Chapter Text
It was a long and eventful journey across the Sundering Sea that the Last Ship of the elves made between Ennor and Aman.
Three Sindarin princes and a kinslayer, and through the ocean’s days, none between them had come to blows, though it had been a near thing once or twice.
Maglor had been made to recount his tale of the Kinslaying at Doriath, and there Celeborn almost took hold of him. There, also, Maglor very nearly succeeded in casting himself into the sea. Once, after Círdan drew him into speaking of Elrond and Elros, Thranduil nearly throttled Maglor for ‘being such a stone-headed, thrice-cursed fool of a father’. Even Círdan lost his composure one night when Eärendil was bright and Maglor spoke in a frenzy of Elwing and Sirion and jewels. But all were restrained, and in time their anger was laid away beneath the passing waves.
Their ship was sound, their mariner possessed of great skill, and Círdan did not falter in his seeking of the Straight Road. And so it was with great anticipation that the swift ship approached at last the green isle of Tol Eressëa.
As soon as they’d seen the first seabird from far off come wheeling, Thranduil had been singing happily to them, and the birds picked up his song. And so it was that when they first espied land, a veritable fleet of ships was waiting to hail them. Círdan’s mariners leapt up in a white flock and ships of varying and elegant shapes and sizes sped from their idling circuits to arc around them. The sounds of music drifted to the four travelers over the water, and many fair voices raised in praise and welcome of their long-awaited lord of the Falas. Círdan stood tall and old and suffused with joy at the ship’s wheel, gazing with a wide smile at the ships cutting graceful arcs through the water around them.
Maglor heard these all very distantly, for there was naught louder to him now than the rushing of his own blood in his ears. They had passed long ago out of the seas of Middle-Earth. He had felt the siren call of Valinor for many long leagues now. At first he had paused mid-sentence with a gasp, his conversation with Círdan immediately falling away from him. Valinor! Land of my youth, land of my fathers! It had hit him in a rush of joy. He drowned it in grief and anger a second later.
Now, Maglor stared at his hands, slack, empty, burned. He hid himself, sitting against the side of the ship so his head did not show above the boards, and faced away from the Isle.
I do not offer you what you deserve. Like a shield, he brought the words of Círdan in front of him, and pressed his mouth into an unhappy line. He made himself relax his body, counting slowly to seven hundred in his mind. When he opened his eyes again he could tell the woodland king was watching him with a, by now familiar, irritated and long-suffering look.
Thranduil approached slowly, tall and golden and excited, all at once regal and childlike in a fey mood.
‘Have you yet looked?’ he asked mildly, standing beside Maglor’s curled up form against the side of the ship. Maglor tilted his head back to watch Thranduil’s face, his blue eyes high and sparkling as he stared out across the water. ‘You would know these lands better than I. What I see is strange to me, but it is beautiful.’
‘Aye,’ said Maglor softly, and lowered his head, resting his chin on his knees.
‘Stand, Kinslayer!’ said Thranduil. ‘You have chosen. Do not meet your judgement nor your hope as a frightened fool. This is your land. Rise, Prince. Did they not once call you brave?’
Thranduil left him then, long strides taking him quickly to the prow of the ship as he called greetings to the birds and bid them bring his beloveds. No doubt they were waiting already. Waiting as Círdan’s people had been waiting. Waiting as, perhaps, some of those Maglor had once known were waiting.
Trembling heavily, Maglor took several fortifying breaths. I was not the brave one. He set his feet firmly on the floor, pushing his back against the side of the ship. I was not the leader. I was not the one to control the room. Not unless he had his harp and his music, not unless he had practiced, not unless he had known for certain that he would perform and he would be the best. Fëanor did not praise anything less. Maglor did not accept anything less. He was much less now.
All our folly zealously pursued and come to nothing! Maglor ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, growling a low sound in his throat at the ensuing sharp pains. Son of Fëanor! I have no pride, but I deserve no pity. With a few jerky movements, quick so he did not have time to talk himself out of it, Maglor rose to his feet. He turned around to where he’d had his back and took a shuddering breath.
