Chapter Text
3298, the Second Age
The rain pounded fiercely on the wooden slats of the door, and the wind howled in a tune that would sound like an agonized wailing to the unaccustomed ear. However, to the Elf sitting there on the coast of Gondor, it was beautiful.
He had, after all, spent an age by the sea, whittling away the years and watching the moon wax and wane into oblivion. At the beginning it was dreadful; he had spent nights lying awake, curled up in a ball, trying to forget. Trying to stop imagining that the wind’s screams were one with the terrible cries of death of those slaughtered in Alqualondë. Trying to forget the glazed look in their eyes as he gingerly stepped over their corpses. In time however, he had reconciled with it, and the wind's cries became nothing more.
His blackened hands rested on the frame of a harp. At a glance one could observe the veins woven into them, which spoke of the kind of precision that only the love and focus of years could bring. In truth, the instrument was the only remnant of his past he had taken with him. The rest were tucked deep within his heart, shattered and lost, not wanting to be found or remembered.
Carefully he plucked a few strings, closing his eyes at the sound of the reverberating notes. Although the burns pierced like needles every time he laid a hand to his instrument, he found himself unable to stop. Sometimes, he truly felt like he deserved it, every one of his evil deeds repaid one by one through the agony.
The harp was the last part of his old self. He could not abandon the music that was part of his life since he was born; it would be blasphemy. A crime against the melodies that seemed to flow through his veins instead of blood.
For the Elf sitting there on the wooden bench was Makalaurë, secondborn of Fëanor. And his hands now shook, trembling with the wrath that took over him. He stared down at them with bemusement. Anger had always been a stranger to him.
Sadness he was more than familiar with, guilt was an old friend, but he found himself unable to cope with the anger that was festering in his chest, like an old wound, a worm that wouldn't stop gnawing on his soul.
Nearly two thousand years had passed since the death of his nephew- Maglor had been shocked when he heard the tales. Grief had driven him to give up on his wanderings for a while so he could visit the grave of his last relative. But even after grief had faded, whisked away like a cloth in the wind, a strange anger took over.
The monster that killed little Tyelpë was still at large. Who had not only killed but tortured the bright, inquisitive child that Maglor had held on his knees. Many times he had played until the little one was asleep, and then would bring him to his bed and gently pull up the sheets. He had watched the child grow into a young capable man, a lord of his own. The last Maglor had heard about him was that he was the lord of a mighty city, and he had rejoiced at the thought that his nephew had escaped the curse of their house.
But then one day came the words he so dearly dreaded. He was gone, killed, thrown in the gutter. Tyelpë was gone. His fury had been enormous, but he knew it could not bring his nephew back. His repentance had lost its strength, for it would be easier to slice off his leg than get rid of the turmoil in his heart. He could not grieve while the Abhorred One was still walking the earth.
Thunder rolled in the distance and the sea started groaning. So unusual was the sound that it interrupted Maglor's black thoughts.
He silently strode from his cabin, down towards the sea to observe what was happening. The sight was magnificent. A massive tidal wave rolled from the depths, its foamy white crown brilliant in the darkening sky. The crest was enormous. Maglor stared with wide eyes, for in all his years by the sea he had never seen anything of the like. He looked back towards the cliffline, but at this point it was useless to attempt running. He steeled himself, expecting the enormous blow to pummel his body. With closed eyes he stood, but not a drop of fear remained in him.
For a second, he beheld the terrors of the First Age, the vivid images flickering through his mind, and knew that death would be nothing but a welcome rest.
A few seconds passed, then some more. He was still standing.
The blow never came.
Maglor reluctantly opened one eye, and drew a sharp intake of breath. The cerulean wave, pulsing with hues of turquoise and azure, had stopped near the shore. It slowly split to reveal a much smaller figure, yet broader and taller than he in every way. The creature raised his hand and beckoned him to come closer.
