Chapter Text
“And you’re sure this will let you take all your notes back with you?” said Gil-galad.
Finduilas rolled her eyes. “There’s no such thing as being sure about Maiarin time magic. But I designed the process, didn’t I? The Song should return me home with everything I’m carrying, and then I’m going to save Nargothrond. And get over Agarwaen while I’m at it.”
At her feet were flat, many-ringed circles of metal inlaid in a wooden platform, already humming with magic from their arrangement and the sigils worked alongside and within them. She moved slightly to allow Idril and Celebrimbor up onto the platform, careful not to drop any of the pages and pages of notes she’d accumulated from studying the work of Aman’s craftsfolk, nor those from this magical working.
“We three are going back to where we were. It’s the simplest, since we just have to follow the echoes home, but we must be ready for things to be different when we arrive. It’s you and Maeglin who have the tricky bit of going somewhere you weren’t,” she continued. “Though since you were dead it may be easier for you.”
“Finally, something made easier by being dead,” said Gil-galad.
“Try not to do it again. We need to outdo our parents’ generation in survival rates -- not that it'll be too hard,” she said.
“We're only making it harder for ourselves by going and saving them,” Idril warned.
“If you want Gondolin to be destroyed--”
“Shut up, Lómion.”
Elrond interrupted the budding argument by saying, “Are you three ready? And Celebrimbor, you have the notes we gave you?”
“If Annatar reveals himself as Sauron, I have fifty pages on how to emotionally or physically destroy him, but I really don't think it's necessary,” said Celebrimbor.
“And here I thought you trusted my counsel!” said Celebrían. “But in any case, we have everything set. Three trips, with you all first to get back to where you were.”
“Begin on my mark,” said Finduilas, tapping a tuning fork on her head to find the right note. She waited a few seconds, tapping her foot in time. “And... now.”
With the first note of their shared Song of Power, the circles of metal began to glow, and only grew brighter as harmonies shifted and words were sung. Soon Finduilas could hear herself, the way she'd come through Time, and in it the path back to Nargothrond.
She turned her voice to that music, and felt herself grow weightless, and with a feeling not unlike jumping into a cold lake and completely submerging, she went home.
Maeglin’s awareness came slowly, but fear did not clutch at his heart as he’d thought it might. His vision swam into focus and revealed a midnight sky above the courtyard of the sacred spring of Gondolin, where he wasn’t, strictly speaking, allowed to be alone -- yet it was a safe place, with all the city’s magic laid over it. And easy to send him to, with Ulmo’s hand upon the spring.
Some of his wounds had worsened, now nearer to the time they’d been dealt, but he ignored this. More important was dragging himself to the House of the Wing, and behind the main house to where its rulers dwelt, and waking Idril and Tuor as quickly as possible, with as much rudeness as needed.
No one saw him in the cold and empty streets. Everyone was at home, it seemed, save for a few lights in the windows of workshops and gathering halls, and the voices of singers in Gar Ainion. Where Aman had been too vivid to believe, Gondolin now felt like an uneasy dream, so flimsy he might tear it and wake up again in Nan Elmoth, having dreamt it all. But he kept his feet, crossing the city with only mild difficulty, until he reached his goal.
The back door opened before he touched it, as if sensing his urgency, and it was only out of deference to Eärendil's sleep that he didn't slam it to wake the house. Instead, he called out to Idril in ósanwë.
Get down here, both of you. It's an emergency, he said, omitting the fact that he needed a healer. If he asked for help outright, they'd think he'd been replaced by a shape-changer.
Within a handful of seconds, there was the little clatter of wheels on stone floors, the rustle of fabric, and the sound of mortal footfalls as Idril and Tuor came rushing out. Idril had taken off her feet to sleep; she often did, particularly on cold nights, which was why he'd come to the back door, which led into the floor with the bedrooms and could be reached in her wheeled chair.
“What happened?” Idril asked.
Tuor, horror on his face, said, “Sit down and I'll -- I'll fetch bandages. Are you all right?”
“No,” said Maeglin, gratefully collapsing in the loveseat-for-three. “I was captured and taken to Angband when I was out mining, and only just rescued.”
“You were what?” said Idril, wheeling over to lean towards him and poke at his mind. “If you’re about to faint dramatically, don’t. I’ll have someone get a healer while you tell us everything, and I mean everything--”
Maeglin relaxed, despite himself.
It was not unlike waking from a true-dream, Idril noticed. The sharp gasp for air, for one thing, and finding herself far from where she had just been. But dreams did not carry the echo of a great gong that followed her into the waking world.
Her hand was in Tuor’s hand, and he was sleeping soundly, closed-eyed. They weren’t on their ship, which was the first strangeness, nor on some beach, but in a room and lying on a soft bed.
Where was Voronwë? They’d sailed with Voronwë, and last she recalled, they’d been on the ship with them, even when the storm and the mist obscured her vision. And where was--
New memories filled themselves in.
Where was Maeglin?
He’d sailed with them, too, and even when Idril sat up to check he wasn’t nestled into Tuor’s other side, he wasn’t there. Why wasn't he, when the three of them were as good as married, in the new recollections Idril now possessed? When he had refused to be sundered from them, despite his fear of the sea?
