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There was a Man on his beach.

It was not uncommon for Men to seek him out, especially when he sang, but something about this Man in particular caused guilt to surge in Maglor’s chest. Though his beard and stature marked him undoubtedly as a Man, there was something in the way he carried himself that reminded Maglor of his stolen sons. And the eyes, he thought. Even from a distance, he would have recognized Elros’ eyes anywhere.

“It is a lament,” he said in the common tongue, knowing Men did not understand the Noldolantë.

“I know,” replied the man in Quenya. Maglor froze. The Man crossed the beach to stand beside him and continued, “It is much more guilt-ridden than the history I was taught.”

The wise thing would be to flee, but curiosity got the better of him. It had been too long since he had heard any voice speak Quenya but his own, and to hear a Man speak after the manner of his own House was enough to make Maglor foolish.

“Men have grown more naive than I thought. I lived those dreadful days and did those dreadful deeds! The Noldolantë is a lament, yes, but also a warning.”

“I was not taught by Men, but by the Lord of Imladris. It is on his behalf that I searched for you, Maglor Fëanorion,” said the Man.

Maglor bowed his head. So this was how it was to be, then. He had heard of the realm of Imladris, though he had never bothered to learn who ruled there. Whoever the Lord of Imladris was, he had a long memory to hold a grudge into the Third Age.

“If I am to be brought to judgement, I will not resist.”

“Judgement! I suppose he will have words for you,” the Man said. “Come. We have a long road ahead of us.”

Maglor thought once more of fleeing before putting the thought out of his mind for good. He was tired. If his death would bring peace to whatever remnant of the Noldor dwelt in Imladris, then that was a fair bargain. He followed the Man without complaint.

“If it is a long road, may I know your name?”

The man smiled at him as if speaking with a friend and not a prisoner. “In Imladris, I am called Estel.”

*

To Maglor’s surprise, Estel was more than willing to speak with him on the journey to Imladris. At first, Maglor tried not to take advantage of it, knowing he did not deserve the kindness he was shown. But at length, he broke, and asked,

“Is Gil-galad still High King of the Noldor?”

Estel turned to look at him, his brow pinching together as his lips twisted in a frown. “Gil-galad fell in the Last Alliance, and there has been no High King since then.”

Maglor felt as if his heart had been plunged into ice. He had sent his stolen sons to Gil-galad, thinking they would be safe, but if the High King had been defeated so utterly that none had taken his place, he could only guess at their fate. With some prompting, Estel told him the story of the Last Alliance, even being kind enough to include a lay that had been written about Gil-galad’s fall. Maglor wept to hear it told. He tried not to think of little Elrond caught in the midst of battle or bleeding out from some orc-wound, crying for his fathers. Perhaps it was a mercy that Elros had chosen the Gift of Men. He, at least, had died at peace, as he had assured them all he would.

Despite his best efforts, Maglor could not get the thought of his sons out of his mind. Even in sleep, his dreams twisted, showing him all the dreadful ways Elrond might have fallen beside King Gil-galad. If, of course, he had even survived that long. He could have fallen earlier, in Eregion, if indeed he had even made it out of Beleriand. It was after three days of no sleep he asked over breakfast,

“You say you were raised by the Lord of Imladris. Have you any knowledge of Elrond Peredhel?”

Estel choked on his drink. “Yes. I know Elrond.”

Hope entered Maglor’s heart. “He lives?”

Estel smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Yes, Maglor, he lives in Imladris. His wife sailed many years ago, but he and his children live here still.”

“He lives,” Maglor whispered again, and laughed with sheer delight. “Estel, you are well named! That is better news than I could have hoped for.”

Estel, continuing to show more kindness than Maglor could comprehend, then shared with him stories of his own encounters with Elrond. They passed the days in that way as they walked. From the stories, Maglor learnt that Elrond had grown to be kind and just and, if Estel was to be believed, all but universally adored. He was a healer first and foremost, talented beyond all others in Middle Earth, but counted also among the wise and often called upon to give advice. Each word brought Maglor greater and greater joy. Occasionally, he thought he caught a glimpse of the son he had raised at Amon Ereb in the tales, but then a new thought came to him, and he said quietly,

“Estel, you speak of Elrond as if he were your father.”

“My father died when I was very young. Elrond took me in and raised me. Many of his people seemed amused by this, though I do not understand why.”

At that, Maglor threw himself on the ground and wept. Elrond, whom he loved, was the Lord of Imladris who would pass judgement on him, who still carried scars so deep he had sent Estel to search for him. Long was the reach of the curse of Fëanor! He had thought they parted on good terms, but it was only natural that Elrond would come to his senses and learn to resent his once-fathers once returned to the safety of his people. How much pain must Elrond be in to seek revenge even now, after so many centuries had passed? He only hoped that Elrond would find some peace following whatever judgement he passed on Maglor. If his son would sleep better with Maglor in the Everlasting Darkness, then the Darkness was where Maglor ought to be.

