[Mithadan]

Tales From Tol Eressëa
Conversations in Avallónë - Part III
A Midsummer’s Morn
By Mithadan

Maglor cringed at Círdan’s touch as if the hands upon his shoulders were instead burning brands. He reached again for the flagon of wine and poured himself another cup with uncertain aim. Ignoring the spilled wine, he raised and drank from the cup.

"What is this you say to me Círdan?" he asked. "My father and brothers sit in silence within the Halls of Mandos. They have not been released – not even Maedhros! That is the judgment of the Valar! That we are guilty, each and every one. Guilty beyond redemption. Guilty of leading our people in rebellion and murder. And our realms in exile were destroyed and the fair lands where our houses stood were sunk and crumbled into the sea as if to wash them of the taint of our having dwelt there. Who am I to gainsay this judgment?"

Tears ran from his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. Maglor clenched his fists in grief and sorrow as he looked up at Círdan. He again reached for his cup, but his hands were unsure and wine spilled upon his fingers. The cup fell to the table and he raised his hands to gaze at the red wine dripping from them. "Blood," he muttered, and Maglor attempted to rise from his seat. But his legs failed him and he slumped down upon the table as if felled by a blow.

Círdan looked down on the sleeping Elf, his eyes filled with pity. He summoned two of his mariners and bade them to bear Maglor to his rooms. He watched as they gently lifted the slumbering Elf, then Círdan sat beside Ælfwine with a sigh.

"So noble an Elf reduced to this," he said sadly. "To dwell here almost as a hermit, speaking only to such of my people as he must. Long have we dwelt here and long before that in the Gray Havens. His sorrow and shame is bottled within him and he will not pour it out. Ælfwine, in all the time that I have known him, he has never told this tale. But even now that he has, at last, spoken, I fear he will not allow himself to be healed."

"His tale is sad beyond measure," said Ælfwine. "Yet it differs from those that I was told in the house of Pengolod. Does he speak the truth?"

The fire in the hearth was reflected in Círdan’s gray eyes as he gazed at the Man sitting beside him. "Most who tell these tales relate only what they have heard from others. Even Pengolod was not present during most of these events. Indeed, I had heard that Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin fell in Doriath. Yet if they survived that foul attack, it would go far to explain the assault on the Havens at the Mouths of Sirion. Those times were confused and words passed from mouth to mouth often change as time passes.

"Maglor speaks the truth" said the Elf. "I saw no deceit in him; only pain. He would not speak lies to me. Nor could he. We have known each other too long."

"How did Maglor come to dwell with you in the Gray Havens of Middle Earth?" asked Ælfwine.

"Maglor tells that he wandered long and alone in grief and regret after Maedhros slew himself," responded Círdan. "Of those days he has said little save to tell that he ever returned to the shores of the sea, longing for the West and mourning those that he had lost. At length he came in secrecy to dwell among the Silvan folk who dwelt in the forests at the feet of the Ered Luin. He named himself ‘Randir’ to them, he who wanders, and settled beneath the trees in that fair remnant of Beleriand.

"When Sauron arose in might during the Second Age and assailed Eregion with his foul armies of orcs, Maglor became enraged. For though he had come not among the Noldor in Lindon, many whom he yet held dear dwelt in Ost-in-Edhil and Celebrimbor was his nephew. He gathered such Elves to him as had fought against Morgoth and hated his servants and took a small force across the mountains. Thus ere Gil-Galad could assemble his armies and commit them to the command of Elrond, Randir and his band rode forth in aid of Eregion.