“Awake, my love, awake!” she said, squeezing Tuor's hand and cupping his cheek. “Where is our Lómion, and where our Voronwë?”
Tuor blinked his eyes open, turning his head to kiss the palm she had placed upon him, and said, “For that matter, where are we?”
“I know not, but even still I have much to tell you. Something strange happened to me before I woke here -- but never mind that. Are you well?” She was, for she had been in Aman, and it was with gratitude that she remembered that Elladan and Elrohir had snuck food into her pockets while she'd pretended not to notice. “Here, eat if you are hungry. We can't search for our companions without our own strength.”
He didn't ask where she'd gotten fresh bread or berries that hadn't been in season when they'd last been on land, only ate while poking their bond and saying, I expect it's quite a story.
She had only been without him for a little while. From one point of view, she'd never left him at all. This didn't stop her from kissing the juice from his lips as if they'd been separated for years, pouring forth all her love in their marriage bond.
“Before we go seeking,” she said, after pulling away, “tell me, beloved, do you remember what did not happen?”
He furrowed his brow, saying, “How could I remember--?” and then, of a sudden, squeezed his eyes shut as if in pain. “Oh. Oh. A little, I think.” His hand found hers. “It must be a tale indeed, what you did before we woke.”
“Not nearly so heroic as you're imagining,” she warned. “Think no more on it. I only wanted to know if anyone else could recall, if the echoes are there still.”
“You aren't alone in the knowledge,” he promised, because he knew her well enough to understand what she wanted.
She clasped both of his hands in hers. “Let us find our betrothed and Voronwë. If we are lucky, and they terribly unlucky, they may be in the same place.”
“And then?”
Idril took a deep breath. “And then to Valinor. We will find welcome there.”
No time at all, it seemed, had passed in Ost-in-Edhil when Celebrimbor returned. The breakfast on his table was still warm, his project -- an enchanted set of cutlery, a present for Elrond so they might avoid foods that made them ill -- just as he'd left it.
He allowed himself time to eat and to be grateful he'd made it home, settling back into place and recalling what he'd meant to do before being called through Time. He was to meet with Narvi -- yes, to meet her and talk about the gate she was planning. That would likely be the full day, but then he would stay up late with Annatar, who'd invited him to stargaze that evening.
The thought of Annatar, unusually, brought him no cheer. Before all of this, whether that was minutes ago or weeks, it would have been unthinkable to not be delighted to see his friend, but he had not then known Annatar's past.
Sauron! Sauron himself!
Celebrimbor laid his head on the table. Celebrían had been nice about it, as had Elrond, Gil-galad less so. They'd all understood, at least, that he could not oust Annatar without knowledge of current evil-doing, even if he knew what had been done ere now. Second Age, second chances, they'd said, all the survivors of Beleriand upon reaching Lindon, and Celebrimbor believed it.
There was no denying that Sauron had risen to power again in this age, but if he'd truly had a change of heart...
But there were ways to find out the answers to these nagging questions. They could wait until evening.
First, Narvi, and seeing to the well-being of his city -- no, first of all to see Celebrían, and thank her a thousand times over for her someday family and all her wisdom, and tell her everything.
With this in mind, he set out to find her, and startled himself to recall that it was her habit to go walking with Finduilas, and that Finduilas herself worked with him and with Annatar on their studies of magic and the ways of the world's functioning. Finduilas would know, too, what he had just learned.
“Good morrow!” he said when he found them in the market. “Might I speak with you both? Privately? I have need of your counsel.”
“I thought you might,” said Finduilas.
“What is this about?” said Celebrían, narrowing her eyes. “You rarely ask my advice; you go to my parents or Finduilas. What is it you can't tell my mother?”
“I've just found out I should be taking your advice more often,” said Celebrimbor. “But also, yes, I'd rather have a plan before telling your parents...”
The first thing Celebrían said when she arrived back in Imladris was, “Glorfindel, never say that again.”
Glorfindel blinked. “What just happened? You look--”
“Our little ones took you seriously, dragged us into the distant past so we could fix things, and inadvertently pulled with them the rest of our generation,” she said. “Please refrain from similar statements until they're old enough to understand.”
“...Ah. Right,” he said. “Are they well? I imagine it's a lot of effort.”
“They're asleep,” said Elrond, “but I could use something to eat. And for Gil-galad's room to be reopened.”
Gil-galad waved.
Glorfindel stared. Then, “I shouldn't be surprised,” he said. “I'll tell Lintë and see if I can find you some food.”
Elrond brightened. “Lintë was a great help in our adventure! I'm afraid we didn't manage to find you, or it might've been easier.”
“And go get Celebrimbor,” said Celebrían. In the new memories she held, alongside the old, she knew he was visiting, and wanted to see him immediately to be sure he was safe.
Glorfindel went off to do as he was bade, and Celebrían sighed, resting her head on Gil-galad's shoulder as the exhaustion caught up with her all at once. “Here we are, then. Back together at last.”
“Welcome home,” said Elrond.