Maglor sat in the tree outside the Lord’s chamber. It was Elrond’s wedding night and, though the practice was long dead, Maglor was old enough to remember when it was tradition to oversee the wedded couple’s first night. He smiled at Celebrían’s nervous pacing. He’d always felt a bit of pity for new brides. Always so uncertain, and usually as pure as the snow that now peppered his eyelashes.

“You always were a bit of a pervert, cuz…”

Maglor blinked. “Findaráto. Just as annoying in death as you were in life, I see.” He sighed as the apparition settled on the branch beside him. “Have you nowhere else to go? I’m certain your werewolf friend is up for another round of play.”

Finrod glared at his cousin. “You are simply jealous because I have a legitimate right to be here.”

Maglor looked affronted. “I *beg* your pardon? I have more of a right to be witness than you! *I* raised him!”

Finrod snorted. “Yes, but that was AFTER you and your mob of brethren orphaned him. “

“We did not!” Maglor barked. “If she had just GIVEN us the Silmaril, we would have gone on our way, no harm done. But no! Instead, she abandoned her children and took a dive! Besides, it’s not like you have any MORE right to be here. You died a full AGE before Elrond’s bride was even born, or have you gotten brain rot already?”

Finrod lunged for him.

***

Trying to clear her mind and still her nerves, Celebrían opened the doors to her new balcony and stepped out. Leaning on the balcony, she closed her eyes and turned her face toward the night sky, giggling softly as the snow floated down onto her cheeks.

Her mother’s realm was caught in a perpetual spring, so the very idea of frozen water falling from the sky had seemed absurd. She finally understood why Elrond had insisted on waiting nearly a year to be married. She’d caught herself quite the romantic husband…and soon to be a romantic lover…she hoped.

She shivered and hugged herself as the sharp breeze tickled her ears, sounding faintly like bickering children. She watched the branches of a nearby tree rustle, and wondered what manner of creature stirred from its warm nest.

***

Both of Finwë’s grandsons stilled as they realized the young bride was staring directly at them. “Makalaurë, can she see us?” Finrod whispered.

“Nay,” Maglor whispered back. “At least…I do not believe so…”

Neither willing to test that theory further, they huddled together in the tree. Both chuckled when Celebrían startled, her groom’s arms coming around her from behind. Two sets of ears strained to hear what Elrond whispered into his bride’s ear, wildly curious to know what had brought the charming blush to her cheeks.

“I wonder if this is their maiden voyage?” Finrod whispered into Maglor’s ear. If his niece was anything like her mother, he doubted it.

He gave his cousin a withering glare. “You will not defame them in such a way, cousin. She is pure as snow, and I taught him better.”

Finrod chuckled. “Little wonder you died a virgin, cuz. How is it you sang so well of that which you had no experience?”

“Shut up, Findaráto,” Maglor mumbled. As Elrond’s whispers turned to tiny kisses along a pale neck, Maglor looked over, noticing Finrod’s distant look. It occurred to him then that his cousin had had a companion in Valinor. “Finda?”

“Aye?”

“I am sorry about Amarië.”

Finrod sighed. “I accepted it as my fate when I joined my sister in exile.”

“Still…” Maglor was quiet for a moment. “Were you and she…you know?”

Finrod stood on the branch. “That is for me to know, and for you to sing of, cousin.” He was gone.

Leaning against the tree trunk, Maglor looked up at the snow falling peacefully from the sky. He wondered which of them was the more pitiful: himself for never knowing what so many others knew – including his own heart-son now -…or Finrod, for having known and lost.

Maglor watched the two houses of his uncles come together in sacred union and came to a decision. Indeed, Finrod was the poorer. He stood on the branch, brushing the snow from his robes. Judging from the way things were progressing, Elrond certainly didn’t need his help (where HAD he learned to use his tongue like that?!) Besides, this was a silly tradition whose only purpose was to entertain voyeurs and fools.

The wind blew, carrying upon it the faint, last strains of Maglor’s song.