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No one really talked to him, and he never talked back when they did.
Lord Elrond would check on him daily if his schedule allowed, bringing him lunch or just stopping to sit with him a while. Sometimes if he asked he could get Maglor to pluck a few strings on his harp for him, but songs and melodies just didn’t come to him anymore.
On occasion, Maglor himself would appear in the library, tiptoeing his way around the residents of the house to avoid the varying looks he was wont to receive - from wide, pitying eyes to narrowed, mistrusting eyes that burned with hatred, and he deserved them all.
In the library, he would sit in a corner hugging his harp to his chest, and Erestor the librarian would look up at him, smile softly, and go back to whatever task he was presently occupied with. Sometimes Erestor would hand him a book of poetry and Maglor would take it from his hands, unable to turn away this sweet creature, though he did not know what to do with the books.
“It is beautiful,” Erestor said once, the slim book in his hands dusty with unuse. “A collection of Noldorin songs and poems from Gondolin. You might enjoy it.”
He had taken it from Erestor's hands, of course, and the librarian had skittered off in his royal blue robes.
On other days, he would shadow behind the little minstrel Lindir and listen to the music he played on his harp or the songs he sang with his sweet voice. The songs were sometimes joyful and sometimes devastating, but it didn't matter because Lindir’s voice was always joyful, and even when he sang the sad ones he never had that tint in his voice that spoke of knowing the pain.
Maglor was glad that this Elf had never known hurt and betrayal and sorrow like he sang of some days.
Lindir was kind and smiled often; wide toothy smiles and gentle understanding smiles. He would ask Maglor if he had written any songs lately, and even though Maglor never had, Lindir always asked him.
Eventually a tall Elf with hair that looked like it had caught in its strands the very light of Arien herself appeared in Imladris. Maglor was certain he had known him once.
Glorfindel is what he heard Erestor calling him when the Elf would visit the library, using silly one-liners on the librarian who just rolled his eyes and shooed him away. One day, though, after Maglor had not been in the library for a while, he sat in his usual corner and watched as Glorfindel smothered the poor librarian in kisses, Erestor exasperatedly trying to push him away as he wrote. He was smiling though.
“So that happened,” Lindir snickered as he and Maglor sat in the garden on a frigid winter evening, both shivering slightly. “Walking in on the captain of the guard fucking the librarian in the greenhouse was definitely not on my list of things to do this year…”
That had caught Maglor off guard and a giggle left his mouth. Lindir’s eyes went wide and a hand flew up to cover his mouth before he realized he should probably play it off and started yawning.
“Do you… ever sing anymore?” Lindir asked cautiously after a few long seconds of yawning. Maglor shrugged and shook his head, fingers curling around the stem of a bright little marigold and brushing up and down.
“I should like to hear you if you ever wanted to,” Lindir assured him. “But don't feel pressured to or anything.”
Of course, some nights, Maglor had nightmares. They weren't any specific memory, but many flashbacks twisting into one nonsensical terror until he would jerk awake, gasping for breath and clutching at his throat. Maedhros had kept screaming at him to find Elrond and Elros find Elrond and Elros find Elrond and Elros until a wave the size of a great city wall rose up to swallow the both of them up and drag them down into the ocean’s angry, raging storm. When Maglor woke, the dream itself seemed strange but the feeling of unease always lingered.
On one such night, he had left his bedroom, its walls closing in around his bed and trapping him in their clawing, greedy arms until he felt the breath being squeezed from his lungs. The garden had seemed open and inviting with its whispering melodies and colorful flowers that swayed in the wind’s soft, lulling embrace.
“I remember your face,”
Maglor turned toward the voice, its deep baritone just a murmur behind him. The captain of the guard was sitting in the shadows of an apple tree, picking at a flower in his hand. He could hear Lindir admonishing him for that in his head; why must you destroy such beautiful nature without a purpose?
“Erestor told me who you are, but the first time I saw you in the library, I recognized you. I could not place where from,” he paused his shredding of the periwinkle in his great hands. “It has been a long time, Makalaurë.”
The use of his mother-name had him gasping for breath, his knees almost failing him in the moment. He had not been called that for… centuries. Not for millennia.
“Indeed, I have not seen you since before the ice separated us.”
Maglor remembered him now. He had marched with Fingolfin, so much younger and gentler, as all of them had been in that time. He knew him because he had been like a brother to Finrod and by association Turgon. The three had been nearly inseparable as young children in Valinor.
Now he was hardened; not just in body but in mind and spirit. His gentle treatment of others remained, but there was a darkness in his eyes that could only come from having seen the world broken and remade over again; seeing everyone he once knew and loved crushed under the ice that ground away between Earth and the Undying Lands or ripped to pieces by the very hands of his enemy. Eyes that had once been brimming with light and laughter, a pure and untainted love for all he met were now mistrusting and wary, always on the lookout for some new foe; someone who waited to take away the ones he now loved and swore to protect.
“Laurefindelë,” his voice was brittle and dry with unuse, coming out in the faintest whisper. He was not sure Glorfindel had heard him for a moment.
The brook that trickled beside them seemed loud in the stillness and Maglor clenched his jaw.