"Randir and his force rode hard, heedless of the welfare of their steeds and passed over the long leagues of Eriador in a matter of several days. Even so, barely did they arrive ahead of the van of Sauron’s armies; Randir’s horses clattered through the streets of Ost-in-Edhil in the morning of a day which would turn very dark. The Elves looked about in amaze at the city, for it was very fair. Built on a green hill in memory of Tírion of long ago, the city was encased within white walls and its streets were paved with broad gray stones lined with green trees and swards of grass and flowers. Its smithies were housed in sturdy buildings topped with silvern domes whose louvers issued the steams and smokes of the wrights’ work, yet the domes themselves remained untarnished. The workplaces were grouped together in the north of the city, but in its center and nigh to its eastern walls rose great towers, each capped with a great crystal representing the mark of the house dwelling therein. And the symbol of Celebrimbor’s house was the golden citrine, but over the lintel was the Star of Fëanor.

"The rumour of the size of Sauron’s armies had reached Celebrimbor’s council room and preparations for war were proceeding apace. Messengers had come from Lindon and Lorinand with promises of assistance yet the Captains of Eregion were grim, for it would be many days ere those Elven nations raised their armies. As the Captains debated, Randir entered, wayworn with his face shrouded by a gray cloak. He bade them consider retreating, perhaps into the nearby mansions of the Dwarves, their allies, or at least to send forth the young and their mothers, whether north or east. One of the Captains derided him, bidding him to ‘return to the trees of the north if you have no stomach for fighting; but we will not give up what we have made here.’

"At that, Randir cast back his hood, revealing his hair shot with red and his angry countenance. ‘Ambarusso’ whispered some of the councilors and many now recognized the visitor by the red color in his hair. ‘Love not overmuch things made by hand’ warned Maglor. ‘This I learned an age ago in the North. A lesson learned bitterly under the baleful gaze of a lord darker than this one.’ Again he begged the Captains to send forth the young and the maidens with some few to aid in their protection, and Celebrimbor bowed to the wisdom of his uncle and sent forth many under the guard of the again secretive Randir. Barely in time did they depart for the north as the dark forces fell upon the city behind them."

Círdan sighed heavily. "Only later came the news that Elrond and Celeborn did not arrive in time and that Eregion had fallen. Celebrimbor was tortured and then slain and his body was borne aloft as the standard of Sauron’s army. Few indeed escaped the fall of the city save those brought away by Randir and his folk.

"Randir’s band did not tarry in Lindon after delivering their charges, but rather returned to Eriador to harry the forces of Sauron wherever they might be found. I recall tales of Randir who struck fiercely and fearlessly against encampments of orcs only to disappear without a trace, never to be caught. Indeed it is said that he crept into the camp of the van of Sauron’s army and stole from them the body of Celebrimbor, leaving in its stead an orc captain bound and gagged in white cloth. No small part did he play in the long war against Sauron, and at the end of the Age, he was a great captain commanding a force of Sindar at the Battle of Dagorlad.

"When the forces of Oropher were whelmed by Sauron in what was later called the Dead Marshes, the Enemy assailed the host of Gil-Galad and the King was hard pressed to resist the assault. But Randir and his forces drove into the flank of the Dark Lord’s armies driving apart the van from the main force. Encircled, the soldiery of Sauron’s van were slain to the last one. Yet after the battle, Randir would not meet or accept thanks from Gil-Galad or his herald, Elrond. After the war, Randir again disappeared.

"During the Third Age, Randir again roamed Eriador and he assisted the remnant of Arnor in the war against Angmar. But when Elrond and Glorfindel came to the assistance of the Dúnedain and the Witch King’s armies were at last defeated, Randir was not to be found. It is said that later in the Third Age, Randir again fought against the servants of Sauron, but after the War of the Ring, he came quietly to the Havens where he refused to take ship but merely gazed out over the waters.

Círdan sighed and rose to look out the window at the restless seas below. The stars shone through his silver hair as he breathed the salt air. Then he turned to Ælfwine and spoke once again. "One night," he said, "I was walking beneath the trees of a forest near the walls of the Havens when I heard a song of surpassing beauty. I came upon Randir unawares as he sang a song of Valinor in the tongue of the Noldor. His voice was as the sweetest honey; I who had known Daeron had never heard such beauty. And then I knew, and I stepped out before him and called him by his right name. At first, Maglor would not speak, but I said ‘As Randir you were my friend, and this will not change with your name.’ To which he replied ‘But my name is as a curse to me and all who I have loved.’ But I said ‘Your name is yours whether you use it or no. Even Turin learned this lesson.’ Thus we remained friends and he was Randir no more. But though he would tell tales of Randir, never did he speak to me or any other of what he revealed to you tonight."

