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Chapter Text

“Daeron, where are you?” The voice echoed through the trees, even as the birds did not stir as they would before danger, but settled down around Daeron and waited. 

At first Daeron continued to stare into the fire, thinking the voice an echo of the past, making its way through the forest and reminding him of all he had lost. Or perhaps it was part of the song, far louder now that there was no other to remind him to pay attention to now, drawing him back to his childhood and reminding him that this was the price of trying to change what was to happen. 

And then he heard it again, closer this time, calling him back to now. “Daeron, please, I must speak to you before it is too late. I need your aid, and I do not blame you for what has befallen us.” 

“Lúthien?” he called back to the voice. 

And then she was there with him, appearing from between the trees, as the birds he had been watching fled to her shoulders instead, darting around her and not leaving her side until she waved them away. 

“I am so very glad to see you again, brother,” she said, and there was no dishonesty in how she spoke that he could tell, though of late he had found himself doubting everything he knew. “Though I do not understand why you are here, nearly lost to the deepest parts of the forest where even Mablung has not often ventured.” 

Daeron looked to the woods, ignoring her for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. He could only hope that the reason he was waiting here instead of already fleeing past the mountains would not appear. “The reason does not matter, only that I was still here for you to find. What could you need from the one who had caused all your problems, sister?.” 

Lúthien smiled at him, the same smile their mother had once used when Daeron had desperately been trying to hide the new vines that had appeared in their rooms when he had sang a song of hope, and he knew that she had guessed or knew far too much. 

“I had hoped that you were meeting Prince Maglor again, for I hope to speak to him,” she said. “I fear we shall need to convince him to aid us if we are to have any hope of success without too much danger, or indeed without awakening the oath Galadriel spoke of. I do not think it would bode well for your own love if Beren stole a Silmaril without any of Fëanor’s sons knowing of his quest.”

Daeron bit back his groan, plastering a smile on his face too, the one he had always used when trying to convince Lúthien to leave him to his own fate and studies. “I know not of what you speak. And there is no us. You have made your way from the borders to find your mortal and aid him in his quest, and I-”

“You have decided to exile yourself from Menegroth before you could see the full doom unfold before us, or perhaps you have decided to lose yourself in the woods, if the song will let you do so,” Lúthien said. 

That was the truth, and yet not the entire truth, for both of them knew that with Melian’s blood running in them, there would be no place within the bounds of the world where Daeron could fully outrun any knowledge of the doom that coursed through the song that had made it, and he could only lose himself by losing all of himself. If Daeron had fled, it was not the knowledge that he had fled from, but the pain of watching those who did not already know come to realize what fate had been written for them and who waited like a doe before the arrow, unaware of what doom had been laid upon them. 

“How did you know of my love for him?” he asked instead of admitting such, deciding his love was far less complicated a discussion to have with his sister than the one where they both admitted the knowledge they had hidden from their people and their father for years. It was not as though they could change their decisions now, nor could Daeron hope to turn their father’s mood back to what it had once been. 

“Your newest flute had the mark of a craftsman of Fëanor’s house.” Lúthien pulled a bag from her side, within which Daeron could see the full stack of parchments he had exchanged with Maglor over the years, though not the flute. That Daeron had brought with him even in his panic to leave Menegroth, unable to leave what he had thought would be his final gift from Maglor. “I had not intended to question you, but when I entered your rooms to speak to you and found you missing instead, I found all of these. Why did you not tell me that you loved him?”

There were a thousand possible explanations, and Daeron grasped for the one that would reveal the least painful truth. “The Kinslaying. Our father could never forgive such, and Maglor’s oath will not let him forsake the Silmarils. It is not a love that can be.”

“And yet you still love him. Does he love you?”

Daeron did not answer, for in that moment the sound of hooves came from the east, and then Maglor himself appeared. 

He was thinner than when Daeron had last seen him, and Daeron could see that he had lost some of his treasured belongings, and still others were marked by flame even after all the years that had passed between the battle and now. And yet he smiled at Daeron, a joyful note passing from his lips, before he turned his eyes to Lúthien. 

“I was not aware I would have the pleasure of finally meeting your sister, Daeron,” he said. “I would have brought what gifts I could, if only I had known we were to meet today. Instead I must greet you with only what little I have to share.” 

“Your presence is gift enough, Prince Maglor,” Lúthien answered before Daeron could speak. “You may not be thankful for my presence when you hear of what our father has ordered, nor of what aid we seek from you.”

“Perhaps not, and yet you have already spoken more kindly to me on our first meeting than your brother did when he asked if I truly thought I could be one of the best musicians of the Eldar.” Maglor slid from his horse, smiling again at the look on Daeron’s face at the reminder of their first meeting. “I had thought to prepare dinner for us before we spoke, and yet now I do not know if I should.” 

The thought of dinner filled Daeron with nothing but dread, for it would be naught but a delay in telling Maglor, and a delay in discovering if Maglor would withstand this latest request. 

And yet, Lúthien had doubtless fled here without any supper. “You could prepare dinner while she speaks,” Daeron said at last, when both of them simply looked towards him, waiting for him to settle the matter. 

After a moment, Maglor nodded sharply, pulling bread from his bag, and some small potatoes, wrapped in leaves. “I am afraid it will not be overmuch. Maedhros would doubtless have noticed if I had taken more than my share from the stores, and your message left little doubt about how you wished no one else to know we were meeting.”

“Will your brother look for you if you do not return quickly?” Lúthien asked. 

“No more than your father doubtless searches for the two of you. Less if I send word to Amrod or Amras that I am away on business, and less still if I speak to him directly. But that may not be the wisest course, depending on what is needed.” Maglor did not speak again, pulling a long fork from his bag as well and using it to roll the potatoes through the fire. 

Lúthien looked at Daeron, and for a moment he could see her waver, and wondered if she would depart again without speaking. But Lúthien seldom shied from trouble those days, and after a moment he could see her steel herself to speak. 

“I love Beren. His father was Barahir, who rescued Finrod during the Dagor Bragollach and who was given Finrod’s ring as a symbol of Finrod’s friendship and loyalty to the House of Barahir,” Lúthien began, before she paused and looked to Daeron. 