As he cautiously approached the figure, he was able to perceive more. There stood a tall, bearded man, whose eyes shone with the looks of one who had weathered many storms and bore many trials. A helm crafted in the likeness of the fluidity of water, with seven spires for each of the seas and the rivers at his feet. Great armour forged to resemble the scales of a fish.
Recognition dawned on Maglor and he fell to his knees, breathing heavily. The figure standing before him was none other than Ulmo, the mighty lord of the oceans.
"Rise, minstrel, and fear not my wrath," spoke the Vala, "for I come to help, not to punish." His voice was as deep as the foundations of the earth itself, but not unkind. Maglor slowly rose, terrified to look up. When he did, however, he was much relieved. Ulmo’s haggard, wrinkled face shone with a gentle look as he spoke, “An entire age of this world has passed since we played a hand in the affairs of the world. We must not do so again. You heard of the fall of Númenor?”
Maglor, although bidden to stand, could not meet his eyes for long. He quickly averted his gaze, down to his trembling fingertips.
"Indeed, I heard about it my lord, and I felt it, for the sea was in turmoil for a week. I hoped that something good would arise in the aftermath, but that vile worm Sauron survived." Though his voice was low, he was unable to stop the hatred from seeping into his voice.
"A new war is on the horizon, Makalaurë. The Free Peoples will march to war once again. You have already lost your nephew. Now, the life of your foster son is also on the line, for the Abhorred One has taken to a deep hatred for the son of Eärendil. There is a great task I have to request of you. You must take up arms once again, for the good of all in Middle-earth. All hangs in a delicate balance. I will understand if you refuse, but know this: you can still do much good."
Maglor was torn. He bit his lip, and paced on the beach, suddenly feeling the anger wash away, almost with the tide. Where did it go? Why? I must go and fight this beast. I must, for the son I never had. There shouldn’t be a choice here. But he knew it was true; he could still do good. Find redemption. But what would that give him? If all had been sorted out and the world became pure once more, he would always return to an empty house. With nobody to express love to, nobody that loved him back. Nobody to hear him sing save the birds, which echoed their melancholy cries above, ever circling, ever rising farther and farther away.
He couldn’t deny it - there was a part of him that wanted to stay. That wanted to live out the rest of his days on this beach, feeling the waves brush up against his ankles while he played.
A small ray of sun glinted at the edges of the clouds, lighting up the wave behind Ulmo in a spectacular array of shimmering colours. Peace filled him now, and slowly, he raised his watery eyes to the figure before him.
"Ulmo… I- ” he began, but the Vala smiled at him, knowing the truth before he did. He continued, “I… must refuse. I am too old and weary of the ways of this world. Regret has torn me apart and the fight has long been drained out of me. There must be another who can go.”
He paused, then whispered, “What even am I to you? I can barely muster the courage to live another day. What you see now is only a ruin; every part of me died piece by piece as I buried my loved ones.”
Ulmo smiled gently at him. “Do not worry, child. I figured as much. The others did not approve of my coming here, as they knew I would find no success save with a great army. I simply wished to know the face that wandered for long years by my waters, wading in but never giving itself up to the sea.”
With that Ulmo slipped into the wave, and Maglor reached his hand out, watching as the ocean submerged him, tunic swirling with the rippling eddies, until there was nothing left, nobody left, just him and the wind, whipping his black hair and drenched clothes.
Maglor stood there for a while, watching and waiting for what, he didn’t know. He was at peace now. The cries had faded into nothingness, the waters beckoned him in, lapping at his feet. He sat down on the shore, letting them wash over him.
Night fell upon the land and he stayed there, waiting until the tide submerged him and his feet almost couldn’t just barely touch bottom… barely…. reaching. By now the waves had passed his collarbone, lapping against his neck, and his chin could touch the surface.
But my time has not come. I will wait a while longer.
So he drifted back towards the shore, stepping slowly onto the sand, feeling the cold water drip down his sides.
He looked back towards the ocean.
Not yet.