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The Door of Night shook again and again as Morgoth threw himself against it.
Eärendil was exhausted, but he desperately tried to keep it shut, blocking it with the hull of his ship, while trying to close the lock again.
With shaking hands he pulled on the rusted metal bars. Just a little further… He leaned over the railing and pulled harder, and finally, with the last of his strength, the lock clicked back into place as the door was violently shaken one last time, making Eärendil lose his grip…
and fall.
Maglor ran over the beach, his harp clasped tightly in one hand, his sword in the other.
Gil-Estel had fallen.
The Silmaril- Eärendil.
To his surprise he found that he was more concerned about the Mariner than the jewel.
In the darkness, the light of the Silmaril was visible for miles. Maglor followed its glow along the shore until the sun was nearly across the horizon.
He found Eärendil not far from the mouth of the Gwathló. The Mariner lay on the sand unmoving, pale in the burning light on his brow.
How easy it would be, to take the Silmaril and leave. Almost on their own accord, his hands reached out to grasp the circlet.
Fingers nearly but not quite touching the gem, he stilled. The scars on his palm ached - the burn marks had never truly healed.
Eärendil gasped suddenly, struggling for air. Maglor flinched. He moved without thinking, supporting Eärendil’s torso and helping him cough out the water in his lungs as he had done for countless sailors washed up on the shore over the ages.
Slowly the Mariner's breathing evened out. His eyes flickered open.
"Who…?" he whispered weakly.
"A friend," Maglor replied, voice deliberately gentle. "Fear not, Eärendil. You are safe."
Eärendil's eyes fluttered shut again.
The Oath still pulled at his mind, but Maglor struggled against it. Eärendil was weak and likely injured, and to Maglor’s knowledge, really not supposed to be in Middle-Earth. If he stayed on this cold, exposed beach, he would die.
“What do you care for the Mariner?” the Oath whispered. “Take the gem and run, for the Powers will surely come to find him soon.”
“No…” Maglor muttered, fighting against the hold the Oath had on his mind. “Elrond- Elrond will be sad if he dies. I must not make Elrond sad.”
He wrapped Eärendil in his tattered cloak and lifted him carefully into his arms. The dark fabric dimmed the light of the Silmaril, allowing him to think somewhat clearly.
Where to go? Away from the shore, first. He’d follow the river inland until he found a safe enough place to hide for a while, tend to Eärendil and make further plans.
After a few days, it became obvious that Eärendil’s health was not improving. He seemed to grow weaker with every day. Maglor did what he could, but it was not enough. Eärendil would die, unless…
He softly tapped Eärendil’s shoulder. Blue eyes blinked up at him, dazed and unfocused but conscious. “Eärendil,” he said, “you need a healer. Do you know the location of Elrond’s hidden valley?”
“Elrond…” Eärendil whispered. “Do you know him? I -” His voice broke. “I abandoned him and Elros. They were both so little, and I… I never even got to tell him I was sorry. I never got to tell him I love him.”
Tears ran down his face. Maglor, too, was crying. “I will bring you to him.” He did not want to hurt Elrond with his presence, but he had no choice. “I will bring you to Elrond, but you need to tell me where - I do not know the way -”
Eärendil’s gaze became clearer, a hint of mistrust in his eyes. “How do I know if I should trust you, kind stranger?”
“You should not.” Maglor’s voice was quiet and wracked with guilt. “But I swear to you, Eärendil, that I will never harm Elrond.” He shuddered as the vow settled in his mind, gentler than his father’s Oath but no less powerful.
The journey to Imladris took them nearly a month, for Eärendil was too weak to walk and had to be carried. They followed the Gwathló upstream, moving cautiously to avoid wandering orc-packs, until it met the Bruinen.
Maglor kept the Silmaril carefully wrapped in dark fabric and tried not to think about it, but the Oath did not rest, enraged at the jewel’s proximity. It tore at his mind until he felt like his ragged fëa would rip apart. He fought it with what little strength he had left, desperate to keep it at bay for just a little longer - they had resisted for over two decades with the Silmaril at the Havens, surely he could hold out a few days more.
Eärendil was unconscious most of the time, waking just long enough to eat the fish Maglor caught and cooked - skills well-honed in his long wandering - and drink some water.
The Mariner grew ever weaker. Maglor went as fast as he dared, but still he feared he would be too late.
At last they reached the Bruinen. From there it was not much further to the foothills of the Misty Mountains where the East Road met the river.
Eärendil had told him to follow the road eastward, but not how far. Maglor would have liked to ask, but Eärendil was delirious and feverish. A few times he had cried out for his parents, and it broke Maglor’s heart to hear. Though Idril and Túor, unlike Fëanor, were, as far as he knew, alive, Eärendil was sundered from them until Arda’s end as surely as Maglor was from his family.