After a moment of the siblings staring at each other and refusing to look towards Maglor, Maglor turned his attention from the fire. “A tragic story, possibly, or one meant for a song, with little role for me in it. But come, you would not need my aid if the matter was simply the love of a Mortal man and an Elven maid or if my cousin was the obstacle, for Finrod has doubtless learned from his prior mistakes interfering in the love of Men and Elves.”

Daeron looked at Lúthien then again, before back to Maglor when it became clear she also had little idea what Maglor spoke of. “Finrod’s prior mistakes?”

“Aegnor and his mortal love, Andreth. Did the news not reach Menegroth? Hithlum and Himring both were consumed by it,” Maglor said. “Finrod discouraged their love, and then they both died. Likely even more word would have spread of it, but the rest of the Dagor Bragollach’s tragedies overwhelmed the story of their parting, and few among my people have had a wish to set more tragedy to new songs.” 

“We were aware of Aegnor’s death. But nay, the news did not reach Menegroth that Andreth was more than a friend to Aegnor, or at least it did not reach our ears,” Lúthien said. 

Maglor hummed a moment, turning the potatoes over again, before he looked back at them. “If you need not my assistance with my cousin, I am curious as to what role you wish for me. If you need a path through the woods to flee with your love, it is yours, though Amrod and Amras would be better choices to seek aid from in that case.” 

Daeron reached for the song, hoping it would calm his nerves. It did not, though at least this time it did not increase his sorrow. 

Lúthien lifted her gaze, meeting Maglor’s eyes. “Our father has insisted the price for my hand be a Silmaril. We would have your aid in gaining one, to avoid giving rise to new tragedy.” 

The fork slipped from Maglor’s hand, almost falling to the ground before he caught it again. There he stood for a moment, before he shook his head. “The Silmarils are all in Morgoth’s crown, and even if my brothers and I possessed one, it would not be willingly given to Thingol. I cannot grant you a Silmaril to bribe your father with, nor do I know enough of the making of such to fool him with a false replica.” 

“Facts I am well aware of, and yet I fear for what he has set in motion and would still have your aid in this quest. I would not bring unnecessary doom upon us all,” Lúthien said. 

There was a strange light in Maglor’s eyes for a moment, before he turned once more to the fire to tend their food. When he looked back, it was once more gone. “I am well-acquainted with the ill deeds one’s father can set in motion, and yet still more familiar with the love one still bears for one’s father despite the difficulties, and even more with the wish to fulfill a seemingly impossible quest. But I cannot break the oath forever for the sake of your love, nor hold it back for too long, nor lie to my brothers about where the Silmaril is if one found its way to your hands. If your father holds the Silmaril, the oath shall drive us to Menegroth at its will, and unless Thingol bends, war will follow.” 

Daeron could think only for a moment of the snippets of song that had turned their mother to grief some nights, staring at the woods as though they held all the answers she could wish for, and yet no answer that she truly wished to hear. Maglor’s words echoed the discordant notes they had heard, portions of the song with doom entwined in it, waiting for any who fell into its path. 

“I do not wish for any of those,” Lúthien said, no hint of the fear Daeron felt in her face or voice. “Beren sought Nargothrond in search of Finrod’s aid. I am concerned that Finrod’s oath shall drive him to aid Beren.” 

“My brothers went to Nargothrond as well, after the battle.” This time the concern written across Maglor’s face was far more familiar to Daeron, an unsettled feeling that one’s sibling was in danger and that could not be ignored. Daeron clung to that reminder that not all was strange here, and not everything was different between their people and doomed to fall to pieces as Maglor continued to speak, “What do you wish me to do, if it is not to grant you a Silmaril?” 

“Aid us on our way to Nargothrond, and then beyond if Beren and Finrod have departed. Our mother is skilled in magic and music, and we have learned much from her. I believe we could hold back the dark with your aid, and strike a blow against Morgoth.” Lúthien leaned closer, drawing Maglor’s attention away from the fire and to the papers she still held in her hands. “Surely, if we can show that Morgoth can be defeated, or even that one of the Silmarils can be taken from his crown, your own quest would be easier. And you would be more free to meet my brother if our father is convinced of your sincerity in keeping us from death.”  

“Or the oath would be driven ever higher, for we would know then that it was not hopeless,” Maglor said, but he laughed as he spoke, gaze lighter as he looked at Daeron. “But yes, I shall go with you. For the oath, and for Finrod, who has doubtless gotten himself into trouble with my brothers by now, if your lover has made it there and spoken foolishly and publicly of your father’s demand.” 

He did not speak of Daeron then, but when their food was plated, Daeron discovered a small cake beside his food. Glancing at the others, he was surprised to find that neither of the others had one. 

Maglor smiled when their eyes met, and even Lúthien’s delighted laugh as she noticed the cake as well was not enough to spoil Daeron’s mood, which persisted even as their discussion turned back to the quest. 

Chapter Text

There was no sign of Beren in Finrod’s lands, nor indeed was there any sign of Finrod himself, for he did not greet them as they entered his lands. Nor did any other greet them in his name, though a servant came forward to escort Maglor to his brothers, Lúthien and Daeron following in his wake.

Upon the throne of Nargothrond sat Curufin, Celegorm leaning against the throne’s back when the three found themselves escorted into the throne room. 

“Where is Findaráto?” Maglor demanded of his brothers, pleasantries abandoned in his surprise, for while Finrod was not there, Maglor had still not expected to find his brothers so. 

Daeron dared not interrupt as Maglor stalked forward across the marble floor, even as Orodreth and Finduilas appeared in the doorway, Nargothrond’s citizens filling the gaps between the pillars. 

Lúthien’s hand squeezed his as they watched Maglor draw ever closer to his brothers, horror and anger written across his face. There was some strange emotion written across all three brothers’ faces, some knowledge of events set in motion that they were powerless now to stop, no matter how dearly they may have wished to. 

“Finrod made his own choices, brother,” Curufin said, pulling himself upright after a moment and pushing down whatever thoughts haunted him. “And should you speak so before the Prince and Princess of Doriath, using Quenya in front of those who have been most harmed by our people?”  

“I have an understanding with them, and shall not find myself harmed for a slip of tongue in worry over a cousin, though your concern is noted,” Maglor said, tone making it clear that he was not at all convinced of their concern. “If we are to discuss what we should do, whatever choices Finrod may have made, I do not believe him unthinking enough to hand you the kingship of Nargothrond without a word to Maedhros or Fingon, or indeed word to Menegroth that Thingol’s kin has been disposed from his throne by two of Fëanor’s son. Now tell me, where has he gone and how shall I find him to speak to him?”