Estel, apparently knowing little of what Maglor had done, sought to soothe him, but he shied away from his kindness and exclaimed, “Do not speak gently to me! I do not deserve it.”

For a few moments, Estel was quiet. After some thought, he said, “If it is for Elrond’s sake you weep, should you not let him judge what you deserve? We are not so far from Imladris that we cannot reach it in a day.”

A day. The thought that he might not see the sun rise again should not have brought Maglor comfort, but it did. He pulled himself together with difficulty and stood. They marched for a while in silence, until Maglor shamefully begged for more stories of Elrond, which Estel was kind enough to oblige him with. It was not until the sun began to set that Estel paused. He pulled the cleanest cloth he had from his gear and used it to clean the tears and dirt from Maglor’s face and clothes, dismissing all Maglor’s protests to the contrary and saying,

“If I bring you home looking like this, Elrond will lecture me until I am sixty.”

And with that strange comment, he put a hand on Maglor’s shoulder and steered him into a valley. Had Estel not been guiding him, Maglor would have walked right past it, for it was hidden twice over, once by natural geography and once by some powerful protective enchantment. A river danced through the bottom of the valley and the trees towered above. The path into Imladris itself was narrow but easy to follow, and Maglor was pleased to see the occasional elegant tower placed along it (for summer stargazing and singing, Estel claimed, and Maglor wondered at his naivety).

They passed the first group of elves halfway to the main house. To Maglor’s relief, none of them recognized him, though they all greeted Estel by name. They moved on, though close to the main house Estel took them off the main path through some gardens.

“It is better, I think, to avoid a crowd for this,” he said.

“You have been, and continue to be, too kind to me,” Maglor said quietly. The smile Estel gave him was achingly sad. It would have struck deep enough alone, but something about the expression reminded him deeply of his sons.

Estel lead him into the house through a side door and took him to a small but comfortable sitting room with wide-open windows overlooking the garden.

“Wait here. I will find Elrond,” he said, and disappeared.

It was odd, Maglor thought, that he had not been put under guard, but Estel had seemed an unusually trusting type. Doubtless that would change quickly when news spread of his presence. In the distance, he heard a thud, as if something were dropped suddenly to the ground, followed by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. The door burst open to reveal Elrond, his eyes wide and bright. Maglor’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of his stolen son full grown, looking every bit the graceful lord Maglor had known in his heart he would be.

“Atya,” Elrond breathed, sending Maglor’s mind reeling.

Elrond threw himself across the room and it was only long-latent habit that let Maglor open his arms in time to catch him in an embrace. His son had no such hesitation, clinging to him as if afraid he would disappear. Unthinking, Maglor began to hum one of the songs he had once used to calm the twins. Elrond made a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Better still, some tension bled from his shoulders, though his grip on Maglor did not loosen. Selfishly, Maglor took the chance to look him over, hoping for some sign that his life was good. But before he could look his fill, Elrond pulled back, though he still kept his hands on Maglor’s shoulders.

“Atya, where have you been? I searched for you for so long.”

Maglor looked at him, taking in the words, and his fine cream robes smudged now with dirt from embracing Maglor, and the chain around his neck still bearing the mark of House of Fëanor that Maglor had given him with long ago, and something in him shattered.

“Even now? You could have been free and forgotten Maedhros and I at any time.”

“Free?” Elrond echoed, baffled, then his expression turned outraged. “Atya! No! You are my fathers! I would no sooner forget you than I would forget my sons.”

“But” –

“You are my family,” Elrond said sternly, and embraced him again. “Estel tells me you expected judgement. Is that so?”

Maglor answered the affirmative, forcing himself to pull back. He braced himself for Elrond’s next words, but nothing could have prepared him for what Elrond said next.

“Then I would bid you to forgive yourself, as I have, and as Elros did. If there is one thing I begrudge you for, it is for staying away for so long.”

“I did not wish to be a burden. If you had sent elves and not a Man, I would have evaded him, too.”

“You would have tried, but I have yet to meet elf or Man who can hide from Estel,” Elrond laughed. He took Maglor by the arm and led him from the sitting room. As he did so, he continued, “But I did not send him. Estel took it into his own head to find you. I would not be surprised if he has planned this since he was a child, given how much he loved stories of Elros. My childhood could have been twice as long and still not satisfied his desire for stories. And Estel is bright enough to judge how dearly I missed you and impetuous enough to make it his own business.”

“He was kinder to me than I deserve,” Maglor said. He regretted the words immediately when they made the smile on Elrond’s face shrink a little, but it recovered a moment later.

“And he has inflicted his terrible hygiene habits to you. Honestly, I did teach that boy to bathe, though you would not know it to look at him each time he traipses in from the wilds.”

That startled a small laugh from Maglor. It was a rough and dry sound, awkward from ill-use, but earnest nonetheless. “He said something about being lectured until he was sixty if I showed up too dirty.”

