I own nothing.

I.

The pain.

The pain.

The pain is…

He has no words for the pain.

Perhaps it is a living thing. Yes, that's it. It's a living thing that dug into his flesh through his hands, and crept up into his bones and blood and spread into his entire body. That's the only explanation. His pain is a living thing as the Silmarils must have been living things. The Silmaril in his palms sensed his ill will, the bloodstains on his soul and all the evil things he had done, and like a wild creature in the hands of a cruel hunter, it lashed out, and burned him. Or maybe it absorbed the malice blackening his heart and rebounded upon him, as it must. Either way, the Silmaril left a bit of itself in him, so it would be able to continue to hurt him, until the end of time, or so it seemed when Maglor first laid hands upon it.

That's why Maglor cast his ill-gotten jewel into the sea. He was alone, and Maedhros was not there to tell him not to (Will never be there to tell him not to do something again). It hurt so much, and he'd not loved it since it had been one of three causes for Finwë's death, and he'd lost so much and done so much on its account, and it wouldn't even accept his touch, and before he knew it, as though possessed by another much calmer than himself, Maglor lifted his arms aloft and threw the Silmaril into the night-black sea. It glowed beneath the surface of the water, smoldering, setting the waves alight, but then, soon enough, the light faded, and was gone.

He had wailed aloud for a pain more wrenching than the pain in his flesh when he saw its light go out.

Beleriand has sunk at last. It was crumbling for years, in earthquakes and tremors and bits and pieces of it falling off into the sea, one by one by one, but it has been sunken in entirety, and Maglor finds himself stumbling along an alien shore, moaning, mourning, crying, cursing. Cursing his fate, the Silmaril, himself. He does not know how long he wanders, for how many days and weeks and years, for hunger does not come to him for what seems an eternity, and the pain does not abate for just as long.

He sings a little, when he finds some use for his throat other than moaning and howling, but the tones and melodies are beyond words, and he can find none.

Often Maglor finds himself sinking his hands in the deep cold waters of the Belegaer, when the pain of his burned hands, black and charred and twisted. But eventually, bit by bit by bit, the same way Beleriand sank into the sea, the pain in his flesh goes away. It inches away from him, drawing out of his bones and his blood as it had first burrowed into him, drawing back into his hands and concentrating its strength there. Then, finally, the sliver of malice the Silmaril left behind relinquishes its grip on him, and passes away out of his flesh, going back down to the sea where the rest of it lies.

Only occasionally does Maglor feel pain in his hands after that, though the physical marks remain, though his flesh remains twisted and scarred and he has difficulty grasping and holding things, especially in his right hand. There is pain in his hands, but more often there is numbness, bits and pieces across it in different parts of his flesh.

But the Silmaril is clever. It relinquished its hold on flesh, but did so in exchange for tunneling down into a place where healing can not reach, and where pain will linger on, until the end of time it seems.

Maglor stays by the shore. He sings his laments, wordless and stilted, shaking with the pain lashed deep in his breast. He sleeps on the sand, is taken for a mad beggar by the Men of the land and tossed food to eat, but Maglor knows better. He is not mad. He is all too sane. But his pain will not leave him until the breaking of the world, and he can not see any other fate for him, but to search the surface of the waves for a vague twinkling of light.

II.

"Brother…" Maedhros is crouched low with his back turned to him. The last of Beleriand cracks and falls apart all around them, fire spilling from the wounded earth only to be quenched by the waters of the sea. "Maitimo, please," Maglor pleads. Pain from the Silmaril scorches his hands down to their bones. The pain is immense, and he can not let go. The Oath is left fulfilled, but void, and he should let go of the Silmaril, but he can not. "Maitimo, please. It hurts. Please."

Finally, Maedhros turns and looks his way, and there is a fell light in his eyes.

He's gone. Maglor has seen this before, after Thangorodrim, after the Nirnaeth, after the Second Kinslaying, and always Maedhros has come back to himself eventually afterwards, but this time is different, he thinks. There's a fell light in his eyes, and he's gone.

Maedhros looks to his brother, still clutching his Silmaril one-handed to his chest. He says nothing. Maedhros looks away, to a great chasm opening up at his feet, and then he is gone for good.

The image is ingrained in his memory, night and day, like the gleam of blood on a sword blade and the expression in the eyes of the dying as they go down into death. The image never leaves, it stays, it grows, it festers, it becomes a scar the way the burns on his hands have been made into scars.