There was silence. None of the elves spoke, neither lord nor follower, though all of them that were there must have known some of the story at least. 

“Speak, brothers, before I send word to Maedhros myself,” Maglor said, drawing himself straighter until he loomed tall in the center of the room, and his shadow fell upon his brothers. 

“Finrod was drawn from his gates by his unthinking oath. It is of little concern to him what happens now, when he has set forth to steal our father’s works for his own ill-begotten oath and an impossible quest Thingol has set,” Curufin answered, though he eyed Maglor warily.

“Nargothrond’s people have chosen to no longer follow him, for he has chosen an oath to a long dead mortal over the needs of his own people,” Celegorm said, though he glanced uneasily around them too, his gaze more focused on the elves surrounding them than the ones in front of him.

Maglor laughed. “You speak of oaths as though we are not bound by one as well. Come now, brothers, drop the act. You cannot hope to trick me with pretty words and twists of phrase, Atarinkë, and I should hope you would not try my patience with such now. Where is Finrod?”

“Have your friends not told you?” Curufin stood from the throne, voice echoing through the hall, drawing the attention of the elves in the halls back to himself and away from Maglor. “Thingol has demanded much that is not his, and Finrod has decided to set himself against Menegroth, Hithlum, and Himring all, and risk the lives of whoever among his people would follow him for it.” 

“Thingol’s demands are well-known to me, brother, and if you have known of his demands for overlong, you should have sent word to Maedhros and Fingon yourself - but I doubt you have, for Ambarussa mentioned naught a word of such when I spoke to them of my own business.” Maglor stepped closer again, and Daeron dared step another foot forward, following behind his, Lúthien appearing as her brother’s shadow, hair and cloak trailing across the floor. 

“And what business is that?” Curufin asked. His eyes turned towards Daeron as he spoke, and Daeron wondered if Curufin had realized the true nature of Daeron’s feelings, or if he merely thought Daeron the most likely to bend before his questioning. 

“My lover has requested my aid, and I shall not turn from him for it, especially when I have been offered the chance to reclaim a Silmaril.” 

There was a muffled gasp from somewhere in the crowd at the words, and a strange, calculating look on Orodreth that seemed out of place when contrasted with the expressions Maglor’s brothers held. None of those could hold Daeron’s attention for long, as he found himself trying to comprehend Maglor having revealed everything so suddenly before so many.

“You love a Prince who would take our father’s-” Curufin began again, stepping forward himself. 

“I love Daeron, the greatest minstrel among the Sindar and my equal, who has offered me his aid in the fulfillment of our quest, along with his sister’s, and who also intends to help rescue our cousin.” At this, Maglor paused for a moment, eyes flickering over the crowd that surrounded them, as though he had only now realized the attention they had drawn. 

“Do those of you here really think the High-King or the Lord of Himring would thank you for Finrod’s death? Or that Elu Thingol would welcome the news of his great-nephew’s death, no matter what aid Finrod has granted the Son of Barahir?” Maglor turned then to face the crowd gathered around them, and Daeron could see their faces start to turn away from Curufin once more. “What gain shall you take from Felagund’s death, who is beloved of so many? Ulmo himself gives guidance to the eldest Son of Finarfin. Shall you throw yourselves once more against the Valar’s guidance, when we have so recently learned of our own hubris in the loss of our King and so many of our people?”

“Father will not welcome such news,” Daeron said as he stepped forward, knowing his words were important and yet still scrambling to piece together the correct ones. “He will be angry at Finrod, yes, and I do not dispute that my father’s temper is mighty and his memory long. But he has mourned the separation from his brother for years, and holds the House of Finarfin in high esteem as the descendants of Olwë. He will not give thanks to lose another family member so soon after he has lost Aegnor and Angrod.”

“Nor will our mother welcome such news, for she holds great love for Finrod, whose company she greatly enjoyed when the Noldor first returned to these lands, and he was one of the few to bring her news of the kin she is sundered from herself.” Lúthien stepped forward as well, smiling brightly. 

Daeron did not need to see it to know it was the same one Melian wore when setting the Girdle in place, trapping those unwary in its web. 

“Think carefully, brothers, of which of us has done the most to fulfill our oath, and what your next step should be.” Maglor’s eyes glowed as he finished, the light of Valinor within them flamed by anger. 

“You would see us as nothing more than messengers, would you not?” Curufin asked, and yet he did not seem so angry as Daeron would have expected, as though Maglor’s words had calmed his temper instead of stroking it higher. 

“I would see you as Princes of the Noldor, loyal to our cousin the High-King and our eldest brother who is now in charge of our family. I would see the people of Nargothrond under Orodreth’s stewardship, yes, for you are beholden to forces beyond the scope of this city. I do not see how you can be master of a hidden sanctuary and a Prince of the House of Fëanor bound to our oath. But I would have you be a messenger only for a moment, to bring news to Maedhros of our greatest hopes when I cannot.” 

There was silence in the hall following Maglor’s speech, as the three Sons of Fëanor looked towards each other. Finally, Celegorm broke the silence.

“If such is your will, brother, I shall bear the news to Maedhros of your quest, though he may not thank me for such.” 

“He shall likely greet the news with as little thanks as I gave to his parley with Morgoth, though hopefully my quest shall come to a better end,” Maglor said, though his expression lightened a fraction as he turned to look towards his other kin. “Finrod’s Halls are in your keeping, Orodreth, if his people agree. My best wishes for your continued safety and Finrod’s return.” 

It seemed as though no time at all had passed since they had entered Nargothrond before they were once more preparing to leave, this time with Curufin and Celegorm on horses beside them and Huan beside his master. 

“Do you really think you can reclaim a Silmaril from Morgoth with only yourself and Thingol’s heirs?” Curufin asked quietly from atop his horse, though not so quietly that Lúthien and Daeron could not hear him. 

“First we must find Finrod, but afterwards, perhaps. They say Melian has power enough to bar even Sauron from crossing her Girdle, and they have learned much from her.” Maglor looked at his brothers. “I do not intend to die on a fool’s quest, if that is your concern.” 

“See that you do not,” Curufin said, turning his attention to his horse as soon as he had finished speaking. Maglor smiled, brief but honest relief showing at the muttered words. 

