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Maglor Feänorion, once called Makalaurë Kanafinwë, smiled as he looked out over the city of Minas Tirith. Every day, it was getting warmer and warmer, and the snow was almost gone now. Given that it was already halfway through April, that was not as surprising as it should have been, but the past winter hadn’t already received the name Long Winter for nothing.
Even his memory only recalled a few winters that had been as harsh as this one, and none of them had been good years. Perhaps there was more to this winter than mere nature, but he could not easily discover it if it was; and he only had a feeling to go off.
There was a knock on the door of his quarters. ‘’Yes?’’
‘’It’s me, Maglor. Might I come in?’’ That was a familiar voice; Beren, Steward of Gondor.
As always, Maglor had to suppress a smirk at the idea of a Man called Beren ruling from a city called Minas Tirith. He did not know when the Stewards’ tradition to give their children the names of great heroes of the First Age had started, but he had long since gotten over his surprise and was now only amused. Beren’s father had been called Egalmoth, of all people, and his line was called the House of Húrin.
Intellectually, he knew that the Stewards were learned people and that Gondor was the most knowledgeable of all Mannish realms about the Elves and their history, but he sometimes doubted just what their records told them. Maybe they were all playing a very long-winded joke on him. If so, he’d tip his non-existent hat to whoever came up with the idea.
‘’You may!’’ he called back, and turned away from the window to watch the door as Beren entered.
He was old, at 104 years, for a Dúnedan in this day and age; wrinkled was his face and grey his hair, but he remained fair nonetheless. He bore little resemblance to his legendary namesake, but Maglor had to concede he only had the tales to tell him of such, so perhaps there was something he was missing.
Maglor did not bow towards him; but he did rise from his chair and smile, and nod welcomingly. ‘’Good afternoon, Beren! I am surprised to see you here. I would have thought you were still in council at this hour.’’ While he was free to attend any council of the Steward he wished, Maglor only used the privilege if he thought it necessary, or if it was asked of him.
Beren waved his hand dismissively. ‘’There was little to discuss today. The weather is looking up, so everyone is preparing to start life again, as it were. There has been talk of a festival to celebrate the end of the winter.’’
Maglor nodded. ‘’That seems like a good idea. We did the same in Beleriand, after the Fell Winter.’’ He tried not to think of the losses they had to mourn then, nor of the losses now. He had sung his songs over the city, shielding it as best he could, but he was no Melian or Galadriel who could shield an entire realm from the ravages of the world, nor was he Maedhros or Fingon, who could always convince people to go on no matter how dire the world.
A flash of a falling banner, and then heat and a gaping chasm. Until they themselves fell.
He shook himself, and turned towards the window again. The Sun was peeking through the clouds shyly, like it was afraid to show itself after so many cold months; but Maglor revelled in the light, chasing dark memories away.
‘’I agreed,’’ Beren said, bringing him back to the present. ‘’It all needs to be organised, of course, but I think in a month or so we should be able to hold it. Do you mind if I pour myself some wine?’’
‘’Go ahead,’’ Maglor answered without looking away from the window. He could see and hear children playing with the remnants of the snow. It was a sound that had been sorely lacking in recent days.
Then he heard Beren fill two goblets with wine, and him drinking from one of them. ‘’An excellent vintage,’’ the Man commented. ‘’From Lebennin, I think.’’
‘’I’m not sure, actually.’’
‘’Well, it tastes good. That’s all that matters.’’ Beren put the goblet down. ‘’Maglor, I have a request of you.’’
He turned away from the window to look at the elderly Steward. ‘’Ask it, then. You know that I shall always try to fulfil it.’’
Such was the promise he had made - no oath! But a promise all the same. A promise made to Meneldil and later to Elrond, at the start of the Third Age. That he would not abandon Elros’ heirs like he had done the twins, not again.
Beren smiled, and tipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘’So you have, and never have you failed Gondor or myself in all those long centuries. That is why I ask this of you now, though I know you won’t like it.’’
Maglor frowned. ‘’Beren, what are you talking about?’’
Beren met his eyes. ‘’I would like you to become the new steward of Angrenost.’’
Huh.
That was perhaps the last thing Maglor had expected. Right behind asking him to marry Beren or telling him that his father and brothers were waiting outside the door.
‘’You,’’ he brought out after half a minute of silence, ‘’are joking. Certainly.’’
Beren shook his head. ‘’I am not. The garrison appointed long ago has become nothing more than another tribe of Dunlendings, and they were driven out by the Rohirrim after they broke the siege of Aglarond. But I do not wish to give the fortress to Rohan, and King Freálaf does not wish for it either; his folk are not inclined to such things.’’
‘’Surely there are better people to give it to.’’ Maglor couldn’t think of any, at this particular moment, but there had been some soldier who deserved a promotion or a noble he could send away.
‘’I am afraid not. We cannot risk history repeating itself if we send a new garrison led by a captain, and the fortress is too important to give to a noble family. Not that many would want it, or use it well if they did.’’
Maglor had to concede that was true, but still. He couldn’t be the only option. ‘’I cannot be the first person you thought of.’’
‘’You were not,’’ Beren agreed, ‘’but it makes sense, and I already explained why other candidates would be less suited to it.’’
‘’How would I fulfil my promise to you if I was in Angrenost?’’ Maglor asked. ‘’I can hardly speak with you from there!’’
Beren paused, and then said: ‘’Angrenost’s tower, Orthanc, contains a palantir. There is also one here. And we could send messengers, of course,’’ he added as an afterthought.
‘’A palantir!’’ Maglor exclaimed. ‘’I agree that such a thing must be kept safe. But can you not remove it from Orthanc then?’’
