much that he would threaten his friend’s life as well. Something that he doesn’t want to do. Finrod could make it. On his own.

Finrod deflated and then sighed. He’s clearly well aware of their options. “We’re not safe here. We have one day, maybe two, before the orcs come back, and if we’re still here by then...”

“I understand”, Maglor whispered. “Just, can you give me that day to decide on a path for us?” For you? I need you to survive, Maglor wants to say but doesn’t. There’s a dark path he could wander, to ensure Finrod has the best chances, all the food and no dead weight to carry. He swallows and hopes his cousin doesn’t see his eyes drop to the ground.

Maglor falls asleep once again, dreaming of Námo standing beside him.

When he woke up again, there’s no Námo, only Finrod watching over him, just as he did since the fall of the tower.

“Time to change your bandages”, his friend said.

“Already?”

“Yes”, Finrod replied. “It’ll aid your healing.”

He doesn’t say recovery.

Maglor is glad that his cousin isn’t so cruel as to give him false hope. Finrod’s fingers are cold on Maglor’s burning leg.

To distract himself, he asks a question that had been on his mind ever since he found out about the deaths of their companions. Finrod never mentioned how he knew exactly who had died when the tower fell. “How did you know about their passing?”

F inrod was silent for a moment, clearly deep in memory. When he finally spoke, it was with a deep sadness. “I found their bodies.” Finrod exhaled and let the words sink in before he continued . “In the cellar. It collapsed partially, but I was able to enter . They couldn’t escape the cages as they were destroyed and the stones crushed them .”

M aglor regretted asking as the violent images formed in front of his eyes. The worst thing about it was that it was his fault. He had brought the tower down, not even thinking about the friends imprisoned below.

His dark thoughts were interrupted by Finrod. “Four other cages, I found empty. I have hope they survived. At least… At least I didn’t find their bodies.”

A shimmer of hope grew in Maglor, somewhere beside the grief over their lost companions. “No traces of them?”

Finrod shook his head. “I guess Melwyn took command and led them. She’s good at hiding tracks.”

Maglor remembered the dark skinned warrior woman all too well and held her in high regard. “She would lead them well, I am sure of it. But we can’t hope for aid from them.”

“No. To them, we must have died in the collapse of the tower. They would have returned had they thought our survival to be likely.”

Better for them. If they made it to any settlement, maybe even back to Nargothrond, they could tell the tale of Sauron’s defeat. It would be a great story to boost morale. Maybe the other minstrels would even turn it into a song. The story of brave Felagund and his kinslayer cousin. Maybe he could be remembered for something more than the blood on his hands and an unbreakable oath sworn for a father that didn’t care.

“I managed to free their bodies from the stones”, Finrod told him. “But I wasn’t able to bury them as I’d wished, I didn’t dare to leave you for long.”

An image comes to mind, of Finrod alone in the collapsed prison, lifting stones away from the broken bodies of their friends, crying silently but working on freeing them nonetheless. Maglor suddenly wishes with a hot intensity that he could have been there, beside his beloved cousin, to help him in the grim task. Instead, he lay here, dead to the world.

“I would like to bury them before we leave, so that neither orc nor wild animal will defile them.”

Oh noble Finrod, king of the kindhearted. “Then you should do it. I wish I could help you, but”, he gestures to his leg, “I’m afraid I might be more hindrance than help. But I won’t die here, and you can leave me alone for a while. If needed, I can even change the leaves on my skin – look, my range of movement has gotten better.” To demonstrate, Maglor sits up a bit more. It hurts, a lot, but it doesn’t rip any wound further open. It just shifts the damaged muscle.

“Are you sure?”

“I am.”

“Should I get you once the graves are ready for them?”

The image of broken bodies comes to his mind again. “No, but I would like to see the graves once they’re buried.” He wants to remember his companions how they were in life, he doesn’t want to be haunted by the memories of what he led them to.

“You feel guilty, right?”, Finrod asks softly.

Maglor nods. It’s all he can do.

“As do I.”