“Do you know anything of what has befallen our cousin? Do your friends still speak to you, Celegorm, and give you the news of all that has befallen those who wander in the forests?” Maglor looked at his brother. 

“The birds brought news this morning, though I did not wish to speak of it. Finrod and his companions passed into the highlands and were captured by Sauron’s forces. If you wish to rescue them, you shall have to go to Tol-in-Gaurhoth,” Celegorm said. “Brother, such a rescue may not be possible.” 

“No less possible than sneaking into Morgoth’s keep and stealing a Silmaril from his crown.” Still, Maglor did not refuse the knife Celegorm pressed into his hand, still enchanted with Oromë’s sigil and brought from Valinor itself, power shining through it. 

When finally the brothers had finished speaking, Curufin’s laugh followed them as they left. “Perhaps we should demand a Silmaril of our own for our brother’s hand from your prince.”

“My hand is not yours to decide to give, little brother. Now be gone! You have done enough damage to our cause with your actions, and Maedhros must be given a full account of such.” Still, Maglor laughed once as they left, and if the trees spoke of how his brothers continued to watch until Maglor had passed beyond their sight, neither Daeron nor Lúthien spoke of such.

“Are your family meetings always so interesting?” Daeron asked one morning as they approached Sauron’s halls, when Celegorm and Curufin were far behind them and only the hope of a future reunion remained for Maglor. 

Maglor shook his head, pulling his gaze from watching the forests to meet Daeron’s eyes. 

“Often they are more interesting. Nobody was threatened with a sword this time, at least, and Celegorm and Curufin have avoided yet another exile besides the one we are already under.” Maglor sighed. “But I have promised myself to not act as rashly as my father once did, and he would not thank me for threatening Curufin and Celegorm, no matter how much they have harmed Maedhros’ efforts, so we may never see a meeting that interesting again” 

“Your eldest brother is still trying to gather allies, is he not? To fight against Morgoth the next time there is a battle, or to help defend what lands are still held by the Noldor,” Lúthien asked from her spot beside them.

Daeron was still not sure how she had acquired so much knowledge of events outside of Menegroth, when even Beleg and Mablung had seldom seemed to know too much of what occurred outside the borders, and the song seldom explained anything in so much detail. It was odd, especially when she seldom had spent much time away from their father with the cousins, and had not previously seemed to care overmuch about the exact relationships the Noldor had with each other, for such would distract from the time spent among the trees listening to Daeron sing as she danced.

“He is. It is a thankless task when he has Caranthir as one brother, and Celegorm and Curufin appear to have lost most of their sense in the aftermath of the Dagor Bragollach and the loss of so many friends. But he and Fingon both say they are having some luck, though whether Orodreth will prove receptive if Finrod is not returned to Nargothrond, I cannot say.” Maglor looked between them. “They still hold hope, so I can only trust in Maedhros’ ability to convince others. He has had some luck with the Dwarves, at least, and some of the Men from the east.”  

“You seemed to convince the other elves well enough in Nargothrond,” Daeron said. Indeed, afterwards Daeron had thought that it had almost seemed like the spells woven by their mother, convincing all of those there to let Celegorm and Curufin leave without harm even after Maglor had convinced that none of the leaders of the Sindar or the Noldor would thank them for what had occurred. But Maglor had said it was different, more subtle and not the sheer excess of power that often rested beneath true enchantments. 

“A trick of voice and rhetoric, not true belief in what I said.” Maglor shrugged lightly, pulling his harp from his bag as he led his horse beside them. “My father was good at such too, and yet such is not enough to hold a people as divided as the Noldor together for long, let alone convince the rest of our allies. That is Maedhros’ job, and I shall leave it to him.” 

Maglor would speak no more of such, though he did answer Daeron’s questions about the tricks employed in Valinor, and Lúthien’s questions about what life had been like growing up with so many cousins and brothers instead of just a few. And then he answered others too, even about Alqualonde and the Teleri, though they did not ask about the last events there. 

“The Isle lies before us,” he said finally, when they stood only yards from the entrance. “My horse shall wait here for our return, so long as the wolves permit her to do so.”

Neither Daeron nor Lúthien had ever seen Minas Tirith in its glory, though both had known it as children, playing in the woods before the Girdle had come to confine them to the lands they had spent centuries in now, their father unwilling to risk them outside his lands. But still, the trees in this forest were old and had stood for long years, some of them old enough to remember the last time Daeron had walked beneath their limbs.  

Indeed, as they passed, the woods still seemed to know them as well, the trees thickening their shaded canopy until Maglor’s horse was hidden from any eyes. Daeron smiled at the sight, and the memories of when such had been far more innocent, when they had convinced the trees to hide them from their parents and played tricks on the other children. 

Maglor only shook his head at the sight, and turned towards the gates. “We shall not be able to disguise ourselves for long once we attempt to enter. Sauron’s spells will strip us of whatever we attempt, unless we turn all our attention to those disguises.” 
 
“We may not need to hide ourselves at all to reach the gate,” Lúthien said. “The trees say they have not seen Sauron’s wolves for some time, though they heard them called to their master’s aid within his keep and know they have joined him inside.” 

“Do they say more?” Maglor asked, looking around them with a hesitant look. 

“That Sauron called them to the hunt, and that twelve companions were brought here.” Daeron looked at the gates as well. They seemed somehow more ominous now that they knew all the werewolves were within the gates, possibly waiting for them in silence, teeth bared and ready to attack, if they were not even now attacking Finrod and his companions. 

Maglor’s hand brushed against Daeron’s back, steadying the both of them, and then he took a breath. “There is no point in delaying further. We shall not gain a better opportunity to take Sauron by disguise, nor information we do not currently have if none pass in and out from the gate now.” 

They fell into silence. The gates opened at Maglor’s muttered words, some trick of Finrod’s first land that still recognized another elf with the right words seeking entrance. The trees inside the gate were all dead or dying, twisted beyond what could be fixed, and yet Daeron still longed to try and sing them back to health. But he could not now, when already they had so much to attempt, and Finrod hopefully waited still for his rescue.

A scream from the dungeons echoed through the halls as they entered, and then a voice rang out, song pouring forth even as another voice joined too, harsh and cruel. 

Maglor’s hand tightened around the knife he had been given, the other hand grasping his harp.  

