Sky, they/them, adult | this is my art and writing side blog, main is @kanafinwe-makalaure | I do Tolkien art | maglor is too tall for the header | ao3 is starshipsilmaril as well 🌈
Neither one of them really felt like returning to their families and making conversation. They had a blanket and each other here, and Varda’s stars shone down on them, and that was enough.
“Do you think we’re written into them?” Makalaurë asked her of the many prophecies on the firmament above them.
“I hope not,” replied Telumë. “Shouldn’t prophecies be warnings, by some measure? I’d rather not be a part of something the Valar want to warn us about.”
“Ai, weren’t you supposed to be a romantic?” laughed Makalaurë, and she laughed, too.
“I think we’re written into the Song, though,” she said and took his hand. “How couldn’t we be?”
“You’re right,” Makalaurë agreed and meant it. “And even if we were not, we’d simply write a better song.”
(x)
I cannot believe I never posted this artwork! Maglor & his spouse in Valinor. Their conversations definitely bear no accidentally prophetic qualities, don’t worry about it!!
With the defeat of Sauron and the death of Ereinion Gil-Galad, the Second Age is coming to an end. Telumë is grieving their son and ready to sail West, and despite the bitter ending to their former romance, Maglor comes to say farewell to her.
This work is a sequel/addition to the ending of As The Tides Flow.
One ordinary autumn day in Rivendell, with grey skies above him and mist clinging to his skin and making his hair and clothing damp, Makalaurë had suddenly remembered a promise he had once made.
For it turned out that Makalaurë had never revealed himself during his wanderings, save once. The skies that day, too, had been grey, but not in the calm, half-lit way they were in Rivendell, too far away to touch. The firmament had hung low, silent after it had just wept the tears of ten thousands.
*
Maglor sat in the grey sands before Lindon, his eyes fixed on the dark, rolling waves crashing ashore, his back to the black banners hung from all the windows of that great, near-deserted city. No more than an hour must have passed until his waiting came to an end, his spell of concealment woven in such a way that only one person would see through it.
And so, she did. Maglor did not have to look; in his periphery, he saw her sit down beside him, soundlessly.
“I knew you would come to me.”
Maglor was surprised by the certainty in her voice. His own, although he used it to sing, would not quite come out when he opened his mouth to respond, and so, into the quiet, Telumë spoke again, if so softly he barely heard.
“But why did you?”
At this, he finally turned to face her. Her hair was long and unbound, and although the light in her eyes burned fiercely, the silver in her hair seemed to have dulled for the moment to match the clouds above.
“I simply thought you might like some company.”
It was the truth. There was no more to it. Content with his answer, she turned her gaze towards the ocean. Maglor was in exile, and would always remain until he faded into oblivion, and with what he had done after their parting, he was not someone she wanted to see; but none of that mattered that day, not to either of them.
They sat together in silence, for a long while. Time did not seem to pass, and no-one came to look for them.
“Have you seen Armarë?” Telumë asked suddenly, catching him off guard. His skin prickled once again with the itch that had compelled him, when he had looked for his daughter, to go to her, but he had never revealed himself. Not even to her. It seemed Telumë knew this, but she also knew that he had looked.
“She appeared at home,” he said softly, “with her mother’s people. I stopped venturing so far East into the woods the first time that I finally heard her sing again.”
After her capture, Armarë had been taken to Angband, and the orcs had destroyed her throat. Still, she had taken advantage of Morgoth’s distraction during the late War of Wrath to stage a breakout. One of her fellow prisoners, who were mostly Laiquendi, was a healer and had patiently done what he could to restore her voice, even if at first, she had not even dared try to speak. Since she would not sing, but missed her music so terribly, Maglor had made little songs and taught them to the woodland birds, and for a long time, that music had been her sole delight, until finally, she had begun to find joy in other things again.
“Then you were patient,” Telumë said. “Thank you. For watching over her. She is content now. Not the same as she once was - never the same - but content. Every time I’ve visited, it’s made me glad to see her. She sings with the birds, and she’s become a hunter. That healer is her husband now; did you know?”
Maglor could not help but huff a laugh.
“That, I find unsurprising.”
Telumë smiled only mildly, but amusement twinkled in her eyes.
“Isn’t it just? I went to say farewell to her. She will stay for as long as she can bear to remain apart from her sisters, she said.” Brother went unspoken, the absence of his mention much heavier than its presence could have struck, yet it was impossible to utter.
The hot iron of grief, suddenly as it had appeared, struck them both just then; but it was too fresh, too terrible to speak of it aloud, or even to sing of it yet. The last High King of the Noldor East of the Great Ocean, bright as a blazing flame, had led his armies against Sauron and devastated the Enemy, if at the cost of his own life; the songs and laments had reached Maglor’s ears, but they had not yet reached Lindon itself, and so it was no wonder Telumë had returned here for now.
She sighed, a sigh full of a deep weariness and of pain, and rested her head against his shoulder. He must smell of saltwater and wind, everything else he had ever been washed away and bleached, and he, in his own perception, felt light like a cloud of fog, but he was solid enough for her to lean on just then.
“I will go home,” Telumë said after a while, with finality. “It is time.”
Maglor had at the least suspected this, of course; it was part of the reason they were both here.
“Are you not afraid?” he asked.
She drew one knee to her chest and wrapped one arm around her shin, her fingers playing with her bare toes for a bit.
“Very. I do not think all of my family will want to see me, at first. And I do not, in truth, wish to find my homeland turned unrecognisable with time. For too long, I have been holding onto the memory of what it once was.”
“But you will go.”
She intertwined her fingers with her toes and dug them into the fine, wet sand underneath.
“Coming here, living here, has been a great adventure. I have seen the stars, pure as their light once was when our forebears beheld them. I have seen strange lands and I have met very many of my people. I have felt greater pain of loss, greater grief, greater joy and love and purpose than Eldamar could have ever offered me. But it is over now, and I long to return to its calm embrace and be still. If truly I have ever done any great deeds, they will soon be forgotten in these lands, or so I hope, for I care little for greatness. All those I have loved in this past Age have fallen in battle, or they will also sail into the West. The city I called my home will begin slowly to crumble, and eventually, to erode in the wind, until it washes up on the coast of Avallónë. I will one day build a small house there, I think. It shall contain some of the sand that was once Lindon. One day, my old sins will be forgiven, and my mothers and fathers and my sisters and brothers and my daughters and sons will sit with me in that house and we will laugh and sing and dance. And so, even if the path makes me afraid, I know it will not be in vain to walk it.”