He went down into fire, buried himself in flame without saying a word. That was what he'd done, holding the Silmaril to his breast still, surrendering his flesh to the fires of the earth rather than surrender the Silmaril. Yes, that's it. Maedhros killed himself rather than give up the Silmaril.

It amazes Maglor that he wasn't able to overcome the pain and survive, no more than it amazes him that he did. But what amazes him more—

Why did you leave me here alone?

Of all of his brothers, Maedhros was the one Maglor least expected to leave him. Perhaps because Maedhros was the eldest, because he'd always been protector and caretaker to his siblings, when Nerdanel was absorbed in her sculpting and Fëanor was locked away in his forge where none could reach him, when they were in Beleriand, and Nerdanel was far away from them and Fëanor was dead. Because Maedhros had always looked after them, always looked after him, and Maglor had never expected it to end like that.

It would be so easy to blame him, he thinks, running his hands absently through the water, the notes of a funeral dirge surfacing just as absently in his head. It would be easy to blame Maedhros, the elder brother, the one who led them and whom Maglor was always content to follow, for what's happened to him now. It would be easy to blame him for dying, and leave him alone.

But memory does not lie, at least it has never lied to him. Maedhros has never been able to force Maglor into anything and would not have tried to. Maedhros may have pressed him to help steal the Silmarils from Eönwë's keeping, but Maglor, for all his doubts, chose freely to aid him. As for blaming him for dying… As for that, anger is wiped out by the horror and grief of watching someone well-loved die writhing in flame, clutching an accursed jewel to his chest. There is no room for anger in Maglor's heart, so full of it is grief.

He would sing for Maedhros, but untold centuries has it been since Maglor last sang with un-shadowed joy in his heart, long has it been since he sang for himself and not for someone else, and he would not do that to Maedhros now, dead though he may be. So his words are locked up for safekeeping in his breast, and he kicks pebbles out of the way as he trails absently further south down the shore.

(There are times, many times, when he wishes to die as Maedhros did. But when the thoughts of suicide rise to the forefront of Maglor's mind, he discovers that he can find no energy with which to take his own life. He could wade out into the ocean and drown there, if he so wished, but he simply can not find the strength to do so.

And it occurs to him, with guilt and shamefacedness, that Maedhros would not wish for him to die.)

III.

Memories of his brother inevitably morph into memories of their father, as they must.

Fëanor, Spirit of Fire, gone to ash by the fire burning in his blood and his bones. Fëanor, creator of the Silmarils, who led a great host over the waters of the Belegaer to Endóre to retrieve them after they were stolen. Fëanor, father of seven sons, who swore a terrible oath, and whose sons followed him, followed him to ruin.

It occurs to Maglor that it's strange, strange that he won't sing for Maedhros feeling that it would be insulting, but that he can sing for Fëanor, can sing for the father who led him here, the father he lost, the father who led his sons down to ruin even after death.

So he sings, and sings, and sings, and Maglor isn't sure if his words find voice on the notes or if they stay locked up again, and he's singing wordless tunes. He sings for his father, whom he has lost, who will stay in the Houses of the Dead until the breaking of the world. Maglor finds that it's much easier to forgive Fëanor than he thought it would be, if it came to this. Hatred against the one who raised him, and always loved him even in the grips of his madness, it's simply too exhausting.

IV.

Reality washes over him like a dose of cold water from the ocean, sharp and unforgiving. Where are the twins? What has become of them?

He had left Elros in Lindon with Gil-Galad and his court, after the War of Wrath was over and the Three Houses of the Edain, which Elros had grown to love dearly, were summoned to Lindon. Elrond, however, had stayed with him and Maedhros until the end. Maglor had told him to go join his brother in Lindon, but had he? Elrond can be more stubborn than the wind blowing against a mountain when he sees need to be. Beleriand was still crumbling when Maglor last saw him; did he ever make it to Lindon, to safety? Was Elros safe?

With those worries in mind, Maglor begins to actively seek out the company of others for the first time since he was burned. He wanders into towns and villages on the seashore, frequenting taverns and inns. Never does he directly ask after the whereabouts of the twin sons of Elwing, knowing that doing so would draw undue attention onto himself and that he has no friends among the Elves, that most bear him no love whatsoever and that it would not go well for him if he was discovered. Instead, he keeps his ears open, listens to gossip and news.

It takes four months.

Four months later, Maglor has his answers.