“Findaráto,” he said, already striding forward, Lúthien beside him. “Can you keep the entire place from collapsing, Daeron? I do not trust that Sauron does not have some trick if he fears he has lost, and he will know we have joined Finrod’s battle.” 

Daeron did not wait for Maglor to finish before he began to sing. Words flowed from his throat that had last been heard when the elves had first dwelled in Menegroth, Daeron’s hands clutched in his mother’s skirt as she kept the caves from collapsing in on them as the elves began to change the caves to suit them better. He could barely remember the words, but the feeling behind it was right and true, and spilled from him until it surrounded them all, echoing down the halls and holding them up well enough. 

It was hard to watch Lúthien and Maglor venture deeper into the dungeons, while he had to stand and wait and sing here alone. But the walls were cracking, pieces of stone falling to ruin and crashing to the ground. He could not go with them, not unless they wished to sacrifice their escape route to his wants, and Daeron would not flinch away from this. 

He did not know how much time had passed, space and time blurring around him until he could not tell if he stood in Sauron’s keep or the same forest they had played in as children, only that he could not stop singing, even as four other voices sang at the same time, all of them competing for control over what occurred. Lúthien and Maglor and Finrod all sang, and behind them all Sauron’s voice, fair and terrible, harsh and true, everything their mother had told them of, trying to twist the song to his own ends.  

Daeron feared that voice, and feared it more each time it grew stronger than the others, their voices fading away behind Sauron’s power until he could hear the faintest whispers of them on the wind. But still he kept singing his own song, hoping that they would flee before it was too late. 

And then one voice died away. Not dead, not now for that was not in their power, but Sauron’s voice faded. But there was another voice also falling quiet, and Daeron watched to see who would return. 

Daeron continued to sing, waiting for the footsteps to make their way towards him, Lúthien’s fast and light on the steps, Beren behind her, and Maglor running too. The beat of his footsteps was different than normal, more frantic and heavier as he carried Finrod in his arms. 

Then Daeron was running too, following them, unable to stop singing until they had passed once more into the light of the forests and he could see that Finrod’s chest still rose, even though Finrod did not speak. 

“The others are dead. Finrod is not well,” Maglor said as they hurried from the keep. “He needs aid, he had exhausted himself with song and enchantment before we had arrived. If we send him to Nargothrond or Menegroth-”

“If we send him to either of those, our father will know where we are going, and we shall doubtless be followed by Beleg or Mablung,” Daeron said with a quick glance at Lúthien. “He probably suspects now, unless Orodreth refrained from sending word. Is there no one else?” 

“Not quickly enough,” Maglor said. “Maedhros is too far, Turgon’s city hidden beyond the knowledge of any outside its bounds save the eagles, and Fingon cannot risk upsetting your father. I dare not send word to Celegorm and Curufin to return to fetch Finrod, even if they have not made their way too far already.” 

There was silence for a moment, as Maglor tore scraps of cloth from his bag, wrapping Finrod’s injuries as best as he could, breathing a sign of relief when the bleeding slowed. 

“Círdan,” Lúthien said a moment later, bending over Finrod too and checking his injuries. “Beren can escort Finrod there, and Círdan is wise enough to not send word to Menegroth immediately, if Finrod and Beren explain the full tale.” 

“If I go, we may not marry until I am free once more to complete our quest,” Beren said, but it was clear his heart was not wholly in his protest, for he too looked at Finrod, though he glanced with some suspicion at Daeron. All could see that Beren was torn between what needed to be done for Finrod and what needed to be done to fulfill his quest. 

“We will continue on the quest for the Silmaril,” Lúthien said. “And my father may still change his mind, if you save his nephew from certain death.” 

“His nephew was only in danger because I asked him to aid me in my quest.” Still, Beren stepped forward, mind resolved now, and knelt to lift Finrod. “Still, I would not reward such friendship with death, no matter what cost if holds for me.” 

“Do not try to carry him,” Maglor said, calling his horse forward. “You will need to go more quickly than you can on foot. My horse will carry you and Finrod both, and she knows the path to Cirdan’s lands.”

Beren blinked, as though only now recognizing that this new elf was one he had not seen before. 

Maglor smiled again, the same one he had worn in Nargothrond, and Daeron knew only as Maglor spoke what he intended to do. 

“Go, Son of Barahir, with the blessings of Finwë’s kin. Take Finarfin’s heir to the Lord of the Falas, and remind him of Finrod’s love for his long-sundered kin and the aid of the elves of Nargothrond to the Falathrim! Go, and do not despair in the darkness, for light shall always follow! Go, and do not return to these lands until Felagund can once more walk beneath his own trees!”

As though an enchantment laid upon him, Beren took a seat on the horse as Finrod was placed before him, adjusting his hold until Finrod was secure, only seeming to break free when Lúthien came to his sight. 

“Go,” Maglor muttered one last time to his horse, who sprang forward, hooves hitting the ground as she danced between the roots and leaves, seeking out a path that had not existed in years and yet bent its way back into existence for the land’s former master. 

And then they were gone, and only three remained. 

Chapter Text

“Did you have to send him away so suddenly?” Daeron muttered to Maglor a few evenings later, as they both watched Lúthien walk beneath the trees as they made their way towards Morgoth. A strange guilt had filled him over the past few days, as he could enjoy Maglor’s company but Lúthien could not do anything but hope for Beren’s safety.

Daeron hated such, and he hated even more the knowledge that his own choices had set such in motion. 

Maglor nodded, though Daeron thought he could sense a slight reluctance to admit such. “I would not have had the power to compel him so in any other moment, and Finrod needed aid too swiftly for us to stand beneath the trees and argue about how he should make his way to Círdan.” 

They lapsed into silence. Daeron was consumed by the thought of what they were about to do, and even more by the thought of the aftermath, if they reclaimed a Silmaril. It had seemed simple enough beneath the leaves so close to home, Lúthien’s voice assuring them of her plan. 

And yet now, Daeron could not help but wonder how far Maglor’s oath would drive him, if they could not reclaim all of them. Would the one Silmaril be enough to calm their oath, or would it only do as Maglor had feared, and drive them to greater desperation to see such success so close to hand and yet just beyond their reach? 

“It is not a senseless, mindless thing,” Maglor said a moment later, sensing the direction of Daeron’s thoughts. “It drives us, yes, and we have spent years on thoughts of how to reclaim them. But sense can overwhelm desperation, at least for now.” 