A weight in Maglor’s chest dislodged itself hearing that. He knew she was right, and that she would make herself at home again and be at peace.
They sat there throughout the night, until morning broke.
“I must leave soon,” she nearly whispered. “My ship awaits me at the Grey Harbours.”
“Then you should not delay.” Although if you did, I would sit with you until the next ship came. I will see you off, shrouded in mist, whether you leave now or at the dawn of another Age, and I will sing my love into the sea-wind for you.
Telumë did not respond, but she made no move yet to get up.
“I cannot sail West,” Maglor added, an ancient ache stirring in his chest. “You know I cannot. But if you ask me to, I will.”
Telumë huffed; it almost sounded like a small laugh.
“I could not ask such a thing of you; not when you have bound yourself to these shores.”
“Have I not also bound myself to you? And so, if you ask, I will come.”
“I ask but one thing of you.” She sat up straight, looking seriously into his face. “Do not waste away into nothing. If you must fade, leave but a small part of your soul behind, so what when the world is broken and remade, you may be remade as well. If you still wish to come to me then, you may find me.”
“That is a promise I have already made, is it not? When the world is broken and remade, we will see one another again; this was our promise ere we parted. It is forever lodged in my heart. As you once returned to me in Beleriand, I promise you now that I will prevail and I will return to you after the Breaking of the World.”
Speaking those words, Maglor placed his hand on his heart; he did not hesitate, even though underneath its bandages it was black and raw. He thought that after all, there were parts of its flesh that its hallowed light had not burnt, and there must be some fragment of his heart that was still pure, however small it might be.
Telumë inclined her head, a gentle peace softening her features.
“Then that is how it shall be.”
Maglor nodded, and for the moment, there was nothing in his heart but the same peace. They said their farewells without regret; then, Telumë Ocean-Song went back to her horse and saddled it, and Maglor, obscured by his Music, resumed his wandering. But they both still wore half of a pair of pearl earrings.
For Fëanorian Week, Day 3: Celegorm - (Reflections on) Childhood
Character study, post-reembodiment, 1.6k words.
Continuation of this (although reading the first part is not necessary).
The grass of the garden was dry and plush underneath his bare feet as Tyelkormo returned from his morning walk; there was a warm breeze that ruffled his ponytail, Huan’s breath hot on his elbow, and the songbirds dancing though green treetops, the very same ones that had been welcoming spring just a month before, were now complaining of the heat. With a soft sigh that held no real exasperation, and bidding Huan to return to the house, Tyelkormo thus took the door into his mother’s workshop. He found her already at work, marble dust clinging to the skin of her bare arms and dyeing her russet-brown curls grey.
“I see you’re working that new block of marble,” he said in lieu of a greeting. “Does that mean you’ve figured out who will emerge from inside?”
Nerdanel laughed and shook her head.
“Not at all, my dear; I’m afraid this is one of those cases where the person inside must reveal themselves as I work, as my fingers were itching too much to wait another day, and so I must rush them a bit.”
Tyelkormo fetched a bucket from the shelf and carried it to the water pump at the wall.
“Well, if that is so, I believe threatening them with a hammer and chisel of that size might prove quite effective in luring them out.”
“That, or intimidate them further, but I shall take my chances. – Before you go back into the house, Tyelkormo, do wash your feet, alright?”
“Yes, Amya, I know.”
That was when she first looked up from her work, one brow raised and one hand coming to rest on her hip.
“Do you, now? Because it seemed to me yesterday that you did not.”
“I did wipe my tracks, though, did I not?”
The brow rose farther towards her hairline, and, seeing this, Tyelkormo quickly conceded that yes, of course, he would clean his feet better in the future, which was less work and nuisance than to clean the house later. Once his mother was satisfied with his reassurances, she allowed him to go outside with his bucket, which he would take to the birdbath in the centre of the garden.
That centre, formerly a white terrace of stone upon which one could bask in Laurëlin’s light, was now a round, shady clearing amongst the many trees Nerdanel had planted during her sons’ long absence. Tyelkormo took the long path there, away from the paths of white gravel that led there. The birdbath was also made of white marble, once a gift to him from his mother when he had been very young. The small golden birds that had once adorned its rim, made by his father, had been taken down long ago, although Nerdanel claimed it had been to protect them from the weather.
Tyelkormo filled it and then called to the birds in all their tongues to let them know they could come and cool off. He knew most would wait until the sun rose higher in the sky, but some curious ones appeared, some flittering around his ears, some spashing the water with their little wings as if to test it. One particularly daring finch called him a fool for bringing out cool, fresh water in the morning, which, by the time the sun reached its zenith, would grow uncomfortably warm.
“If you will not go to the river, which is cooler, then this water must suffice to soothe you,” Tyelkormo responded, which earned the little finch some amicable ridicule from her peers.
Amongst lamentations that the river was a dangerous place to go to, and so far away, she took off and perched high upon a thin branch above his head, sure to return to the basin once it was unsupervised by him. With a smile too small to be spotted by an indignant bird, Tyelkormo took the gravel path back to the house.
Nerdanel had once made seven statues in darkness, and then, for a long time, had not worked marble again. It had not been until Tyelperinquar’s return from Mandos, and his relentless encouragements, that she had taken up that material once more, if the small clay and porcelain sculptures she had made in the meantime were no less impressive. From the late Third Age of the Sun onwards, when her sons had begun to return one by one, she had begun to take the statues inside. Only one stood in the garden now, keeping up its lonely, silent vigil. Tyelkormo passed it rarely, but whenever he did, he stopped.
Many years had gone by since that evening he had met the phantom that had resembled his lost brother in the city streets, and he had been certain it must have been Káno’s spirit in truth, on its way to Mandos to reunite with their waiting father. Since that day, Tyelkormo had never again hallucinated Káno’s face in the crowds; perhaps the uncertainty had finally dispersed.
Slowly, he set down the empty bucket on the grass and stood, simply stood, before that statue, which was lifelike yet unmoving. It was crafted no less finely than any of Nerdanel Istarnië’s work, but Tyelkormo had always thought unlike the others, it lacked the impression of having a sliver of breath and heartbeat, and perhaps that was because both of Káno’s had always seemed to live only in his voice. When Tyelkormo reached up and gently cupped its cheek, he was thus unsurprised to find the stone cold and hard.
