Chapter Text
The missive announcing the arrival of the envoy had described their unidentified guest thusly: “An unknown edhel, much wasted. He was found in a seaside cave to the north of the Gulf of Lune, where judging from the squalid state of the place and its occupant, he seems to have resided for more than an age. One of his hands seems to be badly burned. He was unconscious when our scouts found him, and will not wake. We have cleaned him and done what we can to make him comfortable, but the prevailing opinion is that he needs more help than we can provide here.”
Elrond had his suspicions about the identity of the elf who would soon be relegated to his care, as he made ready a sickroom to welcome him, but did not dare to hope. In spite of their similarities of appearance – the missive had stated the unconscious elf was dark haired and likely of Noldor blood – Maglor had most likely perished of despair ages past. He and Elrond would not be reunited until the last elf had made the final voyage to Valinor, and even then only at the mercy of the Valar. It was better that way, Elrond had long since decided. He turned that private decision restlessly over in his mind, now, as he fussed with straightening the clean, white sheets on the hospital bed – which Frodo Baggins had only recently vacated to depart for the Shire – then moved on to over-meticulously cleaning the windows and floors in preparation for the guest, who would simply be another unknown elf in need of care, no more remarkable than any other.
For the ornate harp he placed in the corner of the room, he could find no excuse.
In the days leading up to the envoy’s arrival, Elrond’s chosen kinsfolk left him to his own devices, only checking in periodically to remind him to eat or rest, which he did, though he did not find that particularly wanted to. His sons noticed the agitation threatening to escape from behind his placid demeanor, but said nothing, not understanding the cause. How could they? Elrond had not shared the description of their incoming ward with any other living soul, save only for the information that one among the envoy’s number was coming to them in need of healing.
Perhaps it was selfish of him, even unwise, to keep such information from his fellow elves, but Elrond did not wish to spread rumors, and with them alarm, on an inference that could just as easily amount to nothing at all.
Maglor’s demise, while tragic, was yet the kindest of the fates left open to him, Elrond reminded himself. Still, in the deep recesses of his mind, he could not forget: his body had never been found, and his death had had no witness.
It was possible that Maglor lived, still. Elrond did not know how to reconcile with this uncertainty within himself, and yet he anticipated that, within a matter of days, he would have no choice but to wrestle it to a conclusion whether he wished to or no.
Working did not prevent Elrond from working at this dilemma like a loose tooth, but it did ensure the room in which Maglor might soon be sleeping was very tidy indeed.