Disclaimer: Tolkien owns'em; I'm just borrowing them.
This story uses a mixture of Quenya and Sindarin names (for reasons that will soon become apparent). A list of Quenya names can be found in the Author's Notes at the end of the story.
True Journey is Return
The days are tolerable. When the sun is up, he can hold the guilt at bay with all manner of necessary busyness. His work and his title; together these make a formidable shield. But the nights, when all work ceases and he is alone, not royalty but merely himself… the nights are another matter altogether.
The beating of great wings wafts the stench of sweat and infection and blood into his nose. A limp body – thin, so terribly thin, and clad only in an elaborate tapestry of welts and sores – is carefully slid down to the ground, leaving a trail of grime on bronze feathers. A second form, hale and whole, follows, cradles the broken one like a child.
Grey eyes stare accusingly. "He's your brother! How could you not even try to save him?"
He wakes with a cry – of apology? Protest? He does not know; the sound dies on his lips even as he becomes aware of it, transforming into a strangled sob. Reflexively he reaches for the half-empty bottle, takes a swig, followed soon by another, and then another, desperate to drown that accusing voice, drown all thought, drown his very self… For a time, he will know blessed oblivion… and if when his mind surfaces again, he finds himself sick and still in pain, well, what more does he deserve?
By the time he collapses into a stupor, the bottle is nearly empty.
The first light was bright and clear, but lacking in warmth; a thin tracery of frost kissed the grass and leaves – the first ephemeral touch of the new season soon to come. Celegorm shook his head; even after the passage of several years, the changing seasons still fascinated him. The new Lights moving across the sky bore little resemblance to the lost Treelight he'd known for nearly all his life, being far more erratic in both their intensity and duration. He wondered idly as he walked across the camp to join his brothers for their morning meal whether he'd ever completely adjust to their strange rhythms. But he had to allow that the effect this wavering of the light had on the plants and animals here was fascinating to observe. If only he had more time to study the ways of these forests! Working on their settlement and drilling and training their troops, though, had to take priority, however much he wished it were otherwise.
Only five figures were seated at the table. Amrod, Amras, Caranthir, Curufin, little Celebrimbor… "Where's Maglor?"
Caranthir shrugged. "Probably with Russandol. Where else would he be?"
"Not there, I suspect, not with the way our dear cousin Fingon has been hovering over our injured brother. He's not making even the slightest attempt to hide his anger at us. It's warmer on the Grinding Ice than it is in that cabin, and Maglor dislikes unpleasant confrontations, even when they are necessary. Besides, Maitimo is still unconscious. There's no reason for Maglor be there now, and one very good reason to stay away. So where else might he be? It's not like him to be late, and this is the third morning in a row he's not come to breakfast."
"How would I know? If you're that curious, go look for him yourself. The rest of us would just like to eat our meal in peace."
"Your concern for our brother is truly touching, Caranthir."
"But Caranthir's right." Curufin, who was in the process of helping his young son slice a sausage, barely looked up as he spoke. "Maglor's the one in charge here, not you – and he certainly should be allowed his occasional foibles. So he doesn't want to join us for breakfast – what's wrong with that? Maybe he's just not hungry. Leave him alone, Celegorm. Our big brother doesn't need a nursemaid."
"No, he doesn't need a nursemaid," Celegorm grumbled as he scooped some eggs onto his plate. "But that doesn't mean he might not benefit from a few good knocks on the head. If he keeps this up, I'm going to exercise a younger brother's prerogative and give him some."
With eggs, several nice crisp sausages, and sliced fruit piled high on his plate, the mystery of his older brother's whereabouts suddenly seemed less pressing. Celegorm set to work on his food, making a mental note to chat with Maglor later in the day after he'd finished the day's training exercises.
The cavalry exercises had gone well, and Celegorm was in a good mood when he rode back into the camp. He paused a moment before dismounting, watching the orderly bustle of activity all around him. We – or rather Maglor, he's done most of the planning – have done a rather good job here, Celegorm thought with satisfaction. Tirion it may not be, but it's comfortable enough – and more important, safe. In time, this may make a very satisfactory home.
His reverie was interrupted by the hurried arrival of his brother Amras. "Russandol's finally awakened!" his youngest brother announced loudly. "Hurry down off that great monster; he's been asking about you, and the healers don't know how much longer he's going to remain alert. I'll take care of your horse."