“You always had to be different, did you not,” he muttered, and could not decide whether that was an accusation or whether he felt admiration when he said it.
Káno had made things with his hands sometimes like the rest of them, but his true craft had been one Fëanáro, of all the crafts his sons had picked up, understood by far the least. He had tried, of course, to view music as a language of its own and study it as such, but when, in contrast, he had beheld Kurvo’s smithcraft or Nelyo’s works of clay, his understanding had been instinctive, and thus, the eye with which he beheld those works rarely held simple admiration as it had when he had listened to Káno’s songs.
“I believe that is part of why I dreamed, even as a small boy, of joining the Hunt,” Tyelkormo resumed his thoughts out loud, deciding to lower himself onto the grass before the statue. He did not bother to repeat what had led him here, for the stone could not hear him anyway. “I hated painting; do you remember? I believe I would have been good at it, but Atar always insisted on giving me advice when I wanted none, and I know he was proud, and yet …”
That thought, he did not finish, and instead, he reached into his bag for his knife, then took out some of the blocks of wood he had collected, selecting the one he deemed most suitable for now. He began to cut into it, without a plan as to what he might end up making; woodworking had once been less of a craft to him than a pastime. Whether that had changed after he had left the Halls of Mandos, he did not know, but once, he had given a small statuette of a fox to Írissë’s son without thinking much of it. Some weeks later, he had seen it sitting on the windowsill next to Lómion’s favourite seat in their living room, and since then, Tyelkormo had often found himself considering what animals Lómion would like.
“I believe the happiest I made Atar as a child was when I broke your harp that one time.”
The statue gazed down upon him and, as always, made no reply. Tyelkormo huffed as if being ignored and began to find, in his block of wood, the shape of a bird, a finch perhaps. Surely, he thought, the boy would appreciate such a gift.
“No, I mean it. He took you by the hand, and carried the broken harp to his workshop, and that was a very rare opportunity for him to impress you with his craft for once, which I am certain you understood more of than he did of yours. I was distraught, of course, and Ammë comforted me and Nelyo offered to bake me a cake, which I declined. I then went outside into the garden and told the birds of my woes, although they could not understand me yet, and neither did I understand their responses. Did you know this? Did you know that I wished I were more like you, that I could sing to them? I believed that if I could sing like you, I’d be able to know their tongue. How naïve I was back then.”
Tyelkormo said that last part with a small laugh rolling off his tongue. There was no bitterness now when he spoke of such things, least of all when he spoke of them to stone, and he finished the finch quickly before his stomach began to grumble and demand its breakfast, then slipped it into his bag and rose to his feet.
“Do you believe that when you finally return in the flesh, and we carry your statue inside, will I break the stone harp that it carries? I do not believe Ammë would be as happy to repair it as Atar was.”
With another laugh, he gave the statue’s shoulder a pat, then, whistling a tune he was certain must be one of Káno’s, he returned to the house, and did not forget to clean his feet.
Y. T. Makalaurë life hack: for maximum flair when showing off your outfit, marry a Telerin elf with strong arms and limitless patience to indulge your theatrics.
Family has always been difficult for Maglor, from his childhood until the very end. He grows up in Tirion, finds love in Alqualondë, builds a home in Beleriand, and then loses it all. Perhaps, he thinks, he would be better off alone, but he never liked being alone, either.
His story flows like the tides, a never-ending string of ups and downs.
Five Times Ulmo Refuses to Let the Sea take Maglor and One Time He Doesn't [AO3] [[tumblr]]
Maglor wanders because he wants to, but also because the sea won't take him no matter how hard he tries.
Maglor & Ulmo
1.7K
His All [AO3] [[tumblr]]
Maglor stayed behind, but Daeron sailed West. After three years, Daeron concedes, with gritted teeth, that he really ought to tell Maglor's wife and family about them.
Daeron & Maglor's Spouse
drabble (100)
home [AO3]
Makalaurë has returned home. Nerdanel gets to hold what is left of her only remaining son.
Maglor & Nerdanel
0.9K
Interruption of Fate [[tumblr]]
During an idyllic family lunch in Fourth Age Valinor, Lómion broods.
Maeglin & Aredhel & Celegorm
350
Melillin (What Comes After) [AO3] [[tumblr]]
Maglor arrives in Valinor, but this is only the beginning of a long journey of healing and mending that which has been broken.
To his surprise, he is far less alone than he would have thought.
For Maglor, the First Kinslaying was not only a crime against Elvenkind, but also against his own, very Telerin family. Without him, his spouse and young daughters are left to process what has happened in Alqualondë, the desecration of their home by beloved family members.
Maglor's Spouse & daughters
2.7K
Old Wounds [AO3]
When Gil-Galad finally gets a chance to speak with Maglor, the beach hermit and kinslayer who was once his father, the entirety of their complicated past is unearthed in a single argument.
Maglor & Gil-Galad
2.6K
One Last Chance [AO3]
The singer of the shores has become silent at last; he has abandoned the one he once called his son (the last of two) and is now ready to fade.
Could he still be saved?
Maglor & Elladan & Elrohir
3K
Passing Through [AO3] [[tumblr]]
All sons of Fëanor have been re-embodied, all but Maglor, who is still lost upon the other shore. On their way back from their evening walk, Celegorm and Huan find him, thin and in tattered clothes, wandering the city of Tirion.
Maglor & Celegorm, 1.2K
The Wizard and the Sad Elf [AO3] [[tumblr] (older version)]
Gandalf makes an unlikely friend. Although — is anything ever truly unlikely when Gandalf is involved?
Gandalf & Maglor, 1K
Whispers [AO3]
When Maitimo, eldest son of Fëanáro, returns from Mandos at last, there are whispers in the streets wherever he goes, whispers that he is but a shadow of regret. He tries to go on, not to listen, but his guilt about leaving behind Káno all those ages ago, it threatens to consume him.
Celegorm is ready to leave the Halls of Mandos. Before he does, there is somebody he wants to talk to.
Celegorm & Maeglin, 0.5K
Unfortunately, due to AI data scraping, I have locked all my AO3 fics for users only. I am very devastated to have been forced to take this step, but I do not consent to my works being fed into AI programs.
I have been posting my more recent fics to both tumblr and AO3 to make them accessible to more people, but if you would like to read them on AO3, I can send you an invite for your own account, just DM me. Besides that, I can also offer sending you pdfs of the fics.