Ælfwine opened his mouth to speak again, but Círdan raised a finger with a smile and stopped the Man. "It is late and time for rest. You are my guest and we may speak of these and other things some other time. Maglor lies snoring in his bed and you should rest also. As we say, ‘the morning may bring new tidings’. And now, morning is not far away."
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But the next day, Ælfwine saw neither Círdan nor Maglor, nor did either appear for days thereafter. Ælfwine spent his days exploring the Elven city and meeting its peoples. In a courtyard beneath the Mindon Anduliéva he discovered a green hillock upon which grew a fair white tree. Its leaves were shaped like spearheads with edges that seemed to sparkle silver in the light of the sun, and its bole was smooth and pale. Ancient it seemed, so that his outstretched arms could not nearly reach about it, yet it was hale also like a young tree just reaching its prime. Long sat Ælfwine beneath its boughs, listening to the winds play among its leaves with a quiet whisper that seemed to speak to him of days long passed and futures yet to come. Each day, Ælfwine returned to the tree to listen to its music and smell its green airs, but most of all to sit in its shade and watch the sunlight illuminate its leaves. For at those times, the leaves themselves seemed to shine and he felt as if he were in a dream of a different age.

It was beneath the tree that Círdan found him one afternoon. The mariner strode up to him with a smile and said, "It does not surprise me to find you here. I come here myself at times to behold, if only in the eye of my mind, that which I never saw during my life."

"And what would that be?" asked Ælfwine, still drowsy from the early summer heat and enraptured by the play of light among the leaves.

"The Silver Tree, of course. One of the Two Trees of Valinor," laughed Círdan. "Did you not know? You rest beneath Celeborn, a sapling of Telperion, a gift from the Valar long ago. Of all the trees in the world it most closely resembles its sire, or so I am told." His brow furrowed and his voice became pensive as he looked out to the east. "It may be the only one of its kind east of the Pelori, perhaps in all of Arda."

Silently, the two walked away from the tree, though Ælfwine felt strangely reluctant, as if only beneath its shadow could he feel utterly satisfied and free from any longing. But the feeling passed as they traversed the streets of Avallónë and approached the harbour. The winds had shifted and blew towards the West. Looking up, Ælfwine again saw seabirds assembling above him, dipping and diving between the houses with raucous abandon. Círdan looked up with a smile as the gulls led the way to the quays only to settle upon a seawall crowding about a lonely figure sitting there.

Maglor looked about in surprise at the feathered company which had joined him on the seawall, then rose to greet Círdan and Ælfwine. "I must apologize for my behavior," he said. "I fear that I neither comported myself with honour nor accorded our guest the respect he deserved."

"I know not for what you apologize," responded Círdan. "For drunkenness after a mighty effort in revealing truths long hidden? Nay, no apology is needed. For ages of long and silent suffering? Your sorrow is yours and if you choose to keep it, it is no affair of mine. But wait! There is one bit of rudeness for which you are not yet forgiven. You have not yet answered my questions."

"Your pardon?" replied Maglor. "Which queries might these be? My memory of that night is less than certain."

"Two questions I asked of you," said Círdan with a frown. "Firstly, I asked ‘will you continue to hide in the past?’ For this you have done now for ages and though you be my friend and your mind is your own, it grieves me to see your pain continue. Secondly, I asked ‘would you even now gainsay the authority of the Valar?’ For you have judged yourself ignoring that it seems the Valar have also judged you by giving you leave to enter into the Undying Lands. You see, your own judgment is one of guilt while it appears the Valar have judged you repentant and atoned sufficiently from your deeds. And to these two, since I have rudely received no answer, I add now a third: Maglor, what will you do now? You have at last told your hidden tale so long concealed. No secrets remain, if secrets they ever truly were. What will you do now?"