Celegorm quickly dismounted and tossed the reins to his brother, then strode off to the small cabin where the healers (and Fingon, he thought with more than a trace of annoyance) were caring for his all-but-dead eldest brother. He paused briefly outside the cabin door debating whether to knock, then after deciding he couldn't possibly be interrupting anything of consequence, grabbed the door handle and pushed it open. I have a right to be here, he thought as he entered, and if Fingon doesn't care for that, then too damned bad. He's my brother, not Fingon's.
To Celegorm's admittedly less-than-expert eye, his eldest brother still looked more corpse than Elf – but he was unquestionably awake, and trying in vain to wave away the soup spoon Fingon was determinedly waving under his nose. "Later, Findekáno," his brother whispered in a thread-thin voice. "I promise I'll eat it later. Look! - Tyelkormo's here, and I want to talk with him first."
Celegorm noted with some relief, and a vague sense of shame, that Maitimo's maimed right arm was hidden under the blankets; at least he wouldn't have to fight to keep his attention where it belonged, on his brother's face. I wonder if he knows yet that he's a cripple now? he thought as he moved closer to his brother's bed. As he passed Fingon, he quickly cast a meaningful glare at his cousin. Fingon got the message and retreated, soup bowl in hand, toward the door. "I'll leave you to chat with your brother for a bit, Russandol. This broth is getting cold anyway; time to get some fresh." To Celegorm he said only, "Don't tire him out" before slipping outside.
Celegorm bit back a curse, realizing it wouldn't do to abuse his brother's best friend and rescuer in Maitimo's earshot. He took a seat on the edge of the bed, and put his hand on his brother's left forearm, giving it a brief, affectionate squeeze. He looked down at his brother's wan face for a long moment, trying to decide what to say, and trying hard to ignore the faint smell of infection that still lingered in the air close to his brother's body. What do I tell him? 'Nice to have you home, big brother, sorry I left you for dead, too bad about your hand'? He decided to settle for the obvious: "We're glad to have you back, Maitimo. How are you feeling?"
"Wretched. Trust me, it's an improvement." Maitimo smiled. "I'm even glad to see you, pesky little brother."
"Pesky? Me? Your wits are still rattled, Russandol. I think you've got me confused with someone else – Ambarussa, or Carnistir, or Makalaurë perhaps –"
"How is Makalaurë, Tyelkormo? He's the only one of you who has yet to stop by. Nothing… nothing bad has happened to him, has it?"
Celegorm shifted slightly, surprised. "No, of course not. Hasn't he… I'm shocked he hasn't already been here to see you."
Maitimo shook his head weakly. "No, he hasn't. I was starting to worry. It would be like Findekáno – and you – to try to hide unpleasant news from me while I'm recovering; I'm glad to hear you're not. So tell me the truth: why doesn't Makalaurë want to see me? Is it this?" Wincing in pain, he slowly pulled his right arm out from under the blankets, raising it slightly to show the neatly bandaged stump where his hand should have been. Celegorm swallowed hard, and tried (without much success) to avoid looking at it.
"Of course not, Russandol, it's just… our brother has a lot of responsibilities now…"
"Which are all so pressing that he could not put them aside for even five minutes to say hello to the elder brother he hasn't seen in literally years? Now you are speaking an untruth to me, Tyelkormo. I told you I don't want to be coddled!"
Celegorm jumped up and glared at his brother. "I'm not coddling you, Maitimo. Do you take me for Findekáno? I don't know why Makalaurë hasn't stopped by yet – but I'll see that he does, just as soon as I can find him."
Maitimo gave a weak laugh. "Hasty One, now I know you've told me the truth. There's no need for you to run poor Makalaurë down like one of your hares. Just tell my filit I miss him and would appreciate his company – and I'll keep my deformity hidden, he won't need to look at it. Yet." He tried in vain to stifle a yawn.
Celegorm took it as a hint. "Get some sleep, Russandol. I'll bring your songbird around later – tomorrow morning, if not tonight." Just as soon as I can find him, he thought angrily as he stepped out of the stuffy, dim cabin back into the bright, clean air of late afternoon. Fingon, he saw, was hastening over with a tightly covered bowl leaking steam cradled in his hands. "Too late!" Celegorm called out cheerfully, "my brother's completely worn out," and (now safely out of Maitimo's earshot) met his cousin's venomous glare with a defiant laugh.