Elrond and Elros are safe, and still living. They were given a choice on account of the mix of Elven and Human blood in their veins, whether to have the lifespan of an Elf or a Man. Elrond chose the Eldar, and serves in the court of Gil-Galad as the herald of the King. Elros chose, by contrast, to be counted among Men, and he and the houses of the Edain were gifted with longer lives than what they had claimed beforehand. Elros has gone over the sea to an island raised from the depths, and has there founded a great kingdom, Elenna, called Westernesse and Númenor. He and the little human girl he had married during the days of the war have had children, a son and daughter so far.

Joy is mingled with grief. The boys he raised are safe and well. But one has chosen the Doom of Men, one will go beyond the circles of the World when he goes to meet his death, and leave those who love him who are bound to this world behind. Maglor can't say that he is surprised with the way Elros has chosen; Elros had loved Men since first he saw them, he'd married an adaneth, and Maglor can not suppose that Elros would have even for a moment considered choosing the Elves. But he will die, and while death is the Gift of Men, he will be gone until the breaking of the World.

But what right do I have to feel grief that I will not see him again when he has died? Maglor wonders bitterly, running sand through his fingers and dousing his hands in the sea water. What right, what claim do I have on either of them? We would never have met had I not come intent on slaying their people, intent on taking back a jewel that their mother wore about their neck.

His foster-sons are safe and well. The Doom of the Noldor has not touched them, either through their grandmother Idril, or through their foster-father and uncle. Despite the fears Maglor felt when he first began to raise them, rather than shelter them and treat them as valuable hostages, the Doom put upon the Noldor and especially on the house of Fëanor has not blighted their lives as it might have. He managed not to ruin them, as he'd feared he might.

That is enough. Maglor only became their foster-father after first sacking their city, kidnapping them and taking them away from everything they had known. He had loved them, does love them, but does not think that he was particularly good for them. He did not ruin them, but this was only due to good fortune, and perhaps Lord Námo feeling it better not to punish two small boys for having the misfortune of being raised by those who had felt the Doom most keenly of all. He will not risk altering the good fortune felt by Elros and Elrond by trying to re-enter their lives now.

V.

Maybe I should have, Maglor supposes, bowing his head low when he hears the news, one early spring day.

Elros is dead. His little half-Elven-turned-human fosterling is dead. He lived to a great age, a full five-hundred years. His hair grew white and his skin grew aged and lined and thin. His sight dimmed and he grew ancient and decrepit, eventually unable even to rise from his bed. Elros died in the company of his children and his grandchildren and his brother; his wife had passed on many years beforehand. Elros died, and Maglor was not with him when it happened. Elrond watched his brother grow old and die, and Maglor was not with him to give him comfort in his grief.

Maglor remembers those two boys of his as children. Elrond curled up at his side learning to play the harp while Elros ran about the courtyard, chasing butterflies and birds and imagining great battles and victories. Elros first meeting the Edain when a band of refugees, Elves and Men alike, came to Amon Ereb seeking shelter, and losing his heart to them ever after. Elrond standing with him, both watching as Elros rode away with a band of the Edain, Maedhros with him to ensure his safety. They were barely grown the last time he saw them, and now one of them is dead of old age.

'Dead of old age' is a concept utterly alien to Maglor, and he can not reconcile the image of a laughing Elven child with a feeble, ancient Man dying in his bed.

He stays in the same place for a long time afterwards, sitting at the edge of the waves, singing his wordless laments for a child he has lost, though it could be argued that he lost Elros long ago and hat he never had any right to him to start with. Maglor has no desire to move ever again, or so it seems to him at the time. One of his foster-children is 'dead of old age', and the other is left without his brother. Maglor stays at the same shore, singing his wordless laments, searching in vain for a hint of light beneath the surface of the water at night.

Then, a great curiosity overcomes him. He wishes to see this land that Elros built. He wishes to see Númenor, lauded by all as a wondrous kingdom of wondrous Men. A strange longing comes over him to see this land, though Maglor knows very well that Ulmo or Ossë or Uinen could well decide to sink any boat he set foot upon. But perhaps that would be better. I would find the Silmaril at the bottom of the ocean, or better yet I would find death that has eluded me for so long.

He goes to Númenor.

Maglor works for some weeks in a seaside town, long enough to gather the coinage necessary to book passage on a ship to Númenor. They leave in the darkness before dawn, and are on the sea for several days. The waters are rough and Maglor, no great lover of sea voyages, finds himself unsettled for most of the voyage, but the Powers present in the water are either unaware of Maglor's presence there, or see fit to leave him his life. They arrive in the haven of Andúnië early one morning, and at the sight of it rising on the horizon Maglor can not help but gasp.