Maglor grimaced as if he had tested the queries but had found them unsavory. "Do you suggest that I take ship now at come at last even to Valinor to seek the judgment and forgiveness of the Valar?" he cried.

"Not today," laughed Círdan. "Though that choice is yours. However, you have accepted their hospitality for ages now. Perhaps it is time, indeed past time, to do courtesy to your hosts. But I do not suggest such a journey yet. Perhaps a lesser one. Ælfwine has been invited to celebrate the dawn of Midsummer and so have I. Will you accompany us? Will you leave Avallónë at last even for just a fortnight or less and see what lies outside these walls?"

Maglor stared blankly at Círdan without comprehension. Then his face blanched. "You would have me journey to the House of Elrond?" he asked incredulously. "To face he who I took from his own people only to abandon him to slay a guard without cause and steal a Silmaril to which I no longer possessed a valid claim?"

"Yea, Elrond, whom you loved and who loved you in turn. And if you in truth ‘abandoned’ him, do you not owe some explanation?"

"But what explanation could I give?" cried Maglor.

"You could begin with what you spoke of with me," answered Ælfwine drily. "For though it may not be the only tale which you have to tell, it is clearly the tale which you now need to tell. Elsewise, why spend an evening’s agony telling it to a Man, for no reason other than that he bore a token from Elrond."

"To me it seems fated, if not foretold," added Círdan. "Else why would Elrond gift Ælfwine with the one item certain to capture your attention? So I will answer my first and third questions for you. You will hide no longer and you shall join us and journey to the House of Elrond. We leave in two days. As for my second question, I leave that for you to answer." And with that, Círdan turned and stalked away.

Ælfwine stared after the ancient Elf. "He speaks as if he were a doomsman," he said.

"Aye,’ answered Maglor. "And a doom it may be. There are many who bear no love for Fëanor and his sons."

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The three left the gates of Avallónë on foot ("For Maglor has not seen the full beauty of this isle and I would not have him rush his journey by riding horseback," reasoned Círdan) accompanied only by the seabirds who again frolicked noisily overhead. Just as they had followed Ælfwine in his journey to the city, so too did they accompany the three as they walked into the west. The three bore light packs and wore gray cloaks clasped at the throat with brooches set with aquamarines, signifying the guild of Círdan’s mariners.

The road was fair and they traveled at a leisurely pace. Indeed, now and again they were passed by Elves on horseback, some clad in finery, bound apparently for the same destination. With a hail and a wave, they clattered past, bells tinkling on the harnesses of their steeds. On one occasion, a cart pulled alongside them and an Elf bade them climb aboard, to which Círdan responded with a laugh, "Ride on, friend! We have no need for haste, particularly as we travel in such fine company!" Círdan pointed up at the birds circling overhead as one particularly sassy kestrel cried out with disdain at those poor landbound souls below. The Elf laughed and twitched his reins as the cart trundled on.

Yet whether the road was longer than expected or whether they tarried overmuch, it was sunset of Midsummer’s Eve before they reached Elrond’s lands. Pavilions had been raised on the lawns and tents dotted the landscape as if a host had laid siege to the place. They were met at the gates by Gildir, a servant of the House, who bade them seek refreshment at the pavilions ere choosing a place for their tent. But when asked about Elrond, Gildir’s face fell. "The Lord and his Lady were called away on urgent business. We know not whether they will return in time to greet Midsummer’s dawn."

A sigh emitted from the hood which had hidden Maglor’s face during the journey, notwithstanding many jibes and prods from a mirthful Círdan. Whether a sigh of sadness or relief, his companions did not know. Yet Maglor did not pull back his hood even as they walked among the campsites and pavilions. Thus while many greeted Círdan or stared openly at Ælfwine, none spoke to Fëanor’s son.