Tol Eressëa rose before him, green and great and such a familiar ache for a beloved sight he thought never to see again. Beyond the Lonely Isle, he saw familiar shores, and imagined he could see the light from Tirion, hear the bright bells welcoming, welcoming him. They were not, of course, but Maglor cursed himself for smiling reflexively anyway.
The bright calls of the birds and the bright horns of the Falathrim echoed around him. It was a more joyous and light sound than Maglor had heard in many thousands of years.
His hands itched suddenly for his harp, and not the shoddy haphazard thing he’d managed to carry into the wild, nor even the dwarf-wrought golden one he’d had in Beleriand at a gift from Findarato, he wanted the Noldorin one of his youth, crafted in love and exacting skill by his father and adorned and made beautiful by his mother. The one he had played at their feasts and festivals. Which would set the room tittering in anticipation when it was set upon the dais, and then would silence it when he sat behind it. They would all stop and watch and listen, even Nerdanel, even Maedhros, even Fëanor. He could make them smile, with that. The light of Valinor spilled full across his face, and gifted Maglor a memory that felt like it belonged to another elf entirely.
Círdan was indeed driving them with haste towards the shore. He stood then, tall and grinning, at the wheel, eyes skipping from ship to ship that coasted around them and the many happy hails of his people. Maglor, standing now, could see when a few of them spotted him, errant dark head on this ship of the last lords of the Sindar. He stood stiffly as smiles dropped off of faces for looks of shock or amazement or, sometimes, dread or anger. But those happened less than he’d imagined, so he thought something of Círdan’s foolish heart must have infected his people.
The mountains of Tol Eressea drew nearer and Maglor could see the wide harbor distinctly now. It was crowded with the ships of Círdan’s folk and his heart stuttered up into his chest. This harbor was distinct in all manners save for the love of white and grey wood, but all that Maglor could see was Alqualondë. He stumbled as the ship lurched beneath him, but this at least was not in his head. Círdan swung their ship sharply to the right, and with a few signals, he sent the rest of his folk back to their harbor.
Maglor breathed a sigh of relief as they sailed past that crowded harbor, for it seemed Círdan had other plans upon which to finally make land.
Círdan sailed them a short way up the coast. Finally, he turned and guided them expertly into a small and quieter cove with a short stretch of beach upon which were gathered a handful of waiting figures.
‘Jump now,’ said Círdan from the helm, waving his arm forward. ‘If you jump later, you’re more likely to break your legs upon the landing!’
Maglor was puzzled for only a moment until he heard a loud splash somewhere behind him. The Noldo rushed to the edge of the boat, but heard only Celeborn’s exasperated cry, and saw the gold head of Thranduil bobbing in the water. The elvenking had, it seemed, leapt over the edge as soon as Círdan had spoken, his bright eyes fixed upon the shore. He tarried beside the ship only long enough to cast aside his heavy cloak and then set out with bold and assured strokes towards land.
Raising his eyes, Maglor saw a matching figure racing down the beach to the waves.
They were close to shore and Thranduil a deft swimmer. He made it quickly, stumbling and laughing in the waves. The elleth, slight, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and grinning wildly, ran to him fleet-footed as a deer. She flew down the sands and alighted in his arms, and took no notice at all of the dripping water.
He caught her with a happy shout, whirling her around once, twice, before finding that insufficient and dropping into the sands where they rolled. She landed on top and latched onto his front, squeezing him tightly as if she never had plans to let go.
Maglor watched a second golden figure approach them with light steps. This must then be Legolas, Thranduil’s son, of whom the king spoke often and fondly. He looks hale, Maglor thought unbidden, from where he watched the young Silvan’s lithe form. Thranduil had worried often during their long trip, for his son had left Middle-Earth long ago burdened with grief and uncertainty and hurt. Legolas’s smile now was blinding but he hesitated in his astonishment long enough for his parents to pick themselves up out of the sand. Thranduil’s eyes turned to him and he opened one side of his arms, his other holding his returned queen still close to him.