Maglor did his best to ease Eärendil’s pain, held him close and sang his father’s lullabies in slightly lisping Quenya. It seemed to help, a little, but Maglor was too exhausted to put any real power behind the Singing, the Oath draining more of his strength with every day.
And to make matters worse, despite his caution, on the third day after reaching the road, they were attacked. The orc pack was small and Maglor disposed of them quickly, but not before sustaining a deep cut to his shoulder. The wound burned long after he had cleaned and bandaged it as best as he could. He vaguely registered that it was likely poisoned, but spared it no further thought. They could not afford to stop, and anyway there was nothing he could do about it. As long as he could walk it did not matter.
Maglor lifted Eärendil into his arms again and went on, even as the weight turned the pain in his shoulder to agony. He ignored it as best as he could, alternately singing and cursing under his breath to distract himself.
Finally the valley came into view. It was beautiful, Maglor thought through the pain clouding his mind. Elegant buildings with tall, delicate arches and columns, large windows, blooming courtyards… Oh, he was so, so proud of Elrond.
At the gate his legs finally gave out and he fell to his knees, still clutching Eärendil close, as a group of guards ran up to him, led by a vaguely familiar blond Elf who stopped abruptly when he saw them.
“What in Arda-”
“Please,” Maglor gasped, holding out the unconscious Elf in his arms. “Please, he’s injured, he needs help, please…”
Glorfindel - the guard’s name was Glorfindel, he remembered - looked stunned. “Eärendil? Maglor, what happened? Did you-?”
Maglor could barely make sense of the words, his shoulder aflame and the Oath raging in his mind. He had not taken the Silmaril - that was important, he must not take the Silmaril, he knew that, though he couldn’t quite remember why - Elrond, all that mattered was Elrond, why were they not taking Eärendil to him? Glorfindel had asked him something -
“I found him. The jewel - the jewel is in his pack - he needs Elrond, please-”
The guards were exchanging confused glances. Glorfindel let go of his sword and motioned for two other Elves to take Eärendil.
“Maglor Fëanorion, I cannot bring myself to thank you, but for what you have done, both for him and for Elrond, I will not have you arrested. Nonetheless you cannot enter the valley. We will bring him to Elrond. You must leave.”
Good. That was good. Eärendil would be healed - Elrond would have his father back - and Maglor would be gone. They would be safe from him. Distantly he wondered if he could even walk, but he would simply have to, somehow. He needed not go far - just far enough to find a quiet place where he could die in peace.
The guards attempted to lift Eärendil, but the Mariner, barely conscious, clung to Maglor with all his strength, whimpering. “No, no, please, don’t leave me-”
Maglor ran a gentle hand through his hair and cooed, “Hush, Eärendil. You are safe. They will bring you to Elrond.”
“No, please, come with me, don’t leave, please, you cannot leave-” Eärendil looked at the guards pleadingly. “Please, he cannot leave, don’t make him leave-”
Maglor did not know how much longer he could stay awake. He was so tired, and his shoulder hurt so much, and he just wanted to sleep.
Glorfindel knelt and gently pried Eärendil’s hands off Maglor. “I am sorry, Lord Eärendil, but he cannot enter the valley.”
Maglor inclined his head and made to stand.
Eärendil clutched at Glorfindel’s hand. “No - it’s alright - he swore-” his voice grew weaker, barely a whisper. “He swore he would not - hurt Elrond - please-” His eyes fluttered shut again as he fell silent.
Glorfindel stared at Maglor in disbelief as the other guards carried Eärendil toward the house.
“You did what? You, who should know better than anyone the dangers of Oaths, swore another? Makalaurë-”
The old, familiar name made his heart ache. How long had it been since he had last been called that?
He managed a wry smile. “He would not tell me where the valley is otherwise - I needed to get him here - and I meant it, Laurefindil, I meant it more than I ever meant my father’s Oath - I will never, never harm Elrond-”
The pain was overwhelming now, he could not talk, could not think, and he clutched at his shoulder, his hand coming away wet with blood.
Glorfindel’s face was suddenly very close. “Are you well, Makalaurë? You’re injured too, aren’t you?”
“Poison, I think,” Maglor muttered. “Orc blade. Would you mind terribly if I just died here? I don’t think I can get up.”
Something wet dripped on him- a tear. Maglor was confused. Why was Glorfindel crying? Everything was well - Elrond was safe - Elrond was safe, and that was all that mattered -
Dimly he noticed that Glorfindel was picking him up, then everything went black.
Maglor had not expected to wake. He had brought Eärendil safely to Elrond, his task at an end. He had thought it was to be his end as well. It seemed he had been wrong.
Slowly he opened his eyes and looked around. He was in a small room that contained only his bed, a chair and a small nightstand, on which was his harp and sword.
He tried to sit and groaned as the pain in his shoulder flared up.