“Sixty!” Elrond said, and the laughter was back in his eyes. “I just might. He did not even warn me you were coming. You will have to use the guest baths while I make ready your room.”

As promised, Elrond led him to a different wing of the house and showed him to a bathroom tiled in cream and blue. He showed him how the baths worked and where to find towels and clothes suitable for guests. Maglor exclaimed over the quality of the plumbing, which far surpassed even the greatest examples he remembered from his youth. Elrond shrugged.

“You did not truly expect our people to be content with reproducing what they had done before? Of course they had to outdo themselves.”

The blood drained from Maglor’s face and he gripped the edge of the tub to support himself. Panicking, he cast his mind back through the years and tried desperately to remember what he had ordered the remains of his people to do after Maedhros had died. Surely he had not sent them to Elrond. Elrond had been with Gil-galad, and an army of Fëanorian loyalists marching on the High King at that time could only have lead to war. But Elrond only smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

“Bathe, Atya. I will go and air out your room for you. We can talk once you have cleaned and eaten.”

Elrond disappeared before Maglor could form even a word of protest. Not knowing what else to do, Maglor bathed as instructed. The first bath was quickly stained brown with filth, so he drained it and filled a second so he could actually clean himself. For the first time in over an age, he allowed himself a moment of comfort. The hot water leeched decades worth of pain from his muscles, the steam cleared his lungs, and somewhere in this very house, his son was alive and well. His heart lifted in song, and for once a tune that was not a lament came out.

A full hour passed before he heard a knock on the door. Elrond entered a moment later bearing a bundle of clothes.

“You are taller than I am, but I think these will suit better than the spare clothes left for other guests. I have asked the tailor to make time for us tomorrow. There is a waiting room across the hall. You will find me there when you are done, but by all means, please take your time.”

Maglor did not take his time. As soon as Elrond closed the door behind him, he finished bathing in record time and dried himself as quickly as he was able, trying not to linger on how soft the clean towels felt. But he hesitated when he had to dress. The clothes Elrond had brought were cream and umber and as fine as anything Maglor had ever seen East of the Sea. The idea that he might be allowed such comfort and vanity was enough to make him want to bolt for the forest. His rough, weather-worn rags were more than good enough for him. But he dressed himself in Elrond’s clothes nonetheless, even laughing softly at himself when he saw the shoulders were too wide and the robes ended an inch higher than the should have.

Elrond, as promised, was in the room across the hall, speaking with a group of dwarves. The dwarves were reluctant to see him go, but Elrond placated them with many apologies and told them quite frankly that he had not seen his father since the First Age and intended to have words with him about it. His guests had laughed and looked at Maglor in wonder. Before they could ask questions, Elrond whisked him away, back towards the wing of the house he had entered. They passed through a central hall, then, as they entered the new wing, Maglor spied an eight-pointed star wrought in stained glass above the door. He did not have a chance to question it before Elrond led him within.

“You are, of course, welcome to choose rooms elsewhere in the house, but this wing is for our family,” Elrond said. There was so much certainty in his tone that not even Maglor could bring himself to argue as he was marched past a portrait of Elrond standing beside a woman Maglor had never met. Elrond pointed out his bedroom and his study, as well as the rooms occupied by his twin sons (“Who would have been at home to meet you, if Estel had the courtesy to warn me”) and his daughter (“Who will be wherever Estel is, so you will have to wait until morning to meet her”).

“And,” Elrond continued, “given how long these rooms have waited for you, it would be a shame if you did not use them.”

With that, he opened a door to reveal a suite of rooms consisting of a bedroom, a music room, a personal bathroom, and a small terrace. A table had been laid on the terrace, heavy with many different dishes designed to be eaten slowly at room temperature, so they would not spoil for being left a while. Maglor’s heart began to pound in panic.

“Elrond, this is too much.”

“It is proportionate, I think. Had you and Atto had the resources I have today, you would have afforded me no less.”

Maglor opened his mouth to continue arguing, but Elrond led him into the room and continued,

“Come. Neither of us have eaten, and we have much catching up to do.”

The promise of food was tempting, but the promise of learning more of Elrond’s life was what broke him. He begged Elrond to speak first, and Elrond acquiesced. They sat in starlight and dined as Elrond told him (in brief) all that had happened since he and Maedhros had sent the twins to Gil-galad. But before Elrond had even finished giving him a timeline of the First Age, Maglor exclaimed in horror,

“Gil-galad let you fight?!”

Elrond gave him a wry smile. “Atya, if you are going to exclaim every time I mention battle, this is going to be a long tale.”

That was worrisome, but quite beside the point. “Maedhros and I made it clear that there was to be no war for you until you were at least five centuries.”

Of all the reactions Maglor had expected, a delighted laugh was not one of them. With a spark of mischief in his eye, Elrond said, “And I am sure you will think me a dreadful scoundrel for marrying my wife after just a century of courting.”

Maglor gaped at him. “Elrond!”