Legolas paused only briefly to study his father’s face, then laughed in amazement and launched himself into Thranduil’s embrace. The elvenking and elvenqueen pulled their son between the circle of their bodies and they stood thus for a long while. Maglor found that he was glad.
By this time, Círdan had brought their ship gently ashore, and was laying the gangplank with speed. As soon as he could be, Celeborn was upon it, walking with a dignified step that looked hurried only to the very observant. Maglor felt his blood freeze in his veins as he scanned the beach and found Artanis standing there, waiting, but at the moment she had eyes only for her husband, descending the ship towards her. Another fair haired elleth stood beside her, and Artanis guided her forward first.
More sedately, but no less lovingly than the wood elf sprites, Celebrian daughter of Celeborn came down the beach to her father, and they embraced. Artanis watched and laughed, sharing nothing more than a fond look with her husband, returned to her after many centuries apart. Behind her stood two matching dark-haired figures, one leaning his weight upon the other, each grinning from ear to ear. Artanis’ bright and exacting eyes watched her husband on the sand. She greeted him with a warm and familiar sense of certainty, as if he’d just been out for a walk and now returned. Celeborn returned her the same, and when he was done embracing his daughter, he walked to her side as if he’d never left it, and did not even need to take her hand.
Celebrian stood on Celeborn’s other side, a bright smile illuminating her face. On her other side stood Elrond.
He is tall. That was the first thought that came to Maglor. He is different. They had been yet young when Maglor abandoned them, and so it was only stories he had heard of the men that they grew to be. He looked older, worn, he had the heavy look about him of one who had lived long and survived much in the wide land of Ennor, but he also looked strong and tall and steady. And he smiled! Maglor thought he would never find the end of his amazement for that smile. He laid a hand on Celebrian’s shoulder. His posture was relaxed, open, confident. His eyes rose and found Maglor’s.
With a sharp gasp, Maglor turned away, a dreadful shame flooding his mouth and catching his breath. There was a tingling fire in his eyes and behind his nose, and he squeezed his hands tightly together, focusing instead on the pain he forced into his body.
But Círdan had yet to disembark and he grasped Maglor’s hands and towed him forward.
‘What did that wild king say to you? Stand fast, Prince!’ Círdan sighed at him and set his feet upon the gangplank. ‘You have chosen and you are here. It will not hurt as much as you imagine it.’
Ashamed, Maglor dashed the tears on his cheeks with the back of one hand. He pulled at the scraps of his dignity and fought the urge to flee. Círdan was right, of course, now that he was here he had lost any escape route left to him. He’d lost it the moment their ship had passed out of the seas of Ennor. That fact did not really stop Maglor from wanting to try and swim back anyway.
Elrond had come closer, Maglor could sense his presence on the beach. The others, Thranduil and Celeborn, long-awaited Lords of the Sindar, had gone a few paces up the beach. Círdan skirted past Maglor, finished with making fast the ship, and he went to join the waiting group of his people. Elrond was standing near the bottom of the gangplank. He had his hands folded serenely into long sleeves. Maglor did not know whether to laugh or to weep, for Elrond was wearing a very familiar red.
Maglor swallowed hard, forcing himself to step down the gangplank. He did not know how to feel. I am home! Sang his heart. I am beyond hope! He knew at the same time. My son, he cried, even as he wept for surely Elrond had found Elwing and Eärendil here, whom Maglor had hurt wretchedly, and the family of Turgon and of Celeborn and of Olwë. There were few here who had no claim to such a venerated and accomplished scion of many houses, and Maglor now least of all! He was joyful beyond words to see him whole anyway.