Headcanons
Elrond, the lonely twin, and his twin sons (request)
Fëanor can't flirt
Fëanorian family dynamics Fourth Age/post re-embodiment
Maglor is Maedhros's Siblingest Sibling
Maglor might not be Entirely Okay if you pluck him from the shore and put him in a warm room
My headcanons on Maglor's personality and how it changes over the ages
Maglor arrives in Valinor, but this is only the beginning of a long journey of healing and mending that which has been broken. To his surprise, he is far less alone than he would have thought.
Melillin is Sindarin for daffodil, but its literal translation is "yellow singer".
[AO3]
The ship docked at the white harbour of Tol Eressëa. Hundreds of people had gathered beneath in order to welcome the Ringbearers. The plank was lowered; the white wood nearly appeared to glow silver in the light of the moon and the lanterns that had been hung around the dock.
Maglor’s entire body swam with dizziness. He craned his head back and looked at the stars, prayed they would lend him strength. For the moment, hidden strategically behind Galadriel and Gandalf, he was safe from any prying eyes, particularly those of Olwë and Arafinwë and Ëarwen, though the Maiar waiting with them must have already sensed his presence. Would they say anything? Take him in chains, cast him out? No; he was allowed to come home.
If he was afraid of being recognised, well, he had no right to be. If he would be hated or feared, it was because he had given these people reason to. He had to understand that. The compassion and kindness he had received in the two years since Elrond had found him had been a blessing, a gift, but that was precisely the point: a gift was freely given, not owed. Maglor was certainly not owed kindness by anyone.
No - that was not quite true, he had to remind himself. He owed it to himself, if only for the sake of his loved ones. He would face his past bravely, he would atone as well as he could possibly manage, and he would do his best to carve out a place for himself to heal, however small, however lonely. That was his purpose, now and until the remaking of the world.
It was frightening, to say the least. Terrifying.
The Ringbearers descended the ramp first and were welcomed with song and cheers. Maglor, trailing behind with all the other ordinary elves that had been on the ship, watched with a quiet smile on his lips.
Galadriel seemed to bask in the attention, but kept poor Frodo safely by her side. As she had halfway made the way to her parents, she suddenly dropped her high and mighty act and ran, leapt into their waiting arms as if she were a little girl again, and her brothers came around and surrounded her in a cloud of golden hair, all weeping with happiness. Elrond, at the same time, caught a woman with a long, silver braid in his arms. They dropped to their knees and clung to one another for a while before she, still holding Elrond’s hand, went to Galadriel and sunk into her motherly embrace. He saw Findekáno there as well and Írissë; their brothers and parents were surely close by.
Maglor could have wept; so much joy born of so much pain. A family, finally reunited; and he decided he had to be content to watch from afar. His heart cried out to meet them all, as well, but he would not intrude on their moment.
Surely, if some of them had sung for him every year, had remembered him this way, they might at least not cast him away entirely if he came to them. The moment had to be right, though. As desperate as Maglor was to set everything right, he had to remind himself to be patient.
A quiet thing, perhaps, once everyone had settled in. He might write to them, ask if they even wished to see him at all. It ached terribly to remember them in his heart as people who loved him, but, in his mind, to know they had only reason to despise him. All the aching made him weary. He was no longer used to feeling much of anything at all, even if he did welcome it. The pain demanded to be felt, and dear stars, was it felt.
The crowd slowly began to mingle. Despite his heavy heart, and even though all he wanted was to be alone with his sorrow, Maglor did his best to blend in, but remained close to the edges. He twitched and startled easily and for no good reason. Although surely, everyone there must have found him very odd, no-one seemed particularly wary of him at all.
There was a buffet with food. Maglor’s stomach was in a tight knot, but he forced himself to get a small bowl of rice with a vegetable stew, one of the dishes that seemed less popular as not to take anything away from others. At least with a bowl in his hands, he had somewhere to put them, he thought. He was ready to find a quiet corner to sit down and try to have his meal.
At least, that was what he should have done. When he found himself standing suddenly next to one of his cousins, he should have quietly slipped away, and yet he could not stop himself.
“Turno?”
Turukáno saw him and gasped softly. He still had the same tall, broad frame, the same dark curls as always. Maglor would have recognised his old friend anywhere - no, his former friend. He must despise Maglor in so many ways now!
Turukáno’s face, however, brightened instantly.
“Cousin! It is really true, then; you are alive and returned.”
He wrapped a long arm around Maglor’s shoulders. Maglor let him, even returned his half-hug, although it cost him all his willpower not to break into sobs as Turno gently ushered him along. Never mind where they were going - Makalaurë simply felt that he was safe.
Findaráto sat cross-legged in the sand in front of Mister Frodo, his eyes glinting brightly as if he were a child and the little Hobbit were telling him his favourite tale. An absurd sight, almost; Findaráto was wearing about half his father’s treasury in jewellery and it appeared that he had placed one of his more opulent bracelets on Frodo’s head, whom it fit perfectly like a circlet.
“Lord Maglor!” cried Frodo, who noticed them both first, and raised his drink in greeting. “I had almost feared you might have wandered off!”
Despite himself, Maglor had to laugh. “Oh, nonsense, my friend! When have I ever been known to wander?”
“Ah, Makalaurë! There you are, what joy! Come, sit with us, both of you! Mister Frodo was just telling me of one of his fascinating attempts to compose poetry in Quenya. Come, sit!”
Even if Makalaurë had wanted to protest, he could not have; Findaráto grasped his wrist and pulled him down to sit beside him and then took him into a firm, perfumed hug.
There they sat around Frodo as the Hobbit rambled on about his artistic process. Findaráto listened attentively, nodding and agreeing with the utmost eagerness. Even Turukáno made an effort to be polite.
Makalaurë wanted to laugh at every joke, absorb every word his cousins said. Oh, how he had missed them! And the food, even the simplest food, was better than anything he had tasted in Ages. Whether the fruits of Aman’s soils were still as delicious as they had been in his youth, he could not say, but those of Middle-Earth had contained but a fraction of the taste. If only he could have seen Elrond’s face as he had tried his very first bite!
They sat until the hour grew truly late. The crowd began to thin out and Frodo retired for the night with promises that he and Findaráto would speak more, and that Findaráto would help him with his Quenya.
Finally, Makalaurë could ask his most burning question.
“Do you know about my mother? How is she?”