“And yet, you said that it would drive you to Menegroth,” Daeron argued. Thoughts of Doriath filled his mind, the land he had once thought he would never leave again, content in his music and Lúthien’s dancing, and which he now thought he may never see again. 

“Eventually, yes. With soldiers and swords, and the combined might of all my brothers, for the oath is calculating and my younger brothers even more so. But even then, diplomacy would be our first attempt, until the desperate hunger and need to fulfill it overwhelmed us.”  

Daeron considered arguing again, but there was the strange light in Maglor’s eyes again, and he quieted. The oath would have to wait for them to have more time to consider the details, for surely there must be some way to twist or change it, if it had been sworn to beings who could change their minds. Daeron clung to that thought, and the memories of his mother muttering of how the Ainur and their father loved all. 

They continued to walk for some time, until the gates of Angband were before them. 

“We shall not challenge him to appear before his gates, I hope,” Maglor said, voice trembling slightly as he spoke. 

Daeron still remembered the stories of Fingolfin’s fall that had found their way even to the sheltered bowers of Doriath, and how the Noldor had spread no songs to accompany the tales of Fingolfin’s great attempt to challenge Morgoth. Grief was written across Maglor’s face, and in every inch of his body as he looked upon the site of Fingolfin’s fall. Somehow, he had not connected the grief of the Noldor and the grief of his lover, though it was only with Maglor’s agreement that no songs could have been spread of his uncle’s death.

It was clear that Maglor could not sing of Fingolfin, and perhaps not of any of the others lost at that time, for had he not said that the Noldor could not set the tale of Aegnor and Andreth to song? And it must have been Maglor among the Noldor who had even considered such, their greatest minstrel determining what stories were told. 

“Nay,” Lúthien said after a moment. “Such strength is not in us. But strength I judge we have in voice and dance to enchant his servants around the gates to sleep, and strength enough to make our way to his throne.” 

“And then?” Daeron asked. 

“We lay an enchantment upon him, as well,” Lúthien said. 

Without waiting for either of the other two to speak, she began to sing, compelling those before them to sleep, though she did not let her voice rise high above the cliffs as they would have in Doriath. Here they would sing softly, and lure those around them to sleep without summoning more attention too soon. 

Daeron closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them and raised his own voice too, Maglor joining them as well, their song blending together and holding its power. 

As they sang, Lúthien began to dance as well, cloak brushing against the crown and against those she neared, gentle touches of cloth against their skin that lured them to trust and then to drowsiness. Daeron thought she sang of Irmo, but he could not hear her over the sound of Maglor’s voice and his own desperate words, though later he would not be able to truly speak of what he had sung. 

The great wolf fell to sleep, as did the orcs around the gate as they approached. Daeron could see Maglor glance between them, doubtless calculating how hard it would be to kill them without waking them, but when Lúthien did not delay her approach, Maglor continued on with them. 

Maglor’s hand still rested on his sword, though they did not need it, for the path was clear as they approached Morgoth’s throne room. Maglor’s grip tightened as they came closer, though he never truly seemed to know of what he was doing, some fear of the past coming to his mind. 

Daeron would have asked him of the memories, and yet there was no time then, for as soon as they turned the corner, there was Morgoth, and Sauron beside him, and all thoughts of such slipped his mind.  

And then there was Lúthien, dancing before the throne before Daeron could put thought or word to what they were doing, but only could feel as though the weight of the world was pressing down upon him when Sauron’s gaze fell upon him, and when Morgoth turned his stare too. So too was the weight of knowing that this was as close as he had come to changing the song, and to being around others who had tried the same. He continued to sing, even as the weight pressed down upon, trying to keep him from such. Morgoth’s might turned against them, for he would not trust a Son of Fëanor with his amusement, and they had brought Maglor with them, unthinking of this peril. 

The weight did not lift, not even as he watched Morgoth fall beneath his sister’s spell, drifting to sleep upon his own throne, nor as he watched Maglor lift the knife he had been given by Celegorm, prying the first Silmaril from its setting. Daeron could hear something in the music that lurked beneath the surface, something Maglor was missing, or perhaps something he had never heard in the first place. It screamed for his attention, a siren song to make him touch and then to consume, Maglor did not know, did not realize what was happening, so captive did the Silmarils keep his attention.

Daeron’s cry broke Maglor’s concentration as he began to cut the second Silmaril loose, knife slipping from where it had been placed to pry upwards and break another jewel of its bounds.

Looking up, he saw Lúthien holding Daeron upright, and then Daeron gestured to Maglor’s hand. 

It burnt, as though a fire had been lit within it, or as though the stars themselves had come to judge him and had judged him lacking. For a moment he stared at it in shock, and then Morgoth began to stir. 

“We must leave,” Maglor said, though tearing himself away from the remaining Silmarils felf a betrayal of everything he had sworn, and for a second he was lost to the oath. 

But then he shook his head, reminding himself of the rest. He had promised Daeron his aid. He had promised Curufin that he would not die on a fool’s quest, not when there were already so many griefs pressing down upon the Noldor. He had promised himself he would push the oath back until it could be pushed no longer, and for now he could still bear to hold it back, though it burnt at him as much as the Silmaril itself did. And the oath wanted now, but there could be no now. 

There would be time later for the oath to be considered, to try and find a way forward if the Silmarils would burn the rest of his brothers as this one had burnt him. For he could not doom them to such pain as well, when they had not suspected such a fall waited for them and he would spare them the truth of their judgment if he only could. Still he wished to turn back, to try and enchant Morgoth once more to sleep, to end this once and for all with sword or song, or to break himself in the attempt, for now he saw what he thought to be the true doom of himself. 

But instead he ran beside Daeron and Lúthien, from the throne room and down blackened hallways, through the scorched remains of the earth outside, and further still, until it seemed there would be nowhere else for them to flee and they were surrounded by despair and enemies. Their foes poured from every entrance and hole in Morgoth’s lands, driven by Morgoth’s desperation and chasing the light of the Silmaril. 

And then there were wings, and eagles as he had not seen since Maedhros’ rescue centuries prior, and they were flying from Morgoth’s lands to safer ones. 

Chapter Text

“It burnt me,” Maglor muttered again, staring at the waters before him as though they would hold the answers, though he had long since counted himself abandoned by Ulmo at the least for his deeds. “But Manwë’s eagles appeared in the end, so their abandonment and hatred cannot be complete, for they bore me from those lands instead of abandoning me to Morgoth’s keeping.” 