So, Maglor assumed he made a rather wretched figure as he reached the end of the gangplank. Elrond stood a matter of meters away, and had not moved yet since first coming closer to the ship. Maglor could feel Elrond’s eyes upon him, but he had yet to amass the courage to meet his gaze. Still, he pushed himself forward, and for the first time in almost ten thousand years, a Son of Fëanor touched again the outer lands of Blessed Aman.
His boots hit the sand and before he could even decide whether to take the next step or not, a bright light coalesced to the side, a light wind kicking up around the beach. His form took shape as if from the bright rays of the sunlight pulling together to solidify around a crystallized wind and air until standing before Elrond and Maglor was a tall figure of elf-shape, shining in mail with a bright helm set with many stars. He bore a long banner beside him, and a great sword was sheathed at his hip, though he did not draw it. Maglor had not seen him since they had slaughtered his servants and robbed his tent.
Immediately Maglor fell to his knees, and Elrond bowed low. Maglor battled a ravenous and rising hate and shame within him. You could have killed us then! You could have stopped it! He swallowed around a ragged breath. I could not stop him. I told him and I was right.
‘Kanafinwë Makalaurë, Son of Fëanor and Nerdanel, you have arrived at last,’ the figure said gravely.
‘My greetings to Lord Eönwë,’
Elrond’s voice was changed, but at its core it was the same gracious and deceptively soft tones of the boy Maglor loved. ‘Our Exalted Herald of Manwë Súlimo, Lord among the Maiar, is welcome. If it pleases him, he will also wait a moment. For I have words I would share with my father, long sundered from me, ere you take him whither he is meant to go.’
Maglor did not have the bravery to look up from his kneeling, nor the coherence to wonder at the self-assurance and power in Elrond. My father, my father, my father..! He bit his tongue on the words, until he tasted blood.
For a long moment, nothing moved, neither Elrond nor Eönwë. Maglor took several deep breaths, slowly rising to his feet, though he kept his head bowed. No more than a few steps away, the blindingly powerful presence of the Maia seemed only to wait patiently. He made no move towards Maglor, simply watched. Closer, only slightly, was Elrond the best and last good thing Maglor had ever had near to him. Again, his breath seemed to stall.
His son shouldn’t have had to, but Maglor was too cowardly and Elrond always too kind. He broke the silence first.
‘I…have thought a long time about what I would say to you,’ Elrond’s voice was soft but steady. ‘I must admit I never discovered the right words.’ He sighed. ‘Ah, my wife was right, as she always is. I should have written out something to say beforehand. Though, I was not really sure I would ever get the chance.’
‘Elrond, please—’ Maglor barely forced the aborted word out of his mouth. Elrond’s gaze was heavy on him, peering, searching. What must you see? Maglor wanted to run again, but he didn’t think he could make himself move at all, his terror was too great.
Elrond waited a long while for Maglor to continue, and then sighed a little when he didn’t. His shoulders rose and fell, and something heavy seemed to settle over him. ‘I have guessed that you are none too pleased to see me.’ A small, rueful smile lifted just the corners of his lips, though his manner was turning sad. ‘You have no need to think on those wayward lost boys you showed kindness to for a short time in your wanderings. Do not fear, I shall not force myself upon you where you do not wish it. I suppose I wished only to say that I am…glad you are alive, and I am glad you are here.’
At that, Maglor looked up despite himself and finally met Elrond’s eyes. That deep and clear, moon-velvet grey, dearer to his heart for many a long year than any other. Kind and sad and falling away…Please! Do not go! He wept even as a smaller part of him urged Elrond to flee from him. Surely it would be better for him then? But why then, did Elrond look so sad?
Elrond was peering at him closely now, his brows furrowing in the middle in the way that said he was thinking, deeply. How often had Maglor seen that expression on Elrond’s face? ‘Atar, I…’
Maglor jolted as if struck, and in truth the word struck him deeply. He loved you, those Sindar princes had told him. He claimed you. He searched for you. Why? Maglor shook his head strongly, trying to ward against the terrible truth. Because if Elrond had loved him all this time, had taken the Doom of his house, had somehow, in his endless kindness, seen a quiet and shameful truth at the heart of him…? If that was true, then Maglor had done him greater disservice than even he had thought, in all his long years of bitter wandering.