He did not fail to notice the look his cousins traded; there was sadness within it, mostly on Findaráto’s part.
“She still makes her art and sculptures,” Turukáno began, “and oftentimes, she wanders Aman for months at a time, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends or a grandchild. When she is in Tirion, she visits with new tales to tell of her travels.”
“If you are hoping she might be here tonight, I must disappoint you,” Findaráto added softly. “At least outwardly, she has long accepted that you were lost. I believe she still hopes, but wishes she did not.”
“Then I should write to her immediately to let her know I am here.”
“No.” Findaráto shook his head. “Go to her. She will not believe it unless she sees you with her own two eyes.”
“But should I not write ahead?”
Although he knew a few days or weeks were nothing compared to all these Ages of the world that he had spent in selfish exile, the idea that his mother was suffering so, torn between hope and despair, shattered Makalaurë’s soul. It should end as soon as possible. When Findaráto maintained he should leave it, he dropped the subject, but his mind was on the yellow flower he had pressed for her in Endórë.
After that conversation, Makalaurë’s cousins decided to join their friends at the fire, assuring him that they would keep him safely between them. Of course, that moved him to tears once again.
“I cannot believe you would welcome me so,” he told them under his breath, “despite everything.”
“Despite everything, you’re family,” replied Findaráto, once again cheerfully, and clasped his shoulder. “There will be plenty of time to reckon with the past, but not today.”
“And not while you look and act like a beaten dog,” Turukáno supplied.
“I don’t act like a beaten dog!”
Findaráto laughed. “Yet even you can’t deny you look like one.”
Makalaurë chidingly clicked his tongue. “What an unfair move, Cousin. My old mind can only process so much at a time!”
Turukáno smirked. “An old, beaten dog, then.”
Bickering in this manner, they arrived at the fire, where they lingered until daybreak. Makalaurë recognised few faces and had little to say, but his cousins sat on either side of him. He basked in the awareness that he had come home, and that, of all he had thought lost, much was merely changed.
They sat there until the rising sun painted the beach golden and red like the embers of the dying fire before them. Makalaurë let his gaze wander over the white sand, the treetops and flowers, the waves rolling up to land, the chattering crowd of smiling elves, barely thinned out. Gems glinted around the necks of the Noldor and pearls in the hair of the Falmari, as if the night sky were descending upon the world for a brief moment before the sun rose high and obscured it for the day. Amid the sea of stars, Makalaurë’s eyes caught on a single figure in the crowd and his heart began to race, then clenched painfully. She stood tall and straight, silver hair dancing gently in the wind. That was Telumë, whom he had once called his heart. His world stilled, and she was at the centre. It appeared as though she was saying her long goodbyes; some, she embraced heartily and for some, she bowed her head with her hand over her heart.
Findaráto, of course, sensed immediately that his cousin’s mind had gone elsewhere - or perhaps he had been silently gazing at her for so long? - and clasped his shoulder, Makalaurë’s head turning to him.
“I have to go to her,” Makalaurë said urgently. “Now.”
“Right now? With all you did to her people after she left you? You are braver than I thought, cousin.”
Makalaurë drew a trembling breath. No, indeed, he was not brave. He was terrified. Still, in the past, he had failed her so many times because he had not gone to her when he should have, had nearly lost her so many times. He had no illusions of somehow winning back her love - that, he knew, he was no longer worthy of - but he owed her at least a word. This time, he would go. This time, it was he who had sailed across the Great Ocean to meet her.
He patted Findaráto’s hand on his shoulder. “That is precisely why, cousin.”
Findaráto nodded and watched as he rose to his feet, then sighed quietly to himself.
Makalaurë took a deep breath and met her just as she was breaking away from her group, his knees soft; his throat was already closing up and his eyes becoming wet.
“Hello,” he greeted, then choked out, rather unhelpfully, “it’s me. Do you have just a moment?”
She halted about ten paces from where he stood. While her eyes measured him, her expression guarded, neither one of them spoke. She looked well, thought Makalaurë, and he was glad.
“I am early,” he continued, trying to keep his voice steady. “The world has not yet ended and been remade, and a lot has changed since we made that promise, so perhaps it no longer holds, anyway. But even if that is so, I owe you a thousand words of apology.”
Her gaze wandered over him, his form, his features, as if he were a ghost.
Then, before his mind could comprehend it, she closed the distance between them and gently, tenderly, she embraced him, buried her face in his hair.
The sound of her breathing was close to his ear, proof that she was truly there if nothing else was, if not the warmth of her body was, her citrus scent, the blue silk of her robe as his hands came to rest around her waist. For the moment, he was at peace.
For just that moment, it did not matter where they were or what stood between them. All his regrets, his pains, the shadows of the past aside, to have someone once so close to him solidly in his arms untwisted the knots in his chest as tears of relief welled up in his eyes.
Yet, he was weary. There was just enough strength in his soul to hold onto her and to allow her to hold him. What would become of them, he did not know; it would have been easy to pretend, just for the moment, that they would be spouses again, but Makalaurë had ceased to be that for her a very long time ago.
“I am sorry,” he choked out. “Truly, I am. And I do not know where to begin -”
“I know.” She stood back, her hands still on his shoulders; there was an echo of old memory in her eyes. “I will hear your apologies, Makalaurë, but not right now.”
“On your time. And are the children well?” He almost felt as though he had no right to ask.
The brief ghost of a smile flickered over her features. “Worry not, they are indeed well, all of them.”
Makalaurë let out a tense breath.
“But, Makalaurë, I think you will need to let them approach you first.” She took his hands, but did not look into his face. “You know well what happened after they … left. Yet, Ages have since passed. There is love still, and that will never be broken, but there is old pain in the way.”
Ancient guilt stirred in Makalaurë’s heart - a familiar sensation, still. Indeed, he had done heinous, unspeakable things, and no amount of lamentation would ever erase that fact. Even if those crimes had not been directed at their own kin, he would understand if the children never forgave him at all. After all, how could anyone possibly -
Halt, he interrupted himself just as he was falling into the old habit of despair. There was something to be done! He could try to earn their forgiveness if they might be willing to let him. There was a newfound hope in the awareness that he had some degree of power to change his fate, just as he had done when he had finally left his exile. He had to keep reminding himself of this.
Still, how could even Telumë stand to face him at all? How could she hold his hands in hers? Was she aware her warm palms nearly touched the marks of his evil burned into his flesh?