"Will you not show your face," teased Círdan. "Or must you continue your hermit-like ways?"

"I will throw back my hood when I meet with Elrond," replied Maglor. "But I see here many who served the Houses of Finarfin and Fingolfin. While I fear none, I would avoid conflict on what should be a day of peace and happiness." With that, Círdan produced a tightly bound roll of sky-blue fabric which, to Ælfwine’s wonder unrolled into a large cloth which was quickly fashioned into a small pavilion. Círdan attached a banner to a pole which he set at the entrance, and then the three entered and rested before the evening’s festivities.

The sun set and stars pierced the night sky to be greeted by Elven song. As the evening progressed, drink flowed and fires were lit as dinners were made and served. However, the celebration did not begin in earnest until after midnight as Midsummer’s dawn crept nearer. After a few hours rest and over the objections of Maglor, Círdan ushered his guests into the great hall of the main house where the celebration was proceeding apace. Minstrels strolled among the throng and many songs were sung, some light and fanciful by Elves as jolly as children and others deep with meaning and history by others with faces noble as kings. All knew Círdan, who soon disappeared into the crowd. Many were curious about the Man who had arrived unexpectedly on the shores of the Lonely Isle and often Ælfwine and Maglor, still hidden within his cloak, were greeted by groups of finely clad Elves who offered wines or ales or sweet liquors. Ælfwine quickly determined to consume little by way of spirits in fear of sleeping through the event, but Maglor rarely refused a cup.

As dawn approached, Ælfwine drank carefully from a cup of chilled wine, his throat sore from telling the tale of his arrival over and again. Maglor had stayed close and silent throughout the night listening to all but saying little. If asked his name he responded that he was Rána, the wayward, and few inquired further deeming this a bad joke, for of course Rána was another name for Isil, the moon.

Ever and anon, Ælfwine glimpsed a maid of surpassing beauty, tall as few Men were, with hair as golden as if spun from the fires of the sun itself and a face serene and fair beyond description. Her eyes were bright and as sharp as the points of spears. She wore a gray unadorned mantle and about her brows was a slender filet bearing a single white jewel which sparkled like a star on a cloudless night. Accompanying her was a tall Elf likewise clad in gray. But if ever they wandered near, Maglor would pull his hood forward and turn away. On the first such occasion Ælfwine heard him whisper a name: "Galadriel."

As the evening grew old, many songs were sung, some by one alone and others by many together. The music affected Ælfwine like strong drink and visions of times long past seemed to fill his mind so that the words themselves took shape and wandered before him. And as he stood swaying at the edge of sleep, he saw a green mound under a black star-filled sky. About the mound were many lords and ladies sitting on the green grass in silence. At the crest of the mound, two ladies stood, one clad in deep gray from whose eyes a stream of tears flowed and dropped to the ground, and a second clad in many shades of green and brown who stood with her arms raised. As the Elven chorus rose about the Man, the one knelt to the ground and continued to weep but the other began to sing though Ælfwine could not discern the words. Then a single Elven voice stood forth from all the others and pierced his heart with sweet words while, in his vision, he beheld two shoots spring forth from the ground between the two ladies and, as they grew, leaves sprouted and reached for the stars above, yet somehow the darkness of the sky seemed to rapidly diminish as if a new day were dawning. But some feeling within him disturbed the vision and as it faded he stood in the great hall again, surrounded by many Elves who had fallen silent while one voice sang on. And Ælfwine realized that the voice was that of Maglor.

Realizing that he sang alone, Maglor’s words faltered and he fell silent, but not another sound could be heard in the House. Indeed it seemed the night itself had fallen mute. He bowed his head and pulled his cloak close as if to escape the stares of those who stood around him. But two Elves stepped forward and they were Galadriel and Celeborn.

"You may shrink into the shadows, but by your voice alone you are known to me and many others here. Show yourself Maglor!" commanded Galadriel.

Slowly, Maglor drew back his hood and stood tall and straight before the two Elves. "My Lady Galadriel," he said with an even voice and a slight bow.