He chanced a glance at Elrond’s face which smoothed quickly, faster than even Maedhros might have managed. In those familiar, dear eyes he did not miss the flash of hurt. Maglor was hurting him. Had hurt him.
Panicked and sick with shame, Maglor whirled towards Eönwë. ‘Please!’ he beseeched the herald of Manwë. Take him, judge him, banish him so Elrond may heal! So he may no longer be a weight upon the souls of all whom his love had brought to grief. But Eönwë did not move, and his face was as if graven from stone.
‘Don’t!’ said Elrond quickly. Maglor froze at the feeling of the hand upon his arm. Elrond drew his hand back swiftly, but did not retreat further than that. ‘Do not turn away from me now, unless you mean it.’ His voice had finally lost its calm manner. Fear. Hurt. Uncertainty. That oh so familiar undercurrent of pure steel.
‘I will hurt you!’ Maglor said in a whispered cry.
‘Look at me,’ said Elrond. ‘You hurt me now. Maglor, I know who you are and what you’ve done. I always have. There is a great deal still to talk about, and there are many whom you have wronged, but know this: if you choose to flee again it is not for our benefit but your own. You may not want it, and if that is true I will respect it and you, but...Atar, you do not get to decide whether I love you or not. All this time, have you thought that you did?’
Maglor was weeping, now, tears making his vision blurry and as incoherent and ragged as his thoughts. Please, I…He shuddered. Hiding. Well had Círdan put it. Justly had Thranduil chastised him. Maglor had been hiding for thousands of years, running and hiding and fleeing from what would hurt. From what would be hard. And he’d convinced himself, all that time…
‘My son,’ Maglor breathed, turning back to face Elrond. He dropped his eyes, unable even now to meet his gaze. Thus he did not see how Elrond stilled and rocked back on his heels at the words. ‘I am sorry…Insufficient that is—grossly, I…’ Maglor was once known as a beautiful wordsmith. He felt none of it now. ‘You are—and Elros… Elrond! You are a wonder! And I did not deserve you—’
Maglor could only gasp as Elrond grabbed him firmly by the wrist and pulled him into an embrace. He was stunned with disbelief for a moment. Elrond squeezed him a little tighter, a little desperately. With a shuddering breath, Maglor wrapped his arms around his son and held him close. He felt Elrond waver and collapse in his embrace, the tension in his body finally resolving.
‘Y-you, you utter fool!’ Elrond mumbled into Maglor’s hair, and held him tight. Elrond was here, Elrond was in his arms, Elrond loved him, oh my poor boy! Maglor felt another wave of shameful self-hatred wash over him, but he hugged Elrond tighter and refused to fall. It hurt. Valar, it hurt. But this was finally the good kind of hurt that meant something to someone other than himself.
‘D-do you believe that I have heard that many times in the past few months?’
Elrond gave a short bark of relieved laughter as Maglor caught his weight. Maglor both exulted and wallowed in the feeling of Elrond near to him, by this time weeping against his shoulder. But Elrond composed himself quickly, and all too soon relinquished his grip. He stepped back, gazing long at Maglor’s face.
‘I am glad you are here. I shall have to thank Lord Círdan for bringing you at last. I cannot imagine you made it easy for him.’
‘He did not,’ said Eönwë, finally stirring from his place. He inclined his head towards them, then raised the long banner he held emblazoned with the sign of Manwë. ‘But now you are here, Kanafinwë. You will come with me to the audience of the Lords of Aman, for there is judgement to be passed upon you and your long deeds.’
Maglor swallowed hard around the jolt of fear that claimed his heart. His body felt suddenly weightless, flush with adrenaline and nowhere to go. He nodded, turning towards Eönwë, but was loath to walk away from Elrond, despite all that he’d wanted to run moments earlier.
‘May I accompany him?’