He thought of her song, still so close to his heart that he did not dare speak of it yet. It was not the same, of course, to remember a ghost that one had once loved as to stand face to face with him, but perhaps it was something.
“And you?” he asked, his voice dry.
Her eyes flicked upwards and over his face; they glinted wet in the orange light of the sunrise.
“We must speak. You must heal. What happens afterwards, I do not know. Whether we could be friends again, or even spouses, well, that remains to be seen, but if, eventually ... I would like it very much.”
Where Makalaurë had been frightened just a moment before, he now breathed.
“Lírië,” he whispered, all in awe, and gripped her hands a little more firmly, lifted them up to his chest. “If there is the slightest possibility that you and I could share in life again - however small a part - whatever work it took - I would.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
She laughed, a small, joyful sound. “Then we shall speak about all of it when the time is right. There is no hurry; first, we should get used to one another again, I think.”
Makalaurë’s heart leapt in his chest.
“I would like that.”
Their paths split; he returned to the fire and she went on her way. Still, he did not doubt they would manage to find one another. Knowing her had always been the most natural thing in the world. In some weeks’ time, he would go to her again, to her house in Alqualondë, and they would speak.
But there was something he had to do first.
…
Nerdanel wandered. There was not much in Tirion to hold on to besides a few dear people. She had her little house, where she returned to sculpt some of which she had sketched during her journeys, and where Tyelpë now lived and waited to greet his grandmother. At least this was proof Nerdanel had ever had a husband and sons to begin with.
She could no longer tolerate crowds too well. Whenever she returned home, she always thought she saw Maitimo’s copper circlet somewhere, or a pair of redheads that laughed together, or Kurvo’s smithing apron, and so over the Ages her visits home had become farther and farther in between.
People still greeted her, friends, relatives, sometimes Fëanáro’s old followers.
Perhaps it was because it had been so long this time, but that particular day, people seemed to smile at her and wish her a blessed day, and one confused soul joyfully called something after her that she did not catch.
There were whispers of a ship in Tol Eressëa that had landed three days ago. Nerdanel closed her ears to it, kept her head down and walked on, elbowing her way through the bustling city market with her scarf around her head. She caught a glimpse of copper red and a whiff of what she thought smelled like the hair oil Makalaurë had worn. Although she tried to avert her eyes from the source and ignore it, she did catch a glimpse, two elves from the back, one dark, one red, standing as close as brothers. When she looked again, they were gone.
Nerdanel blinked away tears. Even after all these Ages, Makalaurë in particular was still a sore spot even amid all the pain of loss. For all she tried to convince herself and others that this was only because they had once shared such a close bond, if she was honest with herself, she knew the true reason.
Cruel, treacherous hope; it would not die no matter how much she tried to beat it down.
Could it be called hope at all? She had heard how her sons had all suffered, and Makalaurë with his gentle heart and malleable loyalties - he would have been but a shell of himself, had he survived the First Age, nevermind until now. Mandos, with no leave to be released until the end of time, seemed a grim prison, but at least there, their souls would be safe and they would all be together. As a mother, should she not hope that he was there, as well? Oh, selfish, unquenchable hope.
She opened the gate, made her way along the path through the gardens. It would be unrecognisable to her sons now, overgrown with fruit trees and vegetable bushes and herbs, all organised in such a way that the plants required only minimal tending. Her granddaughter Iþilmë, once returned home, had introduced the idea, and it had unexpectedly become a new passion of Nerdanel’s. The garden was as a living organism, one that she had made and raised. Hidden among the trees were seven statues that she visited like graves.
“Tyelpë?” she called as she entered the house.
He was usually at the forge at this time of day, but she always called for him when she came in. Not just because she wished to see him if he was there; ever since he had returned from Mandos, he always needed to know exactly who was in a house with him.
Today, he answered from upstairs.
“There’s a letter for you on the coffee table,” he called. “It doesn’t say who it’s from.”
Odd; Nerdanel did not receive many letters. Anyone who might write to her knew she was rarely home, and to address their messages for her to Tyelpë.
The envelope was a sturdy, heavy one made of marbled paper as they were fashionable in Alqualondë. Through the thick material, she felt that something uneven was inside; she thought perhaps one of Lírië and Makalaurë’s children might have sent her some kind of craft, but she did not recognise the hand in which the letter was addressed. The tengwar looked stiff, as if written by someone who had nearly unlearnt how to produce them, and simply spelled, To: Lady Nerdanel Istarnië, nothing else.
“I have been all but consumed by curiosity of what might be inside,” said Tyelpë, who had just entered the room. “It was sent from Findaráto’s residence on Tol Eressëa, but certainly not by him.”
Nerdanel hummed. Her fingers were strangely clammy as she opened it, as if some part of her knew something she did not.
There was no letter inside, not even a note, but out fell a single yellow flower, beautifully pressed. She gasped, tears welling up in her eyes.
Tyelpë’s weight gently settled down next to her.
“How pretty. What is it?”
“Melillin,” Nerdanel whispered, almost in reverence. A sob came over her lips that was half a laugh. “I’ve never seen a real one.”
…
“I had a music box as a child,” mumbled Nerdanel soothingly and kissed the top of Makalaurë’s head, the child curled into her lap and weeping most bitterly into her chest. “It had belonged to my mother before me; her own mother had made it for her before they began the Great Journey. It was very special, you see; it played a melody so beautiful and gentle, it rocked me to sleep every night when I was little.”
At the mention of music, Makalaurë stilled; oh, if only it would forever remain as easy to capture the mind of a loved one as it was with a child.
“How did it go?” he sniffled, his little voice dampened by the fabric of her apron.
“Like this.”
Rocking him gently in her arms, she hummed the tune. Her son listened intently, his broken harp half forgotten. He was an older brother now and took the responsibility very seriously, carried it as a batch of honour, so the fact that he was crying because his very own beloved little brother Turko had broken the harp seemed to distress him the most.
Nerdanel finished the melody, and for a while, they were both silent. Makalaurë’s tears had subsided, and he seemed only to take in her warmth, his small fingers curled around the silk of her sleeves. After a short while, he repeated the tune. It warmed her heart, both because her child seemed closer to comfort, and because she had not heard it sung aloud in a very long time.
When he had finished, Makalaurë craned his head back and looked up to her with a thoughtful frown on his little face.
“You don’t have it anymore, do you?” he asked softly. “The music box. What happened to it?”