He laughed yet harder, but this time there were tears in his eyes. “If it is any comfort, this came after I pined for her for nearly the entire Second Age! Celebrían made the first move, in the end. She was always bolder than I.”

He then told Maglor of his long friendship tinged with courtship with Celebrían and of how much he had adored her. The last part, Maglor thought, he need not have mentioned, because every mention of her name twisted Elrond’s face into something like wistful, desperate adoration. When he at last told Maglor what had happened to her, they both wept. It was long before Elrond pulled back and took a deep steadying breath.

“All will be well. I will see her again. You will meet her and hear what I am certain will be a much more embarrassing tale of our courtship.”

At that, Maglor baulked, pulling back with fear in his eyes. “Elrond, I cannot sail.”

“Then I will not sail,” Elrond said. And oh, even as Maglor felt his heart stop with fear, he could not stop the surge of pride and affection he felt at the bold declaration of loyalty. It was a very specific, very Fëanorian blend of courage, stubbornness, stupidity, and unconditional devotion that could build and level cities or damn a people. Maglor could not decide if he was thrilled or dismayed to see it so clearly in Elrond.

“Do not give me that look, Atya! I will not leave any more of my family behind than I must.”

“And you must leave me,” Maglor said, desperately. “I am not worth” –

Elrond’s hand appeared over his mouth. The stern expression on his face was a perfect mirror of the disapproving look Maglor himself had deployed on Elrond throughout his childhood, and had their argument been over anything less serious Maglor would have laughed.

“If you say you are not worth it, I am going to be very upset, Atya.”

When he lowered his hand to allow Maglor to speak, Maglor asked, “And if the Valar prevent you from finding the Straight Road because I am with you?”

“Are the Valar good?” Elrond asked, a sweet smile on his face, and Maglor groaned.

“I thought you’d grow out of that question.”

“Oh, but it works so well when people are being stubborn,” Elrond said. The glimmer of mischief in his eyes was all too familiar to Maglor, who had seen most of Elrond’s teenage rebellion first hand. Worse, though, was when he proceeded to tell Maglor of the many times he had used that exact line to shock and horrify anyone who was too pushy or critical with their views. The most annoying part, Maglor thought, was that every single one of the fools had fallen for it.

It was not until after late in the night that Elrond turned shy, hesitating and ducking his head before asking, “Atya? Would you sing for me?”

He offered his harp over. Maglor’s heart lifted to see he still carried the harp he had given him in his youth, but he held up his left hand and gently lowered it down.

“I can sing, but I can play no longer. When your father and I stole the Silmarils, they burned us grievously.”

Elrond’s mouth opened as if to argue at the word ‘stole’, but as soon as he heard Maglor’s full story, his expression turned grim. If earlier Maglor had thought his disapproval resembled himself scolding the twins, now he resembled Maedhros at his most fey and terrible. Armies had fled before that look on Maedhros and Maglor could not imagine them doing any less before his son. He bowed his head. So this was the line, then. He should have known that sooner or later, something in his past would be too much for Elrond to bear.

“Atya. Do you mean to tell me you have been hiding an injury all this time?”

The exclamation was not the banishment Maglor had been expecting. Instead of calling for guards, Elrond tugged gently at Maglor’s right elbow until he removed his hand from his robes. He made a wounded noise when he saw the patchy, festering burn spread over his palm.

“Atya!”

Oh, that distress in his son’s voice would not do.

“Elrond, shh, be at ease. There is nothing you can do. The Silmarils were hallowed by Varda herself.”

“That is no reason to let yourself suffer,” Elrond snapped. “Stay here!”

Before Maglor could protest, Elrond was gone from the room. He returned a few minutes later with boiling water, fresh herbs, and a supply of clean bandages.

“This will sting. I can sing to ease the pain if you would like me to, and if you will let me.”

Curiosity got the better of Maglor. Of all the wonders he had seen music achieve, that was something he had never seen, and he was eager to learn more. He agreed, more out of curiosity than anything else. He was rewarded by a brilliant smile before Elrond returned his focus to his task. Elrond sang softly as he cleaned the burn on Maglor’s hand, using freshly boiled water to remove the dirt and sand and pus that had built up there over the centuries.

The song Maglor recognized as a simple song he had sung for the twins when they were ill. It ought not to have carried any power in it, but Elrond laced power through it nonetheless, his touch and intent there as gentle as his work on Maglor’s hand. Fascinated, he listened closer to the song. Healing and relief from pain were layered into the tune, but the pain relief was a suggestion only, something even the weakest mind could have rejected. Though Maglor knew he deserved the pain from his wound, he shamefully let his son take it away.

After some time, Elrond pulled back with a sigh. “There. I will see to it each day. I do not know if I can restore your hand fully, but I believe I can help.”

“But” –

“I am a healer, Atya,” Elrond said in a tone that brooked no argument. “If Varda takes issue with my actions, she can come to Imladris herself to tell me.”