Accustomed as he was to tracking down elusive quarry, Celegorm found locating his older brother a trivial task. He remembered his long-ago lessons with Oromë. Most animals have fixed habits; oftimes it is best for a hunter to forego the chase in favor of placing himself alongside the creature's accustomed path and allowing his quarry to come to him. Picking the lock on Maglor's door was the only challenging part of his hunt; the subsequent waiting, though tedious, he'd had much prior experience in enduring. Dealing with Maglor once he'd snared him… that was where the challenge was going to lie.
It was after midnight before he heard the faint sounds of approaching footsteps. Not the confident tread Celegorm was expecting, but uneven, almost stumbling. He stepped back a bit further into the shadowed corner behind the door when he heard the rattle of a key in the lock, and watched silently as Maglor(cradling a bottle of spirits in his left arm) entered the room, sank down heavily onto the bed, and uncorked the bottle.
"Haven't you already had enough, brother? Your breath already smells like a distillery," Celegorm said as he stepped out of the corner and into the center of the small room.
Startled badly by the unexpected appearance of his brother, Maglor lost his grip on the bottle, which fell to the floor and shattered, spraying golden brandy and slivers of glass across the pale floorboards. "Get out," he shouted as he lurched back onto his feet. "These are my quarters. You have no right to be in here."
Celegorm crossed his arms and leaned back against the door, blocking it, and answered with feigned indifference, "I don't care. It's past time we had a talk, brother. Ever since Fingon brought Maitimo back, you've been going out of your way to avoid us all. Apparently, given the state you're in right now, you've decided you prefer the company of alcohol to that of your brothers. Normally I'd not question your decision – but I'm not going to stand by and watch you hurt Russandol. Of all of us, you've always been his favorite – don't try to deny that, we both know it's true. He needs you now, Maglor."
"No he doesn't. He has Fingon."
"Fingon isn't you."
"No, Fingon isn't me. Fingon had the courage to find Russandol and pluck him out of Morgoth's grasp. I, on the other hand, devoted brother that I am, ordered us all to abandon him. What possible need could Maitimo have for that sort of brotherly love?"
Celegorm waited until Maglor's eyes met his own before replying softly, "Until now I never thought you a coward, brother."
Maglor's answer came in the form of a swinging fist. Celegorm easily managed to block the blow, but as he did he lost his footing on the wet floor and stumbled into Maglor. The two brothers fell heavily onto the floor, and Celegorm found himself sprawled on top of his slighter sibling. "Yes, that's right, a coward," he hissed into Maglor's ear. "Oh, you're brave enough against orcs and wargs, but pitted against your own sense of guilt all you can think to do is run away and hide. Guess what, O wise elder brother: it won't work. Some things you can't hide from."
"And just what would you know about guilt?" Maglor answered bitterly as he struggled in vain to push his way free. "You've never been King, you don't bear the responsibility –"
"Oh, but I do," Celegorm answered more gently. "You, as our King, may have given the order – but it was my choice, and mine alone, to obey it. Do you think I would have done that if I hadn't agreed with it? Do you think any of us would have? We are all equally guilty of abandoning Maitimo, brother. If the rest of us could face him after doing that, than so can you."
He slowly sat up, releasing his tight grip on Maglor's arms. "He still loves you, you know. He wants to see you. He thinks you're avoiding him because he's ugly now and you simply can't bear to look at his scars. How badly are you willing to hurt Maitimo just to avoid coping with your own feelings of remorse, brother?"
"But what shall I say to him? I don't have the words, Celegorm!"
"Say nothing! Say anything! It doesn't matter. It's not the words that are important, Maglor," Celegorm said as he stood up and held out his hand to help his floundering brother back onto his feet. "It's the going."
The following sunrise found the former King of the Noldor, now demoted to Acting Regent by his elder brother's unanticipated return, slowly making his way over to Maitimo's cabin. Celegorm was right, Maglor thought bitterly as he stepped inside. I'd find a thousand orcs easier to face than this - He stopped short. There were three people in the room, not the two he'd been expecting: Maitimo (who appeared insensible), an obviously tired and worried-looking Fingon, and a healer who was in the process of cutting the bandages off Maitimo's stump. Feeling a sudden surge of queasiness which had nothing to do with his lingering hangover, Maglor started to back out of the room. But at that moment the healer turned his head and, upon seeing the identity of his guest, paused in his work, straightened up, and bowed. "Welcome, Your Majesty." Thus caught, he had no choice but to stay.