A moment later, another appeared in the water’s reflection, the light of the Silmaril held in her hands. “If you wish to hold it again, we could try to wrap it in a cloth. If it is tightly woven and carefully enchanted, it may work,” Lúthien said, dropping to sit beside him. 

He did wish for such, but he shook his head instead, not wishing to confirm that it would still burn him, nor tempt it to think Lúthien and Daeron evil as well for aiding him. “Perhaps later. But it is the price for your hand, so we must determine what we are to do now, and try to alleviate the dooms that we can.” 

It would have been easier if he had been able to claim all three. The oath would have rested easier with two reclaimed and the third no longer in Morgoth’s crown. But he had failed in the end, and now he would have to content himself with what he could withstand of this new torment.

“My brother loves you, and I would not see him suffer for my sake,” Lúthien said instead of answering his thoughts

Maglor shook his head. That was the other problem, the one he had not let himself think of since they had fled Morgoth’s keep and Maglor had realized what the burn meant for him. “He should not. He should return to your father with you and forget whatever nonsense he has convinced himself of to think that we could be together.”

Lúthien moved closer, Silmaril still held in her grasp and still taunting Maglor with what he could not have. “Why can you not? For you came on this quest at least in part for love of my brother, for the Silmaril was not the force that drove you to the woods that day.”

“The Silmaril is hallowed. It burns evil, and you have seen now what it has done to my hand.” Maglor did not meet her gaze, nor the reflection of such in the water, turning his eyes instead to the side and pretending that he could not see her, nor the light she held that reminded him of the past. 

“And?” Lúthien asked a moment later. “If you do not think yourself good enough for my brother because of that, then I would tell you that it is my brother’s choice who is good enough for him.” 

“Your cousin’s blood lies on my sword, Princess, and the fate of a score more Teleri rests on my voice, for it was the sound of my shouts that summoned Fingon to our aid.” Maglor laughed then, high and brittle, filling the aid with despair. “My singing instructors, the ones my father once sought out eagerly and paid a king’s ransom for before he became lost in his fears, Finrod’s old sailing instructor, Turgon’s math instructor - there they were and there they died, those who hearkened to my voice and those who fell before it. I do not think I am not good enough, I know I am not, for the Silmaril burns evil.” 

“You trust too much in judgment, and not enough in deeds. My mother is a Maia, and my father’s youngest brother was lost to the darkness after our people were forsaken and separated from half our kin. And my people have slain unjustly before,” Lúthien said in response, though Maglor could not see the link between what she spoke of and what he had told her, and did not know of what she spoke. “The Kinslaying was a horrible betrayal, and my father will not forget such, especially given the false stories that were first told to us.” 

“All the more reason for me to leave your brother, so he may return to his father and dwell happily,” Maglor interrupted. 

“I said my father will not forget such, but my father has also not forgotten that the Valar abandoned his people and my mother’s own kin hunted and killed his people when he was young, and still would kill us today. Yet he also still speaks fondly of his journey with Oromë, Ingwë, and your grandfather,” Lúthien said. “He will have a fit, and protest, and likely send your brother an insulting letter or two. But you came with us, and kept Finrod safe, and that will count in your favor. My brother shall no longer choose to dwell happily without you, especially when he will no longer have me.” 

“Thingol will still want the Silmaril. The oath will not rest until we have the three, and I will not force your brother to be second to it, nor to be torn between loyalty to me and loyalty to your father.” 

“Do you love my brother or not? For I say to you that he will not dwell happily without you, and yet you push him to the side,” Lúthien towered over him now, but Maglor did not flinch, nor bend to her will. 

“I love your brother. But love cannot undo a sworn oath,” he said. Defeat was in his voice as he looked once more upon the Silmaril, and a light that he could no longer hold. 

Lúthien only looked upon Maglor in return, until finally she departed, Silmaril still held in her hands, to find her brother.  

“You should take this.” Daeron did not look at her, either, and Lúthien sighed. “Your lover is sulking by the lake, if you wish to join him instead of trying to find a solution to your problems. Perhaps you can tell him more of the sorrow of the Sindar and your eternal despair, and he can try to find another way to call himself evil.”  

“You will take the Silmaril to Menegroth, to gain your love’s hand,” Daeron said, ignoring all she had spoken of. “We have known this the entire time. I had hoped that a second Silmaril would be enough to grant Maglor peace enough to find another solution, but we have left that chance behind us and I do not think we can break in once more to reclaim it.” 

He turned back to tree, staring into the woods in determined silence, not allowing himself to be drawn into a debate with Lúthien. 

“I do not intend to take the Silmaril to father. That will not solve any of our problems, at least for long.” Lúthien’s words shattered the quiet. 

For a moment Daeron could only stare at her in shock. 

“Our father said you could not marry Beren without a Silmaril in his hand,” he said when he had finally gathered his thoughts. “Are you mad? We have come so far to claim a Silmaril so that you may marry him, and you would give such a chance away-”

“And Curufin said they would not grant Maglor’s hand without a Silmaril for them,” Lúthien said, taking a seat beside him in the tree. “It was doubtless a joke, but while I am loath to give either of those two what they wish, you could take Maglor and the Silmaril to Himring and press your case to Maedhros. Beleg and Mablung said he was sensible enough.” 

She pressed the Silmaril into his hands again with a smile. This time Daeron did not resist, feeling the warmth spread through his fingers until he did not know where the Silmaril began and he ended. It was strange, and wonderful, and he could see why it held such a desperate grasp on those who had held its light. 

He blinked down at it, and then he looked once more to Lúthien, thinking of how she had acted on their quest and how she never answered questions about what would happen after they had claimed a Silmaril. “You never intended to return to Menegroth, did you?”

“When I first left, I intended to flee to Nargothrond on my own and make my own way on the quest with Beren, without seeking your aid. If we had gained a Silmaril, I would have returned to Menegroth with Beren, and the Silmaril would have become part of the treasures of Doriath, for better or for worse, and your fate would have been unknown to all who walked there.” Lúthien smiled sadly, and for a moment Daeron was unsure of why. 

“As I passed the Girdle, a strange dream entered my mind, and thoughts of doom for Menegroth and you both entranced me.” Lúthien met his gaze calmly, the sadness still lurking in her eyes, though she did not weep. “I shall speak no more of what I saw, for I would not relive that dream if it can be avoided. But you must not let the Silmaril be taken to Menegroth or given to the hands of the Dwarves, for the sake of our people and your love.” 