‘’It provides us valuable insight into Eriador, Enedhwaith and the Vales of Anduin, or at least it did. I would like to see it used like that again, and there is no better in Middle-Earth for that task than you.’’
That, he would admit, was true. His father had made the palantirí, and then - fittingly - forgot to take them with him when they went to Beleriand. He knew that seven had been brought over to Númenor from Aman and then to Middle-Earth by the Exiles, but that one of them was located in Minas Tirith! That was a surprise indeed.
‘’Maglor, I know that you have refused every title and office offered to you since you came to us after the fall of Sauron,’’ Beren said, ‘’but there is no one else I trust with the tower. Or with the palantir. We thought it was safe, and evidently it was not.’’
Maglor didn’t reply immediately.
He is right. A palantir is a great prize. And the fortress has to be held by someone.
There have to be others!
Apparently not. He knows that I don’t like it. He wouldn’t come to me if he didn’t think he had another choice.
But still. He couldn’t. ‘’I will not do it, Beren. I am not a warrior, or a leader.’’
‘’You would not need to fight,’’ Beren argued. ‘’The Dunlendings are a wild people, but they can be peaceful too. And you shall no doubt intimidate them, with your voice if not with your appearance. I will send a small garrison and staff along with you, to make sure the place is liveable and can be defended, but I do not expect an attack.’’
‘’Corsairs sailed up the Isen, did they not?’’
‘’They did,’’ Beren was forced to acknowledge, ‘’but they did not have to assault Angrenost then. The wall is too great to be defended by anything but an army, but with even a small force - and the aid of the Rohirrim - you would be able to deter an invasion. And the tower itself has never fallen.’’
‘’Perhaps that is so,’’ Maglor argued, ‘’but I am still no leader.’’
‘’You led a portion of the Ñoldor in Beleriand, did you not?’’
‘’That was different!’’ But it hadn’t been, not really, and he knew that. Commanding a host of Ñoldor, even ones loyal to his father and his house, would always be harder than commanding a small garrison of Men. ‘’Those were my people! I have no connection to these Men!’’
‘’Do you not?’’ Beren said. ‘’Strange. I thought it was your voice sheltering the city from the storm these past months, or your songs which are sung in taverns from here to Tharbad, or your thinking which gave us lasting peace with the Haradrim. Maglor, you are more than a bedtime story to our people; you are a living reminder of the past. Let me show you. Beregil!’’
‘’Yes, my steward?’’ one of Beren’s guards called back through the door.
‘’Come here for a moment. I want to demonstrate something.’’
‘’Of course, sir.’’ The door was pulled open, and Beregil stepped in, closing the door behind him. He was a tall man, strong and in the prime of his years, with dark brown hair and a short beard. He nodded respectfully to both of them.
‘’At ease,’’ Beren commanded, a smile on his face. ‘’Beregil, I know you are a loyal soldier. Should I be incapacitated, who is the first person you would inform of that in Minas Tirith?’’
‘’Your son, sir.’’
‘’And after him?’’
‘’Lord Maglor, sir.’’
Maglor stared at the man, amazed. Beren was smiling broadly now. ‘’And should I tell you that Lord Maglor is to lead you into a battle, would you follow him?’’
Beregil met Maglor’s gaze, and nodded. ‘’Gladly, sir. I know that he led valiantly in the First Age, and that he is a mighty warrior and cunning general.’’
‘’Well, there you have it!’’ Beren said, turning in his seat to look up at Maglor, who was still staring at Beregil, and, he knew, blushing a little. ‘’Do you see what I mean, old friend?’’
‘’I do,’’ Maglor admitted, a little hoarse.
‘’You may resume your post,’’ Beren instructed Beregil, who bowed and then left, though Maglor caught his stony face morphing into surprise and shock as he stepped out of the room.
‘’I still do not think it is a good idea for me to take command,’’ Maglor argued, but his heart wasn’t in it.
Beren looked at him shrewdly. ‘’You would have a strong fortress, a tool to easily communicate with me and my heirs, soldiers loyal to you under your command and allies close by. You could go riding again, I know you love it.’’
That was true, even if he rarely did it anymore.
Maglor weighed his options. ‘’I cannot decide just yet,’’ he said. ‘’When this festival of yours is held, you shall have my answer.’’
Beren’s face lit up, and he laughed happily. ‘’Thank you!’’ he said. ‘’Thank you very much! I shall wait for your answer then.’’ He downed the remnants of his wine goblet - which could not possibly be healthy at his age, even for a Dúnadan - and then rose from his seat. ‘’I shall endeavour to have the festival organised as quickly as possible, then.’’
‘’I could still tell your son about the incident with the milk and the throne,’’ Maglor said mildly, but he was smiling as well.
Beren chuckled. ‘’I think he’d be horrified to hear me behaving so! He might think I was young, once.’’
The image of a young child, tugging at Maglor’s breeches for another song, flashed before his eyes; and then another child, together with his brother, crawling up into his bed at night. Maglor shook his head to banish the visions away, and tipped his head in acknowledgement of Beren’s point.
‘’Well, I do hope you shall have a new song for us when the festival comes,’’ Beren said as he made his way over to the door.
‘’I shall endeavour to have it organised as quickly as possible.’’
Beren laughed as he pulled the door open. ‘’I’m sure you will!’’ He turned in the door opening, and grinned at Maglor. ‘’Just so you know, your title shall be ‘Lord of the Gap’.’’ Then he stepped through the door and closed it.
Maglor let out a sigh and pinched his nose.
The names were definitely a prank by the Stewards.