The door opened and Elrond entered the room. Maglor drank in the sight greedily. Elrond looked well - tired, but well, in simple healer's clothes, hair tied back in the high ponytail Maedhros had often worn.
"Atya," he breathed, sounding far too happy to see his former kidnapper. "You're awake."
Three days later, Maglor stood at the gate again. His shoulder was bandaged, the pain almost gone, and he wore a new cloak.
“Must you truly go, Atya?”
Maglor’s heart clenched at the sadness in Elrond’s voice, and almost he was tempted to give in and stay, but he steeled himself. He brought doom wherever he went. He would not bring it over Elrond. And then there was Eärendil, still unconscious and healing but slowly. Maglor refused to endanger him, and he feared that if he stayed in the presence of the Silmaril any longer he would lose the ever-lasting battle with the Oath.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I am sorry, Elrond. For everything.”
He forced himself not to look back as he stepped through the gate and left the valley behind.
For a week or so Maglor followed the Bruinen, intending to make his way back to the sea - there was no particular reason for his destination, but the shore was as good a place to wander as any, and he had grown used to it. How fitting, that Maedhros had found his final end in fire, and Maglor his eternal penance in water.
The pull at his mind that had begun, not long after his departure, as a mild tug, grew stronger, wrapping more tightly around his mind with every mile further from Imladris. Maglor assumed the Silmaril was pulling at him, the feeling similar enough - though strangely not identical - to the Oath’s force. He hoped that distance would soothe it, once he was far enough away, but the pull only grew stronger, until every step was a battle of will and he found his strength running out.
Strangely, though, there was no violence in it, the terrible need for vengeance and bloodshed that he had come to associate with the Oath absent and replaced with a sorrowful yearning.
One night, ten days after his departure, he saw Elrond. His son sat in a chair, face buried in his hands, weeping silently, and something in Maglor screamed at the sight.
“Why did you leave, Ada? Why did he leave? Please, Ada, Atya, come back.”
On the bed next to him, still unconscious, lay Eärendil. As Maglor’s gaze fell upon him, the scene changed and he found himself back near the Gwathló, Eärendil in his arms, and heard himself speak.
“I swear to you, Eärendil, that I will never harm Elrond.”
He awoke, tears streaming down his face, and finally understood. It was not his father’s Oath he felt, it was the vow he had made to Eärendil.
Elrond had nearly given up hope when Eärendil awoke.
For two weeks he had tended to his father (and how strange a thought that was, his father, not Atar Maedhros or Atya Maglor, but Ada Eärendil), and still he showed no signs of waking.
Of course, of course he would get his fathers back only to lose them again almost immediately.
Of course Maglor had left - did those he loved not always leave?
Of course Eärendil was dying - did those he cared for not always die?
How much loss could a heart take before it shattered irreparably?
He sat and wept, and wept, and wept until he thought he might run out of tears. He pleaded for his fathers to return to him.
And Eärendil awoke.
His eyes were the exact shade of blue he remembered, was Elrond’s first thought when he turned to the bed and saw them open.
Eärendil did not move, did not speak, he lay still and simply looked at Elrond, as though he could not get enough of the sight.
“Ada?”
Elrond’s voice nearly gave out. So many times had he thought about this moment, had imagined just what he would say to his father should he ever meet him, but now that Eärendil was truly there, words failed him.
“I am sorry,” Eärendil gasped, frantic, as if he could not wait another second to get the words out. “I love you. I am sorry. I love you. I-” The words dissolved into painful coughing.
Elrond, startled into action, quickly helped him sit upright and drink some warm tea before gently Singing him back to sleep.
Their conversation was long overdue, but it would have to wait a little longer.
The journey back to Imladris took Maglor not nearly as long, the new oath now pulling him onwards instead of back, driving him ever faster toward Elrond.
This time the guard at the gate did not move to stop him as he approached, and as he got closer he realized he knew this guard - they had been among his last surviving soldiers, remaining faithful until the end, when Maedhros and him had sent everyone away before their last desperate attempt to regain the Silmarils.
They bowed as he stepped through the gate. “Welcome, Lord Maglor! Elrond hoped you would return - shall I bring you to him?”
“Greetings, Þornandil. It is good to see you here.” He meant to deny the offer, not wanting to impose, but decided that it was better than getting lost on the way and causing an uproar. Surely not everyone would be thrilled to see a Son of Fëanor wandering the house. “I would appreciate that.”
Þornandil led him inside. “He should be in the healing hall, my Lord. He hardly ever leaves Eärendil’s side.”
They led him through winding corridors before halting at a closed door. “Here we are.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
Þornandil inclined their head and left.
Maglor knocked on the door.
“Yes?” Elrond sounded tired and his voice cracked as if he had been crying.
Maglor entered. “It is me, yonya.” The smile on Elrond’s face immediately lifted the weight of his vow from Maglor’s mind.