"No," Maglor replied to the healer, nodding his head toward the sleeping figure lying on the bed. "That would be him. I am just Prince Maglor now." He'd not failed to notice the mingled look of surprise and anger in his cousin's eyes when the healer had addressed him using the royal title. "My apologies for interrupting you; I would not have come now if I had known you would be here. My brother – he is asleep?"
The healer had turned his attention back to his work. "Wine mixed with poppy juice," he replied without looking up. "It will wear off soon enough. His other wounds I have already dressed; this is the last." His scissors finished cutting through the bandages, which fell open to reveal the swollen, angry red and bruised-purple stump where Maitimo's hand should have begun. Maglor closed his eyes and swallowed hard.
"It is healing well. Of course, there is no way to tell yet how much function his arm will regain –"
"I don't understand." Fingon's own complexion, Maglor noted with some surprise as he opened his eyes again, had taken on a decidedly ashen hue. His cousin continued, "It was only his hand he lost –"
"The ligaments and tendons of his right shoulder and arm have been stretched and torn from the strain of supporting his weight for so long. How quickly and how thoroughly they will heal is uncertain. However, I am cautiously optimistic he will have at least some use of the limb." The healer wrapped one final twist of linen around the freshly-bandaged stump and tied the dressing off, then carefully raised the arm and slipped it into a sling, which he then fastened around Maitimo's neck. "There. Finished. Another day in bed, I think, perhaps two, and he will be ready to sit up in a chair. I will check on him again later this evening. For today, see that he eats." The healer packed his instruments away, removed the dirty bandages from the bed, and departed, leaving Maglor and Fingon to stare at each other from across the bed.
Maglor met his cousin's gaze and said quietly, "Thank you for bringing him back to us."
"I did it for his sake, and for our people's sake, not for yours," Fingon replied coldly.
"I know that. My brothers and I are grateful nonetheless. Fingon, you should know… Maitimo wanted to send the ships back for you." Maglor paused, fighting a sudden sense of shame as he remembered his own conduct on the shore of Losgar. "He defied Father and stood aside when Father ordered them burnt. Tell your father that when he arrives."
"What do you mean 'when Father arrives'?"
"I sent an emissary to your people's camp at first light, under a flag of truce, to let them know you are here and to tell them how you rescued my brother – and to invite your father here, and any others of our kin who may wish to come. They'll want to see proof of my claims, and I thought you'd appreciate the company. Not to mention some fresh clothes."
Now it was Fingon's turn to look embarrassed. "Thank you, cousin."
Maglor reached over and took Fingon's hands into his own. "You are family; it was the least I could do. Cousin, you've been up for days watching over my brother, and you look worn out. Why don't you go get some breakfast and then some sleep? Tell Celegorm I said you can use my room; he'll unlock it for you. You'll want to be rested when your father arrives this afternoon. I'll stay here with Russandol while you're gone, and if he wants you I'll send for you, I promise."
Fingon pulled his right hand loose from Maglor's and rubbed his eyes. "You're right, I am tired… I'll do as you ask. Tell Russandol when he wakes that I'll see him later. And promise me you'll force him to eat something!"
So much for the easy part, Maglor thought as he watched his exhausted cousin depart. Now all that's left is for me to face my brother…What am I going to say to him? How should I begin?
From behind him, a tired voice speaking in Quenya said, "So you've become a politician in my absence, filit*." Maglor quickly turned around to see Maitimo looking at him. His brother's lips were smiling, but no smile touched his eyes, which were dim and pain-filled. Maglor hurried over to his brother's bedside and sat down, taking his brother's remaining hand into his own.
"Russandol, welcome home. How long have you been awake?"
"I woke up while the healer was wrapping my arm. It seemed like too much work to open my eyes until now, though; my eyelids were simply too heavy to lift."
"So you heard –" Maglor began, thinking of the healer's words. "There is no way to tell yet how much function his arm will regain… He will have at least some use of the limb..." Mandos damn us all for fools for speaking in front of him so. Now is not the time for my brother to be forced to face the full extent of his injuries! The amputation alone is going to be hard enough for him to deal with.
