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He’s more than half faded, going transparent—his body consumed by his fëa, his fëa consuming itself; the granite rocks lie strong behind him. White waves break.
He’s more than half mad. But then, it has been centuries—centuries of a grief that will not fade, so it consumes everything around it.
Eärendil’s foot touches the ground.
O that this was an age ago.
‘Maglor,’ Eärendil says. ‘Makalaurë Kanafinwë.’ He hovers in the air, only one foot brushing the ground, barely touching it, like a child on a swing, pushing off lightly, twisting in the air. The wind is strong, and the clouded, grey sky casts no shadows.
Maglor raises his eyes.
‘Eönwë,’ he says and then stops himself. ‘But no.’
‘Eärendil.’
Maglor stares with eyes that are sea grey and sea blue, dark and fathomable.
‘But you are one of them,’ he says.
Eärendil’s wings are wet with sea spray. The wind presses him up into the air, and he is once more touching nothing.
‘Maglor,’ he says. ‘I have come to take you home.’
‘I cannot go.’
Maglor looks to the sea, where the waves beat the land. Where he has fallen six hundred times and not yet drowned.
Eärendil holds out his hand to him.
‘Maglor, I must take you home.’
Maglor stares up again, eyes dark and wild. There are scars of fire and whips not entirely faded on his face and body. He draws back.
O that this were two ages ago.
‘I cannot go,’ he whispers. His voice is also half gone. ‘The Blessed Realm would burn me.’
‘Not now,’ Eärendil says. ‘It has been so long. You cannot stay here. It has been too long; you will fade.’
And Eärendil reaches to touch Maglor’s shoulder. Maglor shrinks away against the ragged stones.
‘I will not burn you,’ Eärendil says, though there is a Silmaril hallowed bound to his brow and wings immortal bound to his back. ‘I am not that holy.’
The sea coils itself to strike the land. The wind beats the pine trees. About them the world screams.
Eärendil drops to the earth. He does not die. But pain shoots through his body, and white lightning sparks for a moment where his feet touch the granite cliffs, but leaves no mark.
‘I will not hurt you.’
The clouds are curled tightly together, but the wind tears them apart. Behind them the sky is dark with dim stars. The pines beat together. A tree cracks and falls. It tips towards the sea. The sea will soon take it.
Eärendil takes a step towards Maglor. Lightning springs again about his feet, but he pushes aside the pain and stops near to Maglor, who is pressed back against the rain-damp stones.
‘It will not hurt,’ Eärendil promises. He lays his hand on Maglor’s shoulder, and it does not burn him. ‘I’ve come to take you home. Do you understand? It’s been too long.’
The nameless stars watch them. And how the world burns him. He should not be here. But that is only one doom.
The Silmaril casts a long shadow behind Maglor. It seems the only light.
Eärendil presses back the pain that is sharp in his body. It is less than dragon’s fire. He cradles Maglor’s cheek.
‘See, it does not hurt,’ he soothes.
Maglor’s eyes are wide and trembling.
‘I cannot go,’ he says, he pleads. ‘I cannot.’
‘Are you so faithless?’ Eärendil grips his shoulder. ‘I have come for you. We must go. I cannot leave you here.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Maglor says, and stops. They are both silent.
‘What,’ Eärendil says, finally, ‘could I possibly not understand? It has been six and a half thousand years. Do you know what that’s done to me?’
Maglor reaches up with shaking fingers and touches Eärendil’s face. Light like a white fire shines out from his face where Eärendil can half see through him.
‘But you are real,’ Maglor whispers.
‘Yes,’ Eärendil promises. ‘I am Eärendil son of Idril, daughter of Turgon, your cousin.’ Eärendil takes Maglor’s hand. ‘I am your kinsman, and I have come to take you home.’
Maglor looks again to the sea as it rages beneath the roaming sky. There is blood beneath his fingernails.
He says, ‘Why have you come for me?’
‘Because I cannot just leave you.’
‘Yes, you can. It would be so easy.’
‘Not for me.’
‘Why?’ Maglor asks.
The earth burns Eärendil’s feet where they touch it, burns his knee that is bent. But Maglor holds his arm and his hand, and his skin is warm.
‘Because Elrond loves you, and Elros loved you,’ Eärendil answers. ‘And you loved my children, and I believe you still do. And that is enough. Do not think I want you to suffer.’
‘It is what I deserve,’ Maglor whispers. ‘I deserve worse than this.’
‘I don’t care what you deserve, or think you deserve,’ Eärendil says. ‘I am not some God of Justice dealing out doom and damnation. I’m just a man. That’s all I am and all I ever will be. Come home.’
The clouds close over the night sky. The Silmaril is the only light on the granite cliffs beside the charging sea. Eärendil kneels on the unhallowed ground of Middle-earth and holds the hand of Maglor Fëanorian, kinslayer and kinstealer, foster father to his captured children.
‘Please come home,’ he whispers, gently. ‘Please.’