Nerdanel smiled and gently carded her fingers through his raven curls; so full of insight, this child was, so much wisdom in his bright, wide eyes.
“I broke it,” she admitted. She almost felt a bit silly when tears pricked at her own eyes. She had never really spoken of the music box to anyone, and now realised it had been because the wound was fresher than she thought, not because it had not mattered.
“I felt very guilty since it had belonged to my mother before me, and I always missed it a lot. It was very pretty. It had a flower painted onto it, one that only grew in Endóre, a yellow bloom by the name of melillin. It does not grow here, which is a pity, for I loved that music box so much, whenever I only looked at that flower painted onto it, I knew all would be well again, and my pain would begin to come to an end.”
Makalaurë nodded, and then, again, he smiled.
“If you’re ever sad again, Amya,” he spoke with that deep seriousness only children could possess, “I shall go and fetch you that flower.”
Maglor stayed behind, but Daeron sailed West. After three years, Daeron concedes, with gritted teeth, that he really ought to tell Maglor's wife and family about them.
It was his third spring in Valinor. Daeron’s hand trembled as he finally forced it to pull the silver chain at the door.
What he found stilled his heart; faces that looked half like his husband’s, a woman who also knew the pain of loving one who only longed to see himself diminished.
They think about Maglor only once a year when they gather at the shore to sing, hoping their voices will reach. In their garden grows a new sapling; a swing for the grandchildren hangs from the tree she and Maglor planted on their wedding day long ago.
After all these years, Tyelko should have been used to it. Perhaps he should have known when he came to Mandos with two brothers, and three more followed, one by one, but Káno never did; perhaps after floating there, bodiless, for thousands of years, when Tyelpë arrived, too, and when Tyelpë left, and Káno had still not joined them. At the latest, he should have known when he returned home into the waiting arms of his mother, and almost all of his brothers were already there but Káno was not.
Since then, so much had changed. Kurvo had returned, even Nelyo. Time had healed so many wounds; Írissë loved him again, in some way, and even her boy had started opening up to him as they took him on the hunt together. Slowly, the beasts of the forests had started to speak to him again. Huan had forgiven him, and finally, Oromë himself. He should have been used to it by now, or even forgotten altogether that Káno was missing, but still, after all those Ages, when Tyelko’s eyes travelled over the faces in a crowd, they stuck to one, sometimes, and briefly he saw Káno, but when he blinked, there was only a stranger. He had almost accepted that these fleeting glances, cruel malfunctions of the mind, were all he would ever again see of his brother.
Once, he was on his way back home after Huan’s evening walk, the hound trotting cheerfully by his side. Tyelko’s hair was mostly free of bits of foliage - not that it mattered, since he wore a shawl over it - and the grass stains on his knees were barely visible. On his whistling lips, there was a merry tune from his childhood. That it was one of Káno’s was not at the forefront of his mind; almost all of them were, after all. To him, right then, it was but a merry tune.
Not many people were in the streets at this time of day; the setting sun was colouring the white rooftops of Tirion red and golden. Here and there, people were shaking their day clothes out of the windows; it smelled like spices and vegetables out of the kitchens, and a lone fruit vendor was packing up their stall. All was as usual - well, almost, the hunter’s eye drawn immediately to the only oddity that evening.
It was an apparition, nearly like a lost spirit, the souls that had faded in Angband and refused the Summons, if one took physical form. Clad in all but rags and favouring one leg ever so slightly, an old injury, this one remained masterfully in the shadows, barely seen by most, and it wore Káno’s face. It wore Káno’s face even on the second glance, and the third, and as Tyelko got closer, the figure stopped and stared back at him with wide, bright eyes like a curious deer.
Huan stirred, his ear twitching, tail wagging, as if he recognised a friend and was about to leap at them and lick their face; he did approach the figure, but slowly and carefully, sniffed him, waited for him to reach out. As his hand, bandaged, came to rest on Huan’s great head, there was a deep sadness in that figure’s eyes, a stillness like that of only the Ocean where it was deepest and blackest, but one corner of the mouth was raised in a tiny smile. That was when Tyelko thought - well, impossible though it seemed.
Tyelko, too, approached slowly; his throat was tight and he could scarcely believe his own, treacherous eyes. He believed Káno’s eyes, though, large on his thin face, flicking over his features as if he had never seen another living person. (Where was Tyelko’s head the last time Káno saw him? On a pike, perhaps, mounted before the gates of Doriath? Were his eyes closed, or wide open and glassed over like those of a dead fish?)
“Brother,” Tyelko choked out. “Have I lost my mind? Or is the world being broken?”
Káno’s lip trembled; he cast his glance away and shook his head. Before Tyelko could stop himself, his own hand reached out to rest on his brother’s head, fingers digging into slightly unkempt raven hair, as if to check if the form before him was truly solid.
“Ha!” Tyelko barked out, then a sob came, and a shaky laugh. Triumph. He cupped his elder brother’s head with both hands, his own vision blurring, pressed a sloppy kiss to his forehead, then took him firmly into his arms. Firmly, but gingerly, like a puppy, afraid to break the birdlike bones. Káno’s head dropped down on his shoulder and his arms wrapped around his middle, and in Tyelko’s arms, he was breathing and his heart was beating.
I’ll take you home, Tyelko wanted to tell him, call Ammë and all our brothers and cousins, bathe you, make you your favourite meal. Your clothes are still in a chest in your old room; no-one’s touched them. Your harp is there, too, but it’ll need to be re-strung. Moryo should be able to arrange that ’til tomorrow, and then you can settle in! But he took another look at the wraith in his arms, paper-thin skin, covered in freckles and tears, and swallowed all his words. None of it mattered. It only mattered that Káno was here.
“We were just on the way home. You should come along.”
Then he went on his way, Huan by his side. The footsteps that followed him were nearly silent, like the rustle of leaves on the marble paving, but when Tyelko reached out with his soul, he could feel his brother there. The bond was once again thick, no longer stretched thin over an entire ocean. Just before he reached their mother’s house, the little wooden gate into the gardens, Káno’s head appeared right beside him on his left. The bandaged hand came up to Tyelko’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, as it always did when the poet, once again, lost his words for a time but meant to say, I’m here.
Tyelko pushed open the gate.
“After you, then,” he choked out. Why did this hurt so much, all of a sudden, he wondered? Why was his chest so tight, so full yet hollow?