“A strange dream? From Irmo’s mind to yours, or-” Daeron could not bring himself to speak the rest, though the song grew clearer for a moment. 

“I know not! But I must trust that such a dream will not lead to more doom, a vision from Irmo or not, and may save us from the griefs I saw. I do not think it shall determine Beren’s fate, nor mine, for such was sung into place long ago.” Lúthien looked back at the trees. “I think Mother knew such would be the case, for I cannot see why Beren would have passed the Girdle if she had not already resigned herself to such a parting.” 

“I had hoped to fight your fate,” Daeron admitted, thinking of the stories they had seen once, peeling back the layers of the song and staring at it. “I saw it once, when our mother still taught us of her life before, and I did not wish to lose you to it so soon.”

“I am glad you did not fall as her brethren did, when they thought themselves able to change fate. I would not have had you fall to protect me from something I will face willingly.” Lúthien leaned closer for a moment, wrapping her arms around her brother as they both stared at the stars. Their mother’s words echoed through their mind, words of belonging and a new world made for them, and their father’s words too, of the delight they had taken in the stars when he had still dwelt by a lake far to the east and of the delight when he had met the Star-Kindler and returned to his people a king. 

They watched as the moon made its way across the sky, waiting for the day to pass. When finally the moon had reached the top of the sky and only had his downward trip to complete, Lúthien squeezed Daeron’s hand, feeling the Silmaril against her hand as their fingers entwined together. For a moment they waited, feeling the light warm both of them. 

Then without a word she stood again, making her way down the branches and through the glade until Daeron could only see her by the glittering light of the Silmaril and the faint dusting of stars above. A moth danced above her head as once it had when she danced in the forests of Doriath, and he smiled at the sight, though it was bitter and sweet at once. 

With one final glance back to him and the faint light surrounding her, Lúthien passed from his sight for the last time. 

Chapter Text

“She has left to go to Cirdan’s lands and be reunited with Beren and Finrod,” Daeron said the next morning, after he had shown Maglor the Silmaril. “She shall marry Beren and dwell with him until his death, our father’s will or not, and will not walk again among our people, though she said she would have Finrod bring me news of their last days among elves.” 

“And after his death?” Maglor asked. 

“She shall not walk among elves again, ere the next song is sung.” There was an odd finality to it and when Maglor raised his head to look upon Daeron, he could see tears in Daeron’s eyes and knew of what Daeron spoke. 

“Is there nothing you can do?” he asked. “If you follow her - you could return the Silmaril to her, and sneak it back from Menegroth’s store rooms after your Father has agreed to their marriage, the oath would wait long enough for that.” 

Daeron shook his head from the first words. “I will not fight her fate again. Our mother sang when it was written into the making of the world, and I am not fool enough to think that if my first attempt to change such did not work the second will.” 

Maglor did not speak anymore of such, and Daeron turned his eyes back to his instruments and their bags.

As Daeron lifted the Silmaril, Maglor turned his attention it it, dreading what was to come. “Will you take the Silmaril to your father on her behalf?” 

Daeron shook his head. “My father will be angry, but as Lúthien pointed out, there is no price set from him to you for my marriage. Your brothers, however, did promise me your hand for one.” 

“You cannot mean,” Maglor said, but Daeron slid the Silmaril into Maglor’s bag. 

“If this is a mistake, it is a mistake I have made willingly, though we must warn your brothers ere they touch it. But Lúthien made me promise I would not take the Silmaril to Menegroth, and I shall not doubt her wisdom, nor will I part from you again so long as it is within my power to delay such.” Daeron did not speak again as they packed, though he looked sometimes at Maglor’s face as though he were trying to memorize it as it was now. 

Maglor too was quiet, thoughts of partings without end filling his mind as he tried to think of what the path forward could be. 

The next day, Daeron seemed lighter in mood, chattering away with the trees they passed. 

“Perhaps my father will forgive me soon enough that I may meet my nephew,” Daeron said as they walked through the forest. 

“You do not have a nephew, unless there is a third child of Elu Thingol and Melian that I do not know of.” Maglor considered the possibility for a moment, before Daeron drew his attention back with his words. 

“I do not yet have a nephew,” Daeron said. “But he is part of the song that does not change, so he shall appear sooner or later.” 

Maglor paused for a moment in the middle of the path, thinking over what Daeron had said, now and in the past, and of what songs could possibly contain such knowledge. “When you say the song, which song exactly are you referring to?”

Daeron stopped too, frowning back at him. “The song that my mother sang in. I have told you that before.” 

“Your mother, the Maia.”

“Yes.”

“You have been referring to the Music of the Ainur as though it was a childhood lullaby for as long as I have known you,” Maglor said. He shook his head as he spoke but laughed. “Of course you have, and I have been fool enough to not piece together the puzzle you have handed me all this time.” 

Daeron smiled, fay as Lúthien and Melian had ever been, and laughed too. “I am sorry. I forget sometimes that others cannot hear it, for I have seldom spoken of it with any except my family. Though, perhaps-”

“Perhaps?” 

“We would have to wait until after we have spoken to your brother, for I would not risk such here with no other to watch over us if we fall to time’s enchantment. But my father has always sworn that he could hear the song when he and mother were in the forest. If I tried, perhaps I could help you hear it, or at least a fraction of it.” Daeron looked lighter at the thought, as though all he could hope for was someone else now who would be able to hear the song as he could and as Lúthien had beside him. 

Such was undoubtedly a bad idea. Quite possibly it was an idea bad enough that Manwë himself would send an eagle to stop them, if only he knew of it. Or perhaps he would not, for it had been Manwë himself who had first told the elves in Valinor of the Music of the Ainur, though he had never gone into as much detail as Maglor would have preferred. 

Maglor had never been able to keep himself from yearning for more, nor could he now keep himself from giving Daeron this hope. 

“If you wish to, I would enjoy the attempt,” Maglor said. 

Doubtless Morgoth’s servants were still behind them, and Maedhros before them, ready to ask for proof of Morgoth’s weakness. And Maglor’s hand still burned, and the Silmaril burned at his conscious, taunting him with this new reality.  

But for now Daeron only began to sing again, softly filling the woods with a new song of hope.