Maglor made a choked sound at Elrond’s swift interjection. He protested incoherently when Eönwë said only, ‘If you wish, Eärendilion.’
‘You cannot—!’ Maglor gasped. Elrond raised his chin and soundly ignored Maglor.
‘Lady Galadriel, Lord Celeborn, and Lord Círdan will be along, as well,’ he said, casting only a cursory glance behind him as he declared it. ‘And—’ he turned then, raising his voice in what was just barely not a “shout” in front of the Herald of Manwë. ‘Thranduil! What would you say?’
The elvenking responded with an incredulous sort of noise that made Legolas beside him jump. But Thranduil tossed his head and yelled unapologetically down the beach at them. ‘I will waste no more time on you foolish Noldor! But they should let him go. His penance is found walking the world and talking like an adult, not languishing in some hole of Namo’s! For his part in the Ruin of Doriath the House of Oropher holds him freed, in face of his previous valor against Morgoth, his regret of his evil deeds, and the utter foolishness of persisting with the strife of the Silmarils into this hard-won, peaceful Age. There! I have spoken; do not seek for me in the courts of the Noldor!’
Elrond smiled serenely, inclining his head, whilst Legolas stared at his father with an amazed grin.
Eönwë was watching it all with a placid sort of bemusement. ‘So heard is the last Elvenking,’ the herald said gravely. ‘His words shall be repeated for the Valar.’
‘If the time may be spared, I may seek for Lord Finrod, Lady Aredhel, and Lady Nerdanel. They would have come already, but he did not actually inform anyone he would be here,’ Elrond put in. Maglor was protesting again, but Elrond silenced him with a disapproving look. When had he gotten so good at that? ‘And Lords Finarfin and Fingolfin may design something to say as well.’
‘What are you doing?’ Maglor’s voice was strained. Elrond spared him a look then.
‘If you think I shall be content with this brief meeting, only to have you leave me again to some Doom or Darkness, you are greatly mistaken, Atar.’ Elrond’s grey eyes were peaceful and pure steel. ‘There must be some reckoning, yet I will fight for you. Will you do the same?’
Maglor looked into Elrond’s face. While Maglor had destroyed himself, Elrond and Elros had created. In misery and shame Maglor had made himself bitter and wretched and lonely, while the same convinced Elrond to heal the hurts of the world. He did not deserve this. Elrond knew this, and that was a comfort to Maglor’s heart. Still, Elrond did not offer him what he deserved.
Maglor looked up, casting his eyes around the white beach of Tol Eressëa. The air of the Blessed Realm was bright and life-giving in a way he had almost forgotten.
Thranduil and his wife and son were already disappearing into the trees, which whipped up in a rustling frenzy at the wild and fierce joy of the woodland king. Thranduil: honest in his hate and his estimation both. Maglor found, quite to his chagrin, a deep well of gratitude for the abrasive and wild Sindarin king. Legolas had turned as they swept into the trees, young eyes bright and curious. He raised a hand to his breast and bowed at Maglor and Elrond, then turned to fly after his parents.
Círdan was watching Maglor with a kind, but almost challenging gaze flanked by a few of his people from the Havens. Anxious, Maglor scanned these faces, too, but while he found some discomfort and wariness, they each nodded to him in greeting and made no moves to gainsay anything Elrond did. Círdan sent Maglor a sharp grin. See? What are you going to do? Cirdan bowed and turned to walk down the shore.
Celeborn stood distant beside his wife, his daughter, and his grandsons. The Doriathrin prince gazed long at Maglor, then grasped the hand of the twin closest to him and shook his head wearily. Then he offered Maglor a polite and not unkind smile and turned his eyes meaningfully towards Elrond.
Maglor met Elrond’s fierce gaze. Hurt, yes. Anger, yes. Love, yes. Maglor gasped under the weight of it. ‘I…I believe that I have done enough running,’ Maglor said slowly.
Elrond sighed, an only slightly hysterical laugh making its way out of him. ‘Good!’