But Káno only smiled, cocking his head like a little robin perched on a windowsill.
“Not yet,” he rasped. Tyelko’s heart clenched when he heard his voice, bled dry of all melody that had once been in it.
“What do you mean?” It was not a question, but a plea.
“Not yet, little brother,” said Káno, a whisper like the wind. One stiff, blackened finger came to wipe off Tyelko’s tears; the touch was like a wisp of smoke. Cold air on a morning hunt, before the sun rose.
The figure before him began to blur, to thin. Tyelko tried to take in the sight as much as possible; if he drank it into himself, protectively, if he held onto it enough, it might not disappear.
But the lost soul went, finally, went to a father who had sworn he would wait forever for him.
A little snippet from a random wip i probably won't finish:
Nerdanel’s third son was ill-received upon his birth. For fairness’ sake, it must be said that he came into the world three weeks late, and so, of course his mother was not to blame for screaming at the midwife to “get this giant thing out of me or so help me”, nor was Maitimo to blame for having his important exam that day and finding the baby’s timing incredibly inconvenient. It was, after all!
However, the poor child’s physicality was no-one’s fault at all. Not only did he bear an unlucky resemblance to his grandmother Míriël, which put both Fëanáro and Finwë into some sort of mood, but, perhaps even more unluckily, he was not a sister. Makalaurë wept and wept and could not be consoled.
Fëanáro sat down with him.
“You said you wanted a little brother or sister,” he reminded him.
“But I knew in my heart that I wanted a sister!” Káno bawled through tears and snot. “I only ever wanted a little sister, and not a stupid little brother!”
“Now, now, that’s not very nice! We don’t know yet whether he will be stupid.”
“We know! He’s already stupid because he wanted to be a brother when I wanted a sister! He’s stupid and mean!”
Káno broke into even more violent sobs, then; Fëanáro simply pulled him onto his lap, where the poor child clung onto him as if for dear life. He rubbed soothing circles on his back until he relaxed, going all limp from the exertion, and began to hiccough.
“You know,” Fëanáro tried after a bit. “You may be disappointed now that you didn’t get a sister, but you do have a little brother now. If you go inside to meet him, and you hold him in your arms, your souls will meet and connect; you will be united as brothers. He will love you with all his little heart, and you will love him so much, too. Enough, surely, to forgive the fact that he’s not a sister.”
I made myself a little flat colour reference sheet for my current Feanorian designs and I figured I would just post it, if for Celegorm's fabulous hair alone. Also, Finwë gets a little flower because he really looked like a little flower would make him happy. (◕ᴗ◕✿)
When Gil-Galad finally gets a chance to speak with Maglor, the beach hermit and kinslayer who was once his father, the entirety of their complicated past is unearthed in a single argument.
Words: 2.6k
No-one had seen Maglor Fëanorion in over a thousand years when he finally wandered too close to the borders of Lindon. The King’s riders, on their very secret orders, had discreetly captured the old elf and taken him to the palace. Gil-Galad had sent them away. Now, he was alone with that sad, hunching creature in his tattered robes who was sobbing before him and assuring him that he would accept any punishment including execution.
Thus, it happened that Ereinion Gil-Galad, the Scion of Kings, High King of the Noldor East of the Great Ocean, was hiding his war criminal of an estranged father in his office.
“Execution?” Gil-Galad echoed flatly, glaring at the blur of grey and blue and black that stood before him, wishing he were closer so that he could see his face better. “You would make me a kinslayer?”
“Never! Never!” cried the one who had once been Maglor Fëanorion, and before that, Kánafinwë Makalaurë, a good, honest, kind man with a voice of gold not yet used as a weapon of war, but to sing lullabies and songs of healing.
Now he was the shadow of a shadow of a man.
“But I know - I know well that I would deserve it; but of course the judgement is yours - I would never presume - any punishment you deem fit, I shall accept.”
Gil-Galad sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. He did not feel particularly kingly at the moment at all, and supposed there was no use in trying to uphold appearances, anyway.
Your art is so beautiful. The way you draw the characters feels so gentle and illustrative if that makes sense?
-@outofangband
Wow, thank you, that actually means so much to me! I definitely draw them with love, and I draw the characters that I love, so if that feeling translates in some way in my art, that's all I hope to achieve <3
“(…) Nerdanel herself can no longer hold in her tears and she, too, falls to her knees. She pulls her son as tightly into her embrace as only possible, beds his head on her shoulder, covers his face with all the kisses she had saved for him over all the Ages of the sun and moon. This is what she wanted to do when she came here, only this. She has done it for his brothers, too. (…)”
–
I read Whispers by @starshipsilmaril earlier today and really wanted to draw those two based on that scene!
I am absolutely in awe at your gorgeous art!! I cannot stop staring at it, there is so much raw emotion in it, it's absolutely perfect<3 Mae is so large in his mother's arms, but you can just tell that's her baby. This is what this scene had to look like, there's no other way!
When Maitimo, eldest son of Fëanáro, returns from Mandos at last, there are whispers in the streets wherever he goes, whispers that he is but a shadow of regret. He tries to go on, not to listen, but his guilt about leaving behind Káno all those ages ago, it threatens to consume him.
For Maedhros & Maglor Week, Day 7: Afterwards
Whispers travel through the streets of Valimar like the wind.
Have you heard? Nelyafinwë Maitimo has been re-embodied. It took so long to heal him; poor, suffering soul. Would it not be safer in Mandos, in the arms of Nienna, safely guarded?
Nerdanel Istarnië turns her nose up at such nonsense. She gets little attention as she walks; she may not be a golden Vanya, easily blending in, but her raiment is plain and a scarf covers her rusty-brown hair. She scoffs at what nonsense she hears; if she knows her Maitimo, he needs not be coddled, not to be protected. Still, this time, she will hold him a little closer.
The Maiar of Nienna lead her into a garden, past a library, a protected haven where the newly re-embodied, in their plain white robes, may get used to the physical world again and wait to be picked up. She spots her eldest son immediately; his proud russet hair is unmistakable. Maitimo is sitting on a bench underneath a tree, gazing into the distance. He is so still, Nerdanel thinks, and her heart clenches. So incredibly still.
She goes to him, then stops about a metre away. Would she startle him if she got much closer, she wonders. Her son remains frozen like a statue. She made statues of each of them after they left, before she would forget their faces. None of them have really looked the same as their statues when they returned, but Maitimo does. It is wrong.