"Heard, yes. Understood, no. What was that strange language you were all speaking?"
Maglor relaxed as he realized that Maitimo, captured so soon after their father's death, had of course never learned the Sindarin of their Moriquendi allies, which for reasons of politics was quickly becoming the commonplace language in their camp. "It's the speech of the Elves who live in these lands. Almost everyone has taken to speaking it, and so you're going to need to learn it. It's not a difficult tongue, although it may sound strange to your ears at first; its roots are distantly related to our own language. You'll soon understand the new words."
"I didn't need to understand the words to hear the change in our cousin's voice. Be patient with Findekáno, filit. He's frightened for me, and angry that he couldn't save my hand. He doesn't understand that was the least of my losses there." Maitimo gave a sigh and closed his eyes, but Maglor felt his brother's grip on his hand tighten. After a long moment of silence Maitimo, his eyes still closed, said in a very quiet voice, "I saw the Silmarils, filit. Before he hung me off that rock. He's placed them in a huge iron crown. He used to wear it, to mock me, when he… I tried to keep my focus only on them, but somehow their beauty only made… the rest of it… seem even more sordid."
What did Morgoth do to you, brother? Maglor wondered uneasily, but aloud he only said, "Hush, Russandol. Don't think about that now. You're safe here."
"I can't not think about it, filit. It fills my mind; there's no room for anything else. I don't know if there will ever be room for anything else, ever again."
"There will be, Maitimo. One day there will be. It's going to take time, but you will heal."
"I wish I could believe you, filit."
Maglor had never heard his brother's voice so tired, so drained of hope. "Forgive me, Maitimo," he found himself whispering, "forgive me, I should have gone to rescue you…" He felt wetness on his cheeks, and realized he had begin to weep, and was not sure whether it was his brother's pain or his own self-loathing in the face of it which had triggered his tears.
"Makalaurë, no." Maitimo had opened his eyes again; seeing the tears on his brother's face, he pulled his hand free and gently wiped them off. "You've no need of my forgiveness; you did nothing wrong. I never expected to be rescued, filit. I used to pray I'd never see any of you again – because if I did, it would only be because Moringotto had captured or killed you as well. The only release I dared to hope for was death, and eventually I even ceased to hope for that."
Maglor pulled back, avoiding his brother's touch, and shook his head. "That doesn't matter. I should have tried. Findekáno got you down…"
Maitimo sighed. "Ah, filit… Don't tell Findekáno I said this, but 'valiant' is just a polite way of saying 'reckless beyond belief.' And you – all my brothers, but you especially – had other responsibilities, to our people and to our Oath, that our cousin didn't. No king can afford to be reckless. Didn't Father's end show us that?"
"But it wasn't merely prudence that restrained me, brother; it was fear. I was afraid of what I might find…"
"Very sensible of you, Makalaurë."
"…I thought… I am so ashamed to say this… I remembered Grandfather's stories, I thought you'd be an orc…"
"And so I am."
The simple, matter-of-fact way his brother uttered that statement shocked Maglor out of his own self-pity. "Maitimo! Don't say that!"
"Why shouldn't I say it? It's true. What is an orc after all but a ruined Elf? And I am ruined; you can have no idea of how low I let myself sink before he tired of toying with me and pinned me to that mountainside, the vile things I eventually consented to…" Maitimo's eyes may been fixed on his brother, but at that moment it seemed to Maglor that his brother was not looking at him but rather past him, that in his mind he was no longer in a simple wooden cabin near the lake shore, but in a far darker, more suffocating place. Not knowing what else to do to bring his brother's mind back to the present, Maglor grabbed Maitimo's left shoulder and shook him roughly.
"No. You are not an orc, and you are not ruined. I won't permit you to say such things about yourself, Russandol; they are not true."
Maitimo went white and gasped in pain, but to Maglor's relief when his brother opened his eyes again there was once more sense in them. He sank back against the pillows, and this time the look he gave his younger brother was an appraising one. "You've changed, filit. There's a harder edge to you now. I am not sure I like it."
Maglor sighed, feeling suddenly drained. "We've all changed, Maitimo," he replied quietly. "This isn't Aman. But one thing will always be a constant: you are my brother, and I love you. Whenever the evil memories trouble you, remember that."