*

Breakfast was served in the gardens. It was a family affair because (as Elrond explained) he was taking the time to acclimate his House to his father slowly, though a quiet breakfast would always be an option for him. He was surprised and delighted to find Estel included at the family breakfast.

“Did you get the judgement you sought?” he asked. Now the line had been pointed out to him, he could see the resemblance to Elros, particularly in his stubbornness. When he pointed this out, Estel only beamed at him.

But when Elrond stepped out with his daughter, Maglor’s breath was stolen away. He had heard rumours comparing his granddaughter to Lúthien, but he had dismissed them as baseless gossip. Now he knew they were baseless, not because the comparison was unjust to Lúthien, but because they were unjust to Elrond’s daughter. She greeted him with none of the shyness he had expected, rushing up to him and embracing him and calling him grandfather.

“I knew Estel would find you!”

“Arwen!” Elrond said, aghast. “Did you know?”

Arwen waggled her eyebrows at him and dropped into a chair. Despite himself, Maglor found himself laughing.

“It seems, Elrond, that you have the curse and blessing every parent wishes on their own child: children as contrary as they were.”

“And to think, you haven’t even met my brothers, yet,” Arwen said, and Maglor could not hide his delight.

After breakfast, Elrond introduced him to the tailor, a young Third-Age Sindar elf who had no opinion on Maglor Fëanorion but was plainly ecstatic at a chance to meet Maglor, father of Elrond. The meeting was by far one of the most baffling meetings of Maglor’s life. When Maglor refused to share his preferences for clothes, insisting that simple fabrics were more than fine, Elrond cut in and gave his opinion, damning Maglor to a wardrobe full of fine clothes in the latest fashions that boldly marked him as a member of the House of Fëanor. Worse, Elrond pulled a copy of Maglor’s old coat-of-arms out of somewhere and showed it to the tailor, who nodded thoughtfully.

“Elrond! Where did you get that?”

“Well, I did consider adopting it when a certain High King tried to ban me from taking the eight-pointed star,” Elrond said. The mischievous smile on his face warmed Maglor’s heart even as his words threatened to stop it.

“You did what? Against the orders of the High King?”

Elrond gave him an odd look, then laughed suddenly. “Oh, I deserve this! Atya, was it not clear last night? Gil-galad is (or was) my dearest friend, despite the number of headaches I’m sure Elros and I caused him. He is practically another brother to me. You need not say ‘the High King’ with such dread in your voice. Did you really think you had sent us to someone so dreadful?”

Maglor’s expression crumpled. “Do you think we would have sent you away at all if we hadn’t been desperate? Maedhros was convinced Gil-galad would treat you well simply because he was Fingon’s son. He wouldn’t hear a word otherwise. I just hoped that the High King still put stock in protecting the princes of Sirion from us, but I couldn’t know.”

A pinched look flickered across Elrond’s face, quickly smoothed away. To anyone who had not raised Elrond from childhood, it would have looked merely strange, but Maglor knew his son’s moods better than his own. Elrond felt guilty. Maglor considered what could have prompted such a reaction and felt the blood drain from his face. He grabbed Elrond’s shoulder, his fingers twisting in his clothes.

“Elrond. Elrond, tell me you told the High King you had been hostages.”

“Ah, well, Atya, if it is any comfort, he is very cross with you,” Elrond hedged, putting an arm around Maglor and leading him back towards their family quarters. Maglor felt a swell of relief.

“As well he should be!”

Elrond hummed noncommittally. Once they were seated in the gardens just outside Elrond’s room, he said, “He doesn’t think you should have left.”

Maglor’s vision whited out for a moment. Once sense returned to him he stared at Elrond for a few moments, processing, then said weakly, “You waited until I was sitting down for a reason.”

“You know Elros and I went to him unwillingly. But when we met him, I liked him immediately,” Elrond said. Maglor took his meaning immediately and let out a sigh. Elrond, sometimes, either liked or disliked people, and Maglor and Maedhros had learnt to value his instincts very quickly. The consequences of ignoring him tended to be dire.

“I changed my opinion when he started to talk,” Elrond continued, “trying to reassure us that he would have come for us if he had only known we lived and promising that we could now learn to read and to write.”

Despite himself, Maglor snorted. He did not think there was a book in Amon Ereb Elrond had not read three times over by the time they had left the fortress.

“In the ensuing debate, I implied any knowledge or skills I had at that stage where wholly a credit to you and Atto. That, I think, was the first time I saw that particular look on his face,” Elrond said, leaning back in his chair. A fond, nostalgic air had crept into his tone, as though there were something funny about distressing the man who could legally have you executed. “Elros and I considered the day a loss if we did not upset him so at least once a day, you know.”

Maglor leaned forward and put his head in his hands. He swallowed heavily, trying not to dwell on the violent and entirely rational reactions Gil-galad might have had to two young Fëanorian princes infiltrating his camp.

“Elrond, you could have died.”

Elrond looked at Maglor for a long moment, his expression pensive. “When I told him Elros and I had been antagonising him on purpose, he ordered exclusively sweet white wine for three years and scheduled me in twice as many diplomatic meetings for six months.”