Then Celeborn stepped forward with anger in his eyes. "Why the Valar extended their grace and allowed a son of Fëanor to come to this island is beyond my authority to question. Yet this is the house of my daughter Celebrian and I will not have the slayer of my kin join this celebration. Long ago on the docks of Alqualondë my Lady herself took arms and fought against your father and those who foolishly marched under his banner and spilled the blood of the Teleri unjustly and unlawfully. And though that be ages past, I would not have you here to mar this night or any other," cried the tall elf. But Galadriel had fallen silent with her fair brow furrowed as she gazed upon Maglor.

"Yet this house is not yours," replied Maglor angrily. "And though I am my father’s son, not in all things did I follow him or my brothers. But see Ælfwine! It is as I feared. I have been judged though I have not been heard. The brand of my father’s name remains on me even now. I will keep the peace and I shall depart though I must remain imprisoned on this island among those who revile me."

"What could you say in your defense?" cried another. "That you seek forgiveness? That your deeds were less evil than those of your kin? That my brother was not pierced by a Fëanorean blade in Doriath? If we have judged you without trial, even so it seems our judgment is just."

"Wait!" cried another, and it was no lesser Elf than Pengolod. "I do not know this one as Maglor. But I do know him as Randir who led the maidens and children out of Eregion ere its fall and fought on their part in bringing them to Lindon. I know this for Celebrimbor sent me and others along with Randir to aid in the defense of the refugees!"

Murmurs arose from the crowd and a confusion of voices was heard, some advocating tolerance and others rising in anger. Then one booming voice rose above all others. "To Mandos alone is committed the authority to adjudge a matter such as this; right or wrong, innocence or guilt and all degrees between. Not one of you here possesses this right. And you condemn Maglor without his being heard! It seems it is a trial you want. Then who shall be his advocate?"

"No one," said Maglor. "For none here knows my tale except as has been passed along by those who were not present, and I will not willingly speak it to an audience so wrathful."

"Nay! I know your tale," said Ælfwine. "And if you will, I shall be your advocate."

The Man’s announcement caused a ripple of surprise to pass through the crowd and not a few laughed. "Take no offense," said one. "But of the few men I have known, most were not skilled at discerning falsehood from truth."

"Meaning that you often lied to them Belmir, I take it," came the voice from the rear of the hall. "Let the Man speak. At least some here are accounted as wise. Though you presume to tread upon the authority of Mandos, perhaps you may ‘discern’ the truth."

At that, all eyes turned to Ælfwine, who seized a cup of ale and drank a deep draught. Then he began to speak the tale of Maglor as he had heard it the week before. Of Fëanor and his sons he spoke, and the Silmarils and Morgoth. He walked through the streets of Tírion under the shadow of Bauglir and cried as the Trees perished and Finwë also. In grief and madness dread oaths were spoken and a rebellion begun. He followed the trail of woe to the docks of Alqualondë and left footsteps of blood on the road to Beleriand though some blades remained clean. Hastening through the long defeat, the woods of Neldoreth rang with cries and the clash of swords. Then regret vied with shame as the waters at the Mouths of Sirion ran red and brother fought brother. Then, at last, two Silmarils shone briefly in the crumbling remains of Beleriand ere they found their long homes beneath land and sea. But the guilt and anguish wrought by these events lived on for ages.

It was not yet dawn when Ælfwine reached again for his cup and looked about the silent room. Galadriel looked long and carefully at Maglor who could no longer meet her gaze. She seemed to be taking his measure, searching for some flaw or hidden ill. Then she too looked away, and Celeborn seemed lost in thought.

At length, Belmir stepped forth. "A pretty tale," he said. "Woven cunningly, yet wrong in many details. You lose your storied skill with words Maglor, or perhaps you should have spoken them yourself. Why should we believe this Man if what he says disagrees with all we know?"