Whatever reply Maitimo might have tried to make was lost in a sudden rush of noise and confusion; a huge dark form pushed its way past Maglor and up into Maitimo's face while at the same time a dry, amused voice said from the doorway, "Isn't that sweet. I suppose you'll be reciting love poetry to him next," and a second voice shouted "No, Huan! Down!" To Maglor's surprise, Caranthir and Celegorm quickly strode into the cabin, followed by the twins, who were each carrying a covered dish. Huan had preceded Celegorm in and was cheerfully ignoring his master's commands; the great hound was instead half-standing on the bed, wagging his tail furiously and determinedly smothering its occupant with licks. His brother's response to the unexpected canine assault also came as a surprise to Maglor, for Maitimo was laughing weakly and stroking Huan's neck and ears with his one remaining hand. "I missed you, too, boy," Maitimo whispered to Huan as Celegorm finally got hold of the dog's collar and dragged him away from the bed. "Sorry about that," Celegorm said as to Maitimo he settled Huan down. "The four of us are going hunting this morning, and I thought before we set off we'd stop by and bring the two of you some breakfast."
"Findekáno seems to think you're in danger of starving yourself to death, Russandol" Caranthir said laconically as Amrod and Amras set their dishes down on the small nightstand by the bed. "He ought to know the greater danger is that you'll be poisoned; these two did the cooking today."
"Don't listen to him, Russandol; that's nothing but a vile slur. Even we can't ruin porridge!"
"And even if we can, well, we brought you some fruit…"
Maitimo shook his head weakly and let out an exaggerated sigh. "I'm grateful for the warning, Carnistir," he replied as he watched Amras removed the lids from the dishes and dip a spoon into one, "but I'm facing two-to-one – no, make that five-to-one odds. I know when I'm fighting a losing battle."
Maglor had yielded his place by Maitimo's bedside in order to allow the twins room to set their dishes down. Now while the others uncovered the food, he made his way over to Celegorm. "Thank you," he said quietly, "and I don't mean for the meal."
Blue eyes met grey. "No thanks necessary. It's what brothers are for." The two stood side by side for a long moment, watching silently as their three younger brothers cajoled their eldest into eating. "I wish he could go out hunting with us," Celegorm said softly. "He was always so strong, so vital… it hurts to see him like this. So diminished."
"Maitimo's still strong – stronger than he knows. He'll recover in time. It's bed rest for him now, though, for at least another day…" Another day trapped in this depressing room, dim and claustrophobic and smelling of unguents and sickness, with nothing to distract him from his pain; now that he's awake it really isn't fair… Suddenly Maglor had an idea. "Celegorm," he said urgently, "go fetch Curufin."
"He's at his forge, he won't appreciate the interruption."
"I don't care; go and get him." Seeing his brother's puzzlement, Maglor gestured toward the bed. "The healer said our brother needs to stay in bed now; he didn't say he needs to be inside. Three of us on one side of the bed, brother, and three of us on the other. All six of us – if we work together, we can carry Maitimo out into the Light."
This story is even more confusing in regards to names than the usual Silmarillion fanfiction, as I've intermixed Quenya and Sindarin forms. At this point in time, everyone in the story but Maedhros has learned to speak Sindarin. Unfortunately for Maedhros, Morgoth didn't supply him with a "Basic Sindarin for Beginners" course to help him pass the time while he was hanging by his wrist off of Thangorodrim, so he only speaks Quenya – and he obviously also hasn't chosen a Sindarin form of his name yet. (I wrote about that event in my earlier story "The Glitter of Metal".) So when talking among themselves, the other characters are speaking Sindarin and using Sindarin names, but when speaking to Maedhros, they speak in Quenya and use everyone's Quenya names, and when they refer to Maedhros in conversation they still use his Quenya names because they don't have any Sindarin names to call him by yet. Hence the confusion.
For those of you not familiar with the Quenya names, they are listed below:
Maitimo (nicknamed Russandol) – Maedhros
Makalaurë - Maglor
Tyelkormo - Celegorm
Carnistir - Caranthir
Findekáno - Fingon
Moringotto - Morgoth
The meaning of everyone's Quenya names can be found in "The Shibboleth of Fëanor", The Peoples of Middle Earth (History of Middle Earth, vol. 12).
*filit - Quenya for "little bird"; an affectionate nickname my Maedhros has given his brother Maglor.