“You were punished with… wine and work?” Maglor echoed, baffled. Elrond sniffed haughtily. He was very clearly playing it up a little for the drama but, Maglor conceded, he would hardly be his son if he did not.

“He knows I only drink dry whites, sweet whites are absolutely revolting. He’d have the labels switched, too, so I wouldn’t know, and of course you can’t simply refuse your drink at a court because it’s not to your taste. He and Celebrimbor couldn’t stop laughing at me.”

“Telperinquar was there?” Maglor asked, seizing on the most important part of the sentence. He could unravel Gil-galad’s bizarre disciplinary system later. Elrond’s expression sobered.

“He preferred Celebrimbor, last we spoke, but yes. He was part of Gil-galad’s court for many years, and afterwards, Gil-galad often sent me to him on formal business – though in truth, all three of us knew it was a chance for me to see my only remaining family.”

“The High King acknowledged Celebrimbor was your family? Celebrimbor acknowledged he was your family?”

It was more than Maglor would have dared to hope for. Elrond let out an undignified snort of laughter.

“Elros and I hardly gave either of them a choice, but yes. Atya, I know I am sharing the truth with you rather faster than I shared it with Gil-galad, but please believe me when I say he is every bit worthy of the trust and love I have given him.”

“If he was good to you, then it eases a burden I have carried for a long time.”

“Do you mean that?” Elrond asked gently. “Or are you going to continue to panic every time I mention our time together?

“I will try to mean it,” Maglor promised, which was as close to what Elrond wanted as he was going to get.

*

“Adar! Elladan is hurt!”

Elrond disappeared from the room like a bolt of lightning. Maglor followed on his heels, then hesitated and changed his direction. Rather than follow Elrond into the courtyard, he made his way to a small study he knew had a balcony from which he could watch. Elrond’s sons dressed as Men, marked other from the rangers only by the length of their hair and the grace by which they comported themselves. The sight made something twist in Maglor’s chest. He still remembered the tears they had shed together when they had realized Elros had chosen the mortal path. He shuddered to think of the grief Elrond would face if he lost a child to that path, too.

Elrond shepherded both sons inside, but his attention was plainly on the twin with a bandaged arm. As they passed under the balcony, Maglor could hear him already singing softly to his son. Maglor was struck by a sudden, desperate urge to follow them, but he did not. Instead, he retreated to the room Elrond had set aside for him and waited for news there.

Eventually, Maglor grew impatient and left his quarters. He collided almost immediately with one of the twins, though he seemed completely transformed. In place of the Mannish young peredhel who had reminded him so painfully of Elros’ choice stood a young Fëanorian prince, dressed in the bold crimson of his house with stars of Fëanor embroidered into the collar and sleeves. For an instant, Maglor’s blood ran cold. Was this for his sake? Did Elrond push his son to dress as such, thinking he needed to please his once-captor?

“Are you lost?” the twin asked. “You’ve gone a little past the guest wing, but I can help you find your way.”

Arwen’s voice drifted down the hall. “Is that any way to greet your grandfather, Elrohir? No wonder Adar introduced me first, he’s probably embarrassed.”

“Grandfather?” Elrohir’s face pinched in confusion. A moment later, his eyes widened and he laughed in delight. “Oh, Adar must be elated. How is the rest of the House taking it?”

“He has not had the opportunity to introduce me to everyone yet,” Maglor demurred. He glanced again at the star of Fëanor on Elrohir’s sleeve. Not a false display, then, but something he wore regularly by choice. Elrohir, like Elrond, was proud of his chosen house.

“Coward,” Elrohir laughed. He took Maglor’s arm and steered him down the hall and into a room containing where Elladan lay in bed while Elrond tended to his wound. Elladan turned to look at them when they came in. His brow furrowed in confusion, but his gaze was loose and glazed as if he looked at something far away. Maglor’s heart grieved to see him in such a state, but Elrohir sounded on the verge of laughter when he said,

“Adar’s using the powerful pain relief, I see.”

“Peace, Elladan. It’s just Maglor, your grandfather,” Elrond soothed. Maglor had never dreamed of his name being used to soothe a child, but Elladan’s confusion gave way to a sweet, dopey smile. Elrond started to sing once more, once again choosing a song Maglor had sung for him often when he or Elros had been injured or simply over-tired and refusing to sleep. Beside Maglor, Elrohir’s face twisted into a fond smile.

“He always picks this one for us when we’re hurt,” he whispered to Maglor. “It was a lullaby when we were very young, too.”

“I wrote it for him and his brother,” Maglor whispered back. Back then, it had been nothing more than music. He had, once or twice, coaxed the twins to sleep with a hint of enchantment, but he had tried to do so only at direst need, when they had been awake for hours and plagued by the strange, terrible dreams Men called nightmares. But Elrond had taken what he had done and used it to knit flesh back together. He had seen his son perform similar miracles before, but last he had seen him, Elrond would have taken an entire day to do half of what he managed in an afternoon now.

