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“Ulmo, lord of waters, I gave you my father’s heart. If that has bought me any mercy, spare me my heart now. Uinen, I beg you, grant these waters peace, for the sake of those who have done you no wrong. Osse - please. Please just let me reach the shore, and then I will throw myself through your waters to the Everlasting Darkness if that is your wish, but please - Manwe, lord of winds, on I alone is your Doom left, do not touch these, I pray - Ulmo, for the love that you once bore my kin, please - “
The songs of appeasement from the first days of the voyage were long spent. By now even Maglor’s voice could not bear the strain, and his thoughts, so long left to wander, scattered with every crash of thunder. It was all he could do to keep their small boat afloat.
If either of his passengers had been at all capable of managing the boat themselves, he would have thrown himself into the sea as soon as the storm arose and prayed it would be enough to placate the Valar. As it was, he and the Valar’s mercy was the only thing between them and arriving at Aman not at the beaches, but at Mandos’s Halls.
One of them cried out in the grip of some nightmare or waking dream as the waves tossed the boat dangerously.
“Steady,” Maglor sang to boat and passengers both and wished desperately that he could spare better comfort.
He had felt the Shadow each time it had arisen anew. He had felt it in the air. He had felt it in the music of the world.
More prosaically, he had seen it in the increased number of orcs he had to fight to keep them off his stretch of the shore.
He had also felt it when Sauron passed. He had hoped - foolishly, he later admitted to himself - that his death would mean the end of it. That the long war was finally, truly over.
But now a pale Shadow was creeping in again.
It was not as strong. There were fewer orcs, now. Fewer monsters. And whatever the leader of this new evil might be, he was no Sauron, and certainly no Morgoth.
Of course, the armies left to face them were hardly the glorious hosts of the First Age either. The dwarves were hard pressed, and there were so few elves left to raise a sword, and none were as strong as they once were. The Men, at least, were numerous enough to fight, but the tide turned slowly, and while the war ground on, evil ran freely in the land.
Maglor made his camp in the ruins of his cousin’s fair city by the grave of his foster-son’s daughter and fought for his small corner of it.
He had watched unseen as Elrond sailed away, beyond where he dared follow. It was fitting, he knew, and he’d had no intention of inflicting his company on Elrond regardless of where he was, but -
But still. He had not been able to bear the sight of the sea after that.
Another voice joined his frantic chant. The boat began to slide more easily through the mountainous waves.
Elrohir’s eyes were closed, head not even strong enough to be lifted from the side of the boat, but his voice rang out all the same.
Ulmo had favored Turgon’s line once. Maglor prayed he still did.
The Galadhrim had long abandoned the woods, so the handful of woodland elves fleeing through the trees was not expected.
They were half-faded, eyes dull, lacking almost all of the Firstborn’s power. Their enemies chased them fearlessly, sure of victory.
Feanor’s son thought of the easiest skirmish of the First Age and rose, bitterly amused, to fight.
When it was over, they asked him to travel with them in a language he only half recognized.
They had problems enough. He would not burden them with his Doom.
Instead, he followed their directions to this new Enemy’s main camp. It was a direction to go in, at least, and that was more than he’d had in a very long time.
All he had to do, they’d told him, was follow the light of the brightest star.
Maglor had looked up at that cursed light and laughed until they thought him mad.
Knew him to be mad. One of the two.
It was a sign, perhaps.
Perhaps this could finally be the end of it.
As Elrohir’s voice faded, Elladan’s picked up. Neither of them was strong enough to keep the song up for long, not in their current condition, but it helped. It was enough.
It had to be enough.
The camp was big, he supposed. It certainly had more people in it than he had seen together in a long time.
Still. He couldn’t help but fail to be overly impressed. He supposed after one had faced dragons and Balrogs and seen Morgoth himself, it was hard to be impressed by much of anyone you had to fight.
It was easy enough to remain unseen. He had, after all, thousands of years of practice.
He slipped around the edges of the camp looking for - something. Anything. Another sign. A goal. Something worthy to charge at.
In the end, it was his ears that guided him, not his eyes.
He followed the sound of screams.
He thought, for a moment, when he saw the source, that he truly had gone mad. Mad past all functioning.
Because Elrond was safe, he was safe, and wherever Elros was, it certainly wasn’t here, and yet -
His eyes were playing tricks on him, he decided firmly. It was simply hard to see past all the blood. These were just two elves, two unknown elves who happened to have more power than any of the other scattered remnants he’d come across and yet who had been overwhelmed by treachery or too great a force. That was all.
Earendil’s star burned directly overhead. He had his target, at least.
Although with this as his target, a change of plans might be in order. No glorious last charge for him; skulking in the dark like one of the Enemy’s servants it was.
Fitting, probably.
Blinding rain lashed the deck. To Maglor, it was nearly nothing. To his wounded, half-elven passengers, though, he feared it could bring far worse. The storm had to end.
He looked over the side at the churning water.
For the first time in days, he ceased his desperate song. “Do you think you could sail this?” he shouted over the storm to whichever twin was currently trying to stay alert.
“No,” both said instantly, and though he thought they had started to recover, perhaps even enough to sail this alone if the storm ceased, they sounded too much like another set of twins in that instant for him to turn away from the desperation in their eyes.
“Patience,” he begged Osse when he thought the thunder was too loud for even an elf to overhear. “Just have enough patience for them to be spared, and I will surrender to whatever justice is demanded.”
Through the storm, he thought he saw a star.
There was a battle going on nearby that he was pretty sure their side was winning. He used the term “their side” loosely, of course. The orcs were dying, and that was the important part.
He paid only enough attention to keep them ahead of it. He soothed the horses he stole into running as smoothly as possible when he had to and kept his charges safely hidden in caves when he could.
They were delirious with pain and fever, and he was painfully reminded of Maedhros when they’d first recovered him and of Celebrimbor’s last pain filled moments when his mind had reached for anyone at all.
He sang songs of healing and comfort and cursed his broken mind for making them look so much like his twins, even with the blood washed away.
When one finally woke enough to notice him and ask his name, he was so startled he gave it.
He expected panic, or, if he was very lucky and the elf was poorly educated, confusion.
He did not expect the quietly delighted, “Grandfather!” before the half-elf he later learned was Elrohir was reclaimed by the fever.
The storm ended gradually. He wasn’t sure if his pleas had finally placated the Valar or if the storm had begun to interfere with other, more favored ships, or if, perhaps, his hubris had arisen and the storm had never had anything to do with them at all.
Regardless, the shore shone bright before them, not far at all now, and in these clear waters, he had no doubts they would make it.
For once, all had not turned to evil. And Elrond would be happy.
But for each deed done well, there must be a price in tragedy, and he had offered, after all.
The water was calm, but it was still deep. He remembered when it had been red.
There was a Silmaril somewhere in those depths. This was almost like fulfilling his Oath, wasn’t it? Perhaps his father wouldn’t be too angry.
“Almost there,” he said quietly and took one last look at Elrond’s sons. “Your father will be pleased to see you.” He took a half-step towards the side of the boat.
The twins sang out in sudden, perfect unison, with all the power they had managed to hoard. There was more of it in them than he had realized.
Maglor swayed to the deck, overtaken by exhaustion, a suggestion that the song had not so much needed to implant as to give a light nudge.
Elladan was the closer, and he caught the falling elf and lowered him to the deck. “He’ll be pleased to see all of us,” he said firmly.
There was a problem with that argument, Maglor was sure, but he supposed it would have to wait.