“You murdered my kin, many of whom I died to protect,” Glorfindel blew out a quick breath, a faint smile touching his lips that said he was forcing his tears back. “You and your brothers murdered them and yet, I am not angry with you. For the darkness touched us all and the sons of Fëanor not the least. I do not have it in me to hold grudges any longer; I just wish for peace. For both of us.”
Maglor nodded, his own eyes stinging. He could not recall the last time he cried. Perhaps it was when Maedhros threw himself to his death and Maglor had cast his Silmaril into the ocean, falling to his knees and shrieking for the pain in his hand, but more than that for the wretched, hopeless burning in his heart, tearing and searing at his chest and begging to be set free.
“Let the both of us leave our pasts behind, and start again,” Glorfindel urged, his hand dropping the torn periwinkle to the ground and dashing across his dampened eyes.
Again Maglor nodded, and he stood, offering his hand to Glorfindel. Glorfindel took it and pulled himself to his feet.
“Few there are who are left from our time, and walk these lands,” Maglor whispered. He squeezed Glorfindel’s hand and left the garden.
Elrond and Celebrían birthed twins. They were dark-haired like their father but gray-eyed like their mother. Often Maglor would sit in the kitchens late at night watching as Celebrían or Elrond rocked a screaming baby back to sleep or fed him a bottle of warm milk.
He watched them grow from helpless infants to curious and rambunctious children, to gangling and awkward young men, and finally into their manhood, which was when their differences started to take shape more clearly
Elladan, the elder twin, was carefree and jolly, always chatting up a maiden or getting up to mischief with his friends. He was loud and obnoxious as he had been as a child and had a love for physical sports and sparring. He was kind, though, and conveyed his affection through constant touches and embraces.
Elrohir, on the other hand, was quiet and somber, but no less loving than his brother. He was thoughtful and empathetic, feeling each hurt of those who he loved as if they were his own. Maglor guessed that was where the seriousness of his mood came from. Often he would sit with Maglor and weave or embroider, favoring those skills which were gentle and domestic over strength and conquest of others.
But despite their opposing personalities, the brothers were closer to each other than any other, rarely letting themselves be separated for long amounts of time. In the training of weapons under Glorfindel they both excelled.
Arwen was the next child, and unlike her brothers she seemed to always be at peace. From her time as a baby and on to her womanhood she remained gentle and firm, offering her comforts to all who would accept them. Her fëa radiated calm and love, and Maglor would go to her when he felt troubled just to watch as she painted or shaped pottery, humming softly under her breath with the strokes of her brush and the sweep of her hands.
He did not realize until Celebrían was leaving the shores of Middle Earth, and he felt all three of the childrens’ hurt like a stab in his heart, that he cared for them like he had cared for Elrond and Elros before.
Middle Earth continued to change, darkness growing and taking shape once more. Erestor the librarian no longer smiled as freely as when Maglor had met him. He was more guarded and his mood more dark. Maglor saw him watching with fearful eyes from the window overlooking the courtyard as he awaited Glorfindel's return from every different patrol and skirmish.
Glorfindel brought back tidings of war and a stirring in the east, the enemy growing restless and urgent. Sauron was his name and Maglor shuddered to hear it.
Maedhros had told him of the Nameless One and his lieutenant, evil as his master and more clever in every way.
More beautiful than the fairest Vanya and more deadly than the Enemy himself in his cunning and black heart. In the crafting of fine things his skills surpass even Fëanor himself.
Elladan and Elrohir enrolled themselves in the Imladrin guard, unwilling to sit idly by after the torture of their mother and the unease that had begun to settle over the valley. They personally led Arwen’s escort to Lothlórien where she stayed for many years in the healing woods of her grandmother.
Middle Earth changed, and so too did Maglor.
The icy burn in his heart never left, and the ache in his arm always lingered but so too did the love inside of him grow, healing him with each of Elladan’s enthusiastic embraces, or Elrohir’s gentle words of youthful wisdom; with each of Arwen’s letters that contained a bit of sweet poetry, and Lindir’s soothing voice as he sang to Maglor amongst the birds; with each rare, tender smile that spread over Erestor’s face and his soft voice when he sat beside Maglor in the library and read Noldorin poetry, distracting the both of them from the worries of the present; with each laugh that left Glorfindel’s throat and each silly story he told of Gondolin when Maglor came to the gardens in the dead of night, heart racing from the terrors of sleep.
He was healed with each warm touch of Elrond’s hand upon his cheek, his presence beside him that radiated nothing but pure love and admiration for this broken and cast-away Elf. Never pressuring him into speech and rather coaxing smiles and laughter from his lips at any chance. He never asked why Maglor could no longer draw melodies from his harp and song from his lips. He simply loved him, and the purity and light of his love healed Maglor, making him almost whole, for he would never be completely whole again.
Never again on Middle Earth would he make music with his instruments and voice, but Lindir played and sang for the both of them, and Arwen wrote and Erestor read. He could not do these things on his own, so they did it for him. When he could not laugh, Glorfindel. And when he could not bear the sadness in his heart, the twins.
Though it was not his fiery and passionate way as before, he could feel again. Like a gentle swell of the ocean in its calm rather than a raging fire that existed only to shape metal and fulfill its master's duty.