It occurred to Maglor abruptly that had anyone bothered to develop Elrond’s craft earlier, more may have survived the First Age. The thought made him choke on his own breath. He tried not to think about the mortal wounds and dreadful burns he had seen that might have turned to no more than scars under Elrond’s skilled hands. He listened instead to the song itself, letting the suggestion of peace and relaxation work on him as well.

Once Elladan was sleeping peacefully, Elrond shepherded the rest of them from the room. Despite his wounded son, he beamed at the sight of Elrohir and Maglor standing beside one another. He reached out to Elrohir and adjusted his collar slightly.

“So, grandfather, how many of Adar’s songs are actually your songs?” Elrohir asked.

“Most of them. I am only ashamed to admit I did not sing to you half as much as Atya sang to me,” Elrond said serenely. Maglor was pleased to see Elrohir looked deeply skeptical at that, suggesting Elrond had indeed sung to his children as often as he should have.

*

“It occurs to me that I have been performing rather poorly at my chosen craft lately,” Elrond said one afternoon. “I have developed many techniques for treating injury and illness in the mind and fëa, but at no point did I stop to consider which would be most helpful to you.”

Maglor put down the book he was reading and looked at him with concern. It was not the first time Elrond had spoken of fëa-sickness and Maglor was not entirely sure what he meant when he did so. The years weighed heavy on him, yes, but he was not fading. Nor was he like some other old soldiers who were haunted by battle, flinching at the sound of clashing metal or falling to pieces at the sight of banners flying in the wind. But before he could think how to explain this to his son, Elrond plucked the book from his hands and sat next to him.

“For patients who are comfortable with ósanwë, it is often helpful to share thoughts and experiences directly. I have told you that Elros lived well, that Celebrimbor was our dear cousin, and Gil-galad was as another brother to me, but I have not shown you.”

Greed rose in Maglor, ugly and grasping. When Elrond had been small, he had used ósanwë as often as speech. The promise of having that back even for a moment would alone be almost impossible to resist, but paired with the idea that he may get to see little Elros one last time? Maglor did not think any parent would have been able to resist. Choking back a sob, he asked,

“You would do that for me?”

“I have done similar for those I loved less,” Elrond said with a smile.

The next thing Maglor felt was a tug on the parent-child bond. He responded, trying not to show how grasping and desperate he truly was, but Elrond reached for him freely. The same love and trust he had shown as a child radiated by the bond, tempered but not dimmed by the centuries of life he had lived since then.

The world tilted and Maglor blinked. One moment, he was Maglor; the next, he was himself and Elrond both, but Elrond in his youth, unpacking the formal wear he and Maedhros had packed for them. The breath left Maglor’s lungs at the first sight of Elros. He looked little different to when Maglor had last seen him, and Elrond had been kind enough to choose a happy memory. Maglor wept at the sight of them trading insults and compliments as they went through the collection. He began to panic when he realized the High King was there, but Gil-galad only smiled at them indulgently and joked with them, and in his memory, Elrond felt no fear in his presence.

The vision faded and Maglor saw Elrond as he was in front of him, a gentle smile on his face. “Do you want to see more?”

“Please,” Maglor begged. He was rewarded with a slew of visions centred on Elros. At first they were tightly spaced together and Elros changed little day by day. Elrond hid nothing from him in those memories until they stumbled across the night the twins had learnt of Maedhros death. Maglor let out a wounded sound at the dreadful wave of grief that hit him in that memory, but before he experienced more, he found himself blocked out of Elrond’s thoughts entirely. He was invited back in a few moments later and the scene had changed again.

Then Elros left for Númenor and the memories were spaced apart by years. Maglor watched his son’s life play out over the course of hours. By the time Elros kicked Elrond out of Númenor for the last time (“It is nearly my time, and I know I will not go peacefully while you linger here,” he had said, and then both of them had wept), the night had fallen deep about them. He blinked. Both he and Elrond were weeping. Ignoring his own tears, he reached out to dry his son’s, and Elrond folded into his arms the same way he had when he was small.

“He lived well,” Maglor soothed, and for the first time he knew it to be true.

“I will never see him again. Not even in Mandos,” Elrond whimpered. “Atya, I still think of him every day.”

There was little Maglor could do, but he did his best to comfort his son. He held him, and kissed his forehead, and hummed his favourite lullaby from long ago. It was not until after Elrond had cried himself to sleep in his arms that he let himself consider, for the first time, the abject cruelty of the Oath he had sworn. He may deserve the Everlasting Darkness, but Elrond did not deserve to lose another person he loved.

*

Minas Tirith was beautiful in spring. The few trees in the city began to bud and flowers bloomed in window boxes. Even with lingering signs of war in the city, life and growth began to return, and it would soon be made fair. It would be a good home to Arwen and Estel for many years, Maglor judged. If Arwen’s choice was the Gift of Men, then at least she would have a city that was very nearly worthy of her.