“Atya! You’re back! I had not dared to hope - are you well? Why have you returned?”
“You were grieved at my leaving,” Maglor stated quietly.
“Yes, but…”
“I saw you in a dream. I - must admit that I swore an oath to Eärendil never to harm you, and it seems that causing you grief falls under that.”
“You… I…” Elrond seemed conflicted. “I am beyond glad to have you with me, but I would not have you stay against your will. Maybe there is a way to lift the oath, maybe -”
“Elrond,” Maglor interrupted. “All I want is for you to be happy. If you want me to stay, I will, gladly. I have long yearned to see you again, and if you would truly have me in your home…”
“I would. I would. I never gave up hope to find you someday, to bring you home with me.”
“Yonya…” Maglor drew his son into his arms, and they stayed like that until the sun began to set behind them.
“How is Eärendil?”
“Healing. He has woken once or twice, though only for a few minutes at a time, and his fever is gone. He should fully regain consciousness soon.”
“Are you sure he will not mind my presence?” Memories of Sirion sprung to his mind, painfully clear. The city in flames, screams and pleas and horrible silence. Elwing on her tower, despair and rage on her face as she took that last step backward and fell and fell and… “He has every right to be angry at me.”
“You saved his life.” Elrond told him firmly. “And Glorfindel told me that he begged my guards to let you stay with him.”
“He did not know who I am.”
“You are one who was good to him. Who tended to his wounds, soothed his pain and sang his nightmares away.”
“I am one who destroyed his home, killed his people and stole his children.”
“It has been six thousand years, Atya. You are not beyond forgiveness, whatever you might think. I have come to love you despite everything, have I not?”
“You were a child.”
“And now I am grown, and I love you still.” Elrond smiled. “Hush now, Atya. Let yourself be loved. Let yourself be happy. Cease wallowing in grief and regrets, or else I shall be very sad.”
Maglor opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. Elrond seemed thoroughly satisfied with himself.
“Yonya, you need to rest.” Maglor was concerned. Since his arrival, Elrond had not once left Eärendil’s bedside, and the lack of sleep and proper nutrition was beginning to tell on him.
“I need to be with him,” Elrond muttered, stifling a yawn. “What if he wakes? I do not want him to be alone.”
“I will stay with him tonight. Go to your rooms and get some sleep, Elrond.”
Elrond hesitated. “I will sleep in the other healing room. Wake me if anything happens.”
“I will.”
Eärendil awoke just before dawn. His slow, even breath sped up and his eyes opened slowly. He looked around in apparent confusion, until his gaze fell on Maglor.
“You - you are the one who saved me, are you not?” he whispered, voice rough with disuse.
“Yes,” Maglor replied carefully.
“Thank you, my friend. I owe you my life.”
Maglor shifted uncomfortably and stood from his chair. “Let me get Elrond.”
“Wait,” Eärendil whispered. “Makalaurë…”
Maglor nearly knocked the chair over as he whirled around and stared at Eärendil. “What… how…”
“Glorfindel said your name, when you brought me here, though I think I would have figured it out by myself sooner or later. You are not subtle, Fëanorion.”
Was he imagining the teasing smile on Eärendil’s face in the dim light?
“I have a question, Makalaurë.”
“Eärendil, I - I am sorry, I…”
“Shh, I am not angry, nor am I asking for an apology. It is just… Elrond said the jewel was in my pack, when you brought me here. Why - you could have - I was unconscious - why did you not take it?”
“I almost did,” he confessed. “I thought you were dead - when I realized you were alive, I - I don’t want the jewel, Eärendil. Not truly. The Oath drove me to fight and - and kill for it, but I do not want it. None of us did. At first, maybe - as a remembrance of our father, a symbol of triumph over the one who had killed our king and grandfather - but we soon realized that no jewels were worth all this bloodshed and grief. But by then it was too late.”
Eärendil was silent for a while. “Elrond said you’d stay. Will it cause problems, if the jewel is here?”
“Maybe.” Maglor had indeed thought about that - his happiness and the new vow had kept the Oath at bay during the last days, but its pull was still there, and he knew from experience it would only get worse the longer he resisted.
“You can have it.”
“What?”
“I don’t want it either. I never wanted it. If the jewel is what it takes to give you peace from your Oath, I will give it to you. Though - I might need it back, should I ever return to the skies. But then, your Oath doesn’t say you cannot let someone borrow it. If you truly do not desire the jewel itself…”
“Eärendil,” Maglor choked through tears. “You - you cannot possibly imagine what this means to me. Are you certain? I will not harm you, no matter what - you do not need to give it away to protect yourself.”
“I know. I am certain. I will give it to you come morning, with Elrond as witness. But I think you should go and wake him now, or he might be upset - and we can’t have that, can we?”
Maglor laughed and got up to do just that.