"And you would know the truth Belmir? You lived in Gondolin, did you not? No? Perhaps Hithlum so that you witnessed these events firsthand? But I thought you spent all your years under the leaves of Greenwood the Great while you dwelt in Middle Earth," replied the deep voice.

Belmir flushed with anger as he searched about the hall for the speaker. "Enough," he cried. "No, I did not live in Beleriand or Valinor. But one need not see the stars to know that they shine. Anyway, he is by his own words entrapped. For by his tale, his actions and those of Maedhros were coeval; neither worse nor better than the other. Yet Maedhros who died so long ago has not emerged from Mandos. So the Lord of those dark halls has found him wanting and that judgment is of equal force as to Maglor."

The crowd murmured in admiration of this argument, and some, thinking the matter put to rest, looked darkly at Maglor. But someone began to laugh as if some jest had been made. The crowd parted and a bearded man with white hair and white robes stepped forward. Galadriel, surprised, whispered one word: "Olórin."

"Belmir, you are a fine archer and woodsman, but you are not an advocate. Maedhros slew himself in anguish when the Silmaril seared his flesh. Slaying oneself is deemed an evil; a fault in the essence of the fëa requiring lengthy healing and penance in Mandos. This alone sets Maglor apart from his brother. But I am pleased that you concede at last that Námo, who is also known as Mandos, is by right and authority the proper judge of this matter. Do any here gainsay this?" asked Olórin in a loud voice. And none responded.

"Good! Then it is settled," he said. "Elrond! Come forward! It is time for healing and reunion."

Maglor, who had been sitting with head hung leaped upright upon hearing that name and stepped forward to embrace the younger Elf with tears in his eyes. In doing so, he brushed past Olórin and a second figure dressed in a hooded blue cloak. As Maglor passed, the Elf’s hood slipped back revealing a noble face with a broad smile. The first light of dawn entered the hall and illuminated the figure’s reddish hair.

"Loath am I to disturb your reunion with your fosterling, Maglor," he said with a clear voice. "But I have missed you for just as long, since that day on the shores of the sea when the Silmarilli burned our flesh and our foul oath was voided at last."

Maglor spun about with an ashen face to see his brother Maedhros standing before him. As they embraced, Galadriel bowed her head and laid a hand on the shoulder of each. Then she turned and whispered to Celeborn who drew a long knife and handed the hilts to his wife.

In a loud voice she said, "Maglor and Maedhros! Long have our houses been at odds and for years untold have half-truths been published as fact. It is time to set an ancient wrong to right."

With those words, she undid one of her tresses and with the knife cut one of her braids and handed it to Maglor. "Long ago, your father asked for this gift and I denied him. Perhaps had I not been so proud things would have been otherwise," she said. "I will never love your father, but you are not he. You have been slandered and ill-treated; a remnant of the lies of Morgoth. You are welcome here among your people. Come! Let us greet the dawn!" And all about them erupted in song to greet Midsummer and celebrate the evening’s great events.

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Ælfwine sat with Olórin and drained yet another cup. "Fine ale," he said. "And a fine night also! Your arrival was timely, father."

Olórin sipped carefully at his cup taking care not to wet his beard. "Father?" he snorted. "You may call me Gandalf. And yes, the beer is good, but I have had better. But that was long ago and far away. I too am enjoying myself though it is often said I am over-fond of my own cleverness. The rift between the houses of the Noldor was long overdue for healing."

"Aye," replied Ælfwine. "And pleased I am to have played a part in that healing. The truth has great power, even when spoken by a Man."

"The truth is no different whether spoken by Man or Elf," said Gandalf. "Will you be staying here with Elrond? I see that your escort is occupied, and I suspect that he has some journeying to do." Gandalf looked at Maglor, Maedhros and Elrond as they spoke together animatedly, then looked meaningfully to the West.

"If Elrond will have me, I will stay for a time," said Ælfwine.

"Good!" said Gandalf. "I would enjoy the opportunity to speak with you further. It has been long since I have spoken to a Child of Man."


END