With the rest of Elrond’s people busy, Maglor took to walking the city at random. He preferred to do so alone, which took some effort, because to his horror Elrond had assigned him a bodyguard. The bodyguard in question was one of his own former soldiers who had been with him in the Gap, but that apparently did not win him any loyalty in this argument. Elrond had declared that he was to be protected “at all costs”, and that was that.

He was walking through the streets in one of the middle circles when a terrified woman burst from a house and ran straight into his guard. She stumbled and started to apologize, but then her eyes caught on the star of Fëanor embroidered on his clothes. In defiance of all logic, her expression turned to pure relief.

“You’re a healer.”

Maglor sent a panicked look to his guard. “Get my son.”

The guard vanished. He then turned to the woman and said, “I am no healer, but my son” –

“If you are no healer, then why do you carry the healer’s star?” the woman snapped, gesturing to his outfit. She apparently thought this was insurmountable logic, because the next thing Maglor knew, she had grabbed his sleeve and pulled him into a nearby house. Maglor protested the entire time until he saw a small human child, bundled in blankets and shivering. His protests died on his tongue. He may not be a healer, but he did know how to deal with sick children. He rushed over to the little one and checked him over, touching his hand to his forehead and peering into his eyes. He hummed a soothing melody as he worked, and though the child had been distressed to begin with, they quickly settled into sleep under his care.

Some time later, he heard Elrond’s voice calling “Atya” from outside. He called back. When Elrond stepped in, the woman who had found him eyed him suspiciously.

“Are you another false healer?”

“False healer?”

“You both have the healer’s star on your clothes, but he says he is not a healer,” the woman said, exasperated. “I’d have kicked him out if I wasn’t so desperate.”

“The… oh,” Elrond said. He ducked his head in embarrassment. “An old tradition, I take it? From Númenor? I see. Well, my lady, I am a healer, even if my father is not.”

“Properly trained?” she asked, hawkish now she had them on the back foot. Elrond’s lips twitched in a poorly suppressed smile.

“I have just come from your Halls of Healing. And while I am not from Gondor, I did teach your king everything he knows.”

“Well, then,” the woman said, and settled down. Elrond turned his attention to the child, asking the woman about their symptoms and making a few observations himself. He then showed the woman how to make a poultice that would bring the child’s fever down. Her skepticism faded as he worked. Many of the herbs he listed were apparently known to her, though she would not have known how to mix or purify them herself. Still, once the work was done, she cast one more fearful look at her child and asked,

“You’re certain?”

“My lady, I once made this same remedy for my brother’s children,” Elrond soothed. “I would stake my life on its efficacy. Given how badly my brother handled his children falling ill, I may well have been doing just that.”

Maglor had a sudden, vivid memory of Elros threatening him with a dagger because Elrond had managed to dislocate his shoulder falling off a horse. It had been wholly illogical, but he had been eight and terrified for his brother. Hiding a sudden laugh, he said,

“I had hoped he would grow out of that habit.”

“Never,” Elrond said with a smile. They made their way out of the house together. Once safely on the street, Elrond bowed to the woman and said, “If the fever has not broken by dawn, or if there is anything else I can do, please send for me in the Inner Circle. My name is Elrond.”

Several emotions passed over the woman’s face at once before the blood drained from her face and she fell to her knees.

“Lord Elrond Peredhel? Brother to Elros Tar-Minyatur?”

A wince stole across Elrond’s face as Maglor stared incredulously.

“Please, don’t kneel,” Elrond begged, crouching down and taking the woman’s hands. “I came here as a healer, nothing more.”

“But” –

“But nothing,” Elrond said sternly, coaxing her to her feet. He then told her once more his instructions for breaking the child’s fever, made her repeat them back to him once more, then sent her back inside her house.

Once safely round the corner, Elrond let out a sigh. “I hate it when they do that.”

“This happens often?” Maglor asked, incredulous.

“A less learned culture would have deified Elros by now, and me along with it. I’m getting off lightly,” Elrond said morosely. He gestured to the star embroidered on his collar and said. “And this! I am afraid it is my fault they think this synonymous with healing, Atya. I would take every opportunity to visit Elros. I was there for the birth of his children, I was there when he was sick, I was there when any of them were injured, and while I was there I looked after any others in Númenor who needed it. I ended up with a tail of Men following me around watching my every move. Elros told me they went on to found a college of healing in my name. He did not mention they took this as their sign!”

For once, Maglor looked at the embroidered star of Fëanor and got lost in his own thoughts rather than focusing on Elrond’s frustration. He thought of the rivers of blood that had been spilled for the star. He had seen elves flee screaming or throw themselves down and beg for mercy at the sight of it. He never could have dreamed that his House could be redeemed to the point of being taken as a sign of healing.

Though Elrond was still complaining, Maglor tugged his wrist and pulled him into an embrace. In that moment, he only wished Maedhros was there to see what their son had achieved.