This is the kingdom that Elros built, and wondrous fair it is indeed, both in land and in people. The sight of Númenor makes Maglor ache for home in a way that nothing else can, for nowhere in Middle-Earth has he seen a place so akin to Valinor as Númenor is. He sees so many familiar plants and animals, hears birdsong that he has not heard since the days of bliss. The cities resemble the cities of Valinor in the stone they are made with and the way they are arrayed. The Men of Númenor are more akin in stature and bearing to the Eldar than they are to the Men of Middle-Earth, tall and long-lived and wise, with star-bright eyes. It's as though he's come home, but the pain only grows greater at that, for Maglor can see that this is not Aman, not Valinor or Tirion upon Túna, and that home is as remote to him as Gil-Estel above.

He wanders the shores of this land, looking in vain for a glimmering light beneath the waves. The sweet, clean air leave tears springing from his eyes, and he weeps anew, for all that is lost and all that remains, for Elros who is gone, for Elrond who remains, for himself, who is neither, really.

Eventually, Maglor ventures inland. The Elves of Aman regularly come to Númenor, and there are large, semi-permanent populations of Elves in Andúnië the haven of the west coast, in Armenelos the fair capital, in the new and burgeoning eastern haven of Rómenna. He avoids those cities, and anywhere else where Elves of Aman gather in large numbers. Instead, he goes to the lesser cities, to the small towns and villages, to the quiet estates, and finds himself living his life again.

Adûnaic is the tongue of the common people of Númenor. Sindarin the nobles speak, but Quenya is considered the highest tongue of the land, held to a near-sacred level by the Men of Númenor. When Maglor needs to find work, he finds it quickly, teaching the little children of the nobles of Númenor to read and write and speak in Quenya. This he does for decades and centuries, teaching under an assumed name. From time to time, he wishes to teach them music and song instead, but does not, and Maglor finds, to his surprise, that it is not a lack of enthusiasm that restrains him, but only a fear of being found out by the Elves living in and visiting Númenor, for when Maglor has had occasion at need to go near the places where Elves of Aman can be found, he has been able to spy faces he recognizes. He is not sure what he fears more: being dragged back to Valinor for judgment, facing the condemnations of his people here in Númenor, or simply being recognized and made to face his past (For he wishes for nothing more than to forget the past).

So for decades and centuries, Maglor lives among the Men of the West, teaching their children to speak the High Eldarin tongue. He finds himself, if not happy, then at least content, smiling on little Númenorean girls and boys as he teaches them to trace out letters in the script his father made. While he would have liked to wash the past off of his hands and heart, it's easy, startlingly easy, to remember happier times in Númenor, correcting and guiding and teaching and wandering. He remembers Elrond and Elros as children, as he taught them Quenya and the dialects of Sindarin and Nandorin, and the tongues of Men. He remembers his wife, Ilmanis, thinking that she who died long ago would have been happy in this place, happy to hear music and song, but the memory does not bring him pain, and Maglor is surprised at that.

Here in Númenor does Maglor live, and would be content to live until the breaking of the world, but that is not to be. Tar-Atanamir takes the throne, and his mood towards the Eldar and their long lives is sour. He clings to his life until he is as aged and feeble as Elros must have been. Tar-Ancalimon his son takes the throne, and the atmosphere on the entire island towards the Eldar grows cool. Númenor's wisdom and splendor begins to wane; its generosity is already spent. It is not the place it was when Elros built it. But even before all of this, centuries before all of this, Maglor can feel the sweet air souring around him, and has a sense of foreboding of worse yet to come. With a heavy heart, he books passage on a ship heading east, back to the shores of Middle-Earth.

VI.

He doesn't quite believe it when he sees it.

It was not long after returning to Middle-Earth that Maglor learned of what his nephew had done. Celebrimbor, ruler of Eregion, had crafted nineteen Rings of Power, Nine and Seven forged by Celebrimbor with the aid of a disguised Sauron, once Morgoth's disciple, now seeking to put down the seeds of evil and chaos on his own, calling himself Annatar. Three were forged by Celebrimbor alone, and were sent to Lords of the Elves in secret. But Sauron forged One in secret, alone, more powerful and terrible than all the others, and Sauron's intent is to bend the will of the other Ringbearers to his own.

