Chapter Text
He didn’t know where to go when they pushed him out of the halls. All he could get from the Maia escorting him was that his mother hadn’t been reembodied yet. “Where am I supposed to go?” he demanded.
But the Maia hadn’t replied, disappearing back into nothingness.
Maeglin slumped to the ground, clutching the bag and map he’d been given, and cursed at them bitterly, hoping they might show back up to smite him. But they didn’t and he remained alone.
The elves of Valinor didn’t exactly have a concept of homelessness. There were plenty of elves who merely wished to wander, living by themselves, and it was just expected that strangers would offer them kindness. So Maeglin kept to himself, hiding in the woods, only emerging when he needed supplies.
Everything was given to him freely, and he was always invited to return home with them, but he would shake his head, speaking as little as possible to hide his strange accent, and slip back into the woods.
When winter came, he moved closer to the city, finding an old stone bridge to hide under, wrapping himself in blankets that had been given to him.
The voices woke him. “I want to see how it’s made,” someone said, and footsteps came closer to his hiding place.
“Your aunt doesn’t have room in her garden for a bridge, you know,” said a second, musical voice, seeming amused. There was something almost familiar about the voices, but all Maeglin could do was hold as still as possible and pray he wasn’t found out.
“I’ll only be a moment and I’ll catch up with you,” promised the first. Above them, Maeglin heard a horse trot off. He scowled and pushed himself further under the bridge. But unfortunately, the sound of footsteps came closer, following the path Maeglin had made down to the dry patch below the bridge.
Turgon.
Maeglin recognized him only a moment before Turgon saw his nephew, and for a very long time neither of them moved, staring in horror at one another.
There was only one easy way out from under the bridge and Turgon was blocking it. The other exit would require swimming, and it was cold enough that Maeglin didn’t relish the idea, but he had to get away from his uncle.
He made a desperate break for it, darting toward the river, but a strong hand wrapped around his arm, catching him. He went perfectly still and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for Turgon to do something. Strike him, throw him in the river, scream, anything.
But all his uncle asked was, “Where’s my sister?”
“The halls,” Maeglin whispered back.
Turgon let out a breath, then asked, “Why did they release you?”
“I suppose they hate me.”
“Namo isn’t cruel.”
Maeglin clenched his jaw, refusing to say anything more.
“That was Ecthelion, you know,” Turgon said after a moment. “He died in the Square of the King.”
“I know.” They’d made him watch all their deaths, over and over again until he’d wept for those he had betrayed.
“I died in my tower.” Turgon’s grip on him still didn’t loosen, and Maeglin resisted the urge to rub at it as his arm began to go numb from lack of circulation.
“And I died beside the bones of my father, whom you killed.”
“I won’t apologize for it.”
“And I won’t apologize for being born.”
They lapsed back into silence. Then, after a long time, Turgon asked, “Do you live here?”
“Not anymore.” Not if Turgon knew where he lived. He’d have to find somewhere else to hide.
“How long have you been out of the halls?”
“Since spring.”
Turgon’s grip loosened and Maeglin took his chance. Leaving behind the belongings he’d accumulated, he leaped into the water and swam away. Behind him, he heard Turgon shouting for him, but he didn’t stop running.
He didn’t go far, since he always stayed as close to the road as he could, and hid behind a rock, shivering in the cold.
But Turgon was back the next day, and he had a group with him. As soon as he heard them coming, Maeglin darted up a tree, nestling himself in the branches to watch as they rode up. He more of them than he wanted to admit.
On one side of Turgon was Fingon, and an elf who could only be their brother Argon was on his other side. Behind them, was Ecthelion and Glorfindel, as well as two strangers and one elf that looked vaguely familiar.
“You’re certain of what you saw?” the woman behind Turgon asked. It wasn’t Idril, though, and she looked more Sinda than Noldo.
“I saw my nephew,” Turgon replied.
“If he jumped into the water, he may have returned to the bridge for more clothes.” There was a man beside the woman and his face was twisted slightly with concern. “Its cold, even for an elf wet clothes would be uncomfortable.”
“And are you going to do if we do find him, cousin?” asked the elf Maeglin vaguely recognized. If he was a cousin, that explained a bit of why Maeglin knew him.
“I haven’t decided,” Turgon replied, “although your mother’s idea was tempting.”
The unnamed cousin snorted. “He’s a full-grown elf and a powerful smith at that, I’d enjoy watching you try to turn him over your knee like a child.”
“He practically is a child,” Fingon interrupted. “Which is why we need to find him.”
They rode up and down the road, calling out for Maeglin as though thinking he was just going to come out to greet them.
He scowled. If Turgon thought he was going to crawl to him and let his uncle spank him he was a bigger fool than Maeglin remembered.
It was the unnamed cousin that spotted him. A branch had snapped under Maeglin’s weight and he had turned sharply, silver eyes darting up to him.
“Lomion?” he called, riding closer. “Why don’t you come down and talk.”
“No.”
“I’ve been homeless, you know,” he said, offering a soft smile. “I can promise you that a bed is much more comfortable than the ground.”
“You’ll have to drag me out.”
“I’d get Arakano, if that was my plan.” He slipped from his horse, walking closer to Maeglin’s tree. “Come and take my cloak, at least.”
“So you can grab me?”
“I don’t recall you being quite this paranoid at Nirnaeth Arnoediad.” He unclasped his cloak, tossing it into the woods. “But I suppose Angband does that to a person.” He stepped back, looking up at Maeglin. “My mother has a house in Tirion. I live there with her and you’re welcome to join us.”
“I don’t belong in Tirion.”
“Arguably neither do I and yet they tolerate me.” His cousin swung himself onto his horse. “Once you’re in the city, head toward the palace until you find a gate with a seven-pointed star. If there’s a long cobblestone path with six statues on the lawn, you’re in the right place.”
With that his cousin rode away, gathering up the other searchers and not saying a word about having seen Maeglin.
Once they were gone, Maeglin jumped from his tree, picking up the cloak. The cloak pin was made of metal and forged in the shape of a harp and it confirmed his suspicions.
Maglor Feanorian had returned to Valinor.