From his stronghold in Mordor, Sauron demanded the return of the Sixteen Rings he and Celebrimbor had forged, but Celebrimbor had refused, and this is the result. Eregion had been laid waste. At the gates of Ost-in-Edhil, Maglor finds himself crushed in a crowd of refugees, rushing away from the foul armies of Sauron. Elrond is supposed to be here somewhere; Gil-Galad sent him to repel Sauron's forces from Eregion. That's why Maglor came, or perhaps for Celebrimbor. He doesn't know what sort of good that would do, for he's not seen Elrond in well over fifteen hundred years, and not seen Celebrimbor for even longer.

And that's when he sees it.

Maglor hears someone shouting, in a voice full of rage and anguish and despair, and realizes that it's Elrond. He turns about in the jostling crowd, staring back towards the ruined city and Sauron's army. The remnants of the Elven armies, Elrond at their head, have stopped dead in their tracks, staring at something high over their heads.

Sauron's army bears a standard, held high and proud, dripping gore, oozing to the ground down a long black pike. It's the naked body of an Elf, ruined, bloodied, broken, mangled beyond recognition.

Almost.

Maglor stares at the corpse held high aloft, the blood running cold in his veins even before he recognizes it. But he knows this Elf soon enough, and now it's not his blood running cold in his veins, but his heart rising into his throat and his gut twisting into knots.

Celebrimbor.

That's Celebrimbor.

His nephew, who used to hang on Galadriel every time he saw her in Valinor, who sat happily on his grandfather's lap as a baby and babbled into Fëanor's ear, whom he, Maglor, would sing to sleep in the early years in Beleriand when Celebrimbor was missing his mother and missing Aman, is dead. Cruelly dead.

He barely knows what to make of it for all the time he and the other refugees are being pushed towards Imladris by the retreating army, but when they make it to the stronghold, he sobs so loudly that a soldier thinks him wounded and tries to take him to a healer.

Maglor tries to leave Imladris after that. Elrond is here, has taken command of the stronghold of Imladris, and Maglor can not face him. One would think that he would welcome a reunion after all this time, and perhaps Elrond might, even if Maglor wouldn't, but Maglor can not face his foster-son. He can't help but feel pride, though, when he sees the sort of person his little fosterling has become. Elrond is strong and wise, exercising hardy judgment and refusing to be daunted by the challenges of managing a settlement full of refugees and under siege, always calm. Maglor sees Elrond speaking and walking at length with Galadriel's daughter, and his lip twitches, despite himself.

However, Imladris is under siege, and while refugees are allowed in, none are allowed out. He lies low in Imladris while it is besieged, going under another assumed name, watching Elrond, never approaching, and dreams at night of his nephew, who had been the only other living member of the House of Fëanor, whom he had loved though it had been long centuries since last they spoke. A sweet and outspoken child, become a cold and ragged corpse aloft a pike.

Father, see your grandson. Curufinwë, see your son. There is Telperinquar, called Celebrimbor, last of our great, proud House. See what has become of him.

After the siege of Imladris is broken and the refugees are allowed to go, Maglor takes up sword again. His skill with it has not diminished, however much he might wish that it had; while he may have difficulty (some days more than others) gripping quill pens and eating utensils, and while he does not think he will ever be able to play a harp again, Maglor finds that his twisted hands have no difficulty gripping a sword. Upon procuring a sword, he carves the Star of Fëanor into its hilt, and feels better about fighting when his father's star acts almost as a charm to give him luck.

He wanders alone, in bands of Elves acting as their protector, occasionally joining with armies under yet another pseudonym. Singing to frightened children of Elves and Men, feeling the weight of the past and the dim future lying ever heavier on his shoulders, as the Black Years descend upon them all.

VII.

The Elf who joined with their party three nights past has never given his name, but produces an aged but still keen sword, the hilt wrapped tight in strips of cloth, and asks simply if this is enough to prove his mettle. Faelion supposes it is; in this day and Age, where no road is truly safe, they could use the protection of a hired sword.

"We seek the Grey Havens in Lindon. We're looking to book passage aboard a ship to Valinor."

The nameless Elf frowns slightly, a shadow passing over his face. "I will accompany you as far as Mithlond, but I am not traveling to Valinor."

Faelion shrugs, and goes back to attending to the wagon, which is currently mired fast in the muddy road. So their mercenary won't go to Valinor. He will not question why, so long as the Elf does what he's said he'll do, and protect them until they get to a safe haven.

It is nightfall again, and the party of twenty-two has stopped to rest and share their meager provisions with each other. Bread and dried fruit and mead again, for the eighth night running, and still more than two weeks to go before they reach the Grey Havens. Faelion bites back a sigh, telling himself that leaders of Elven caravans shouldn't be complaining about the food they're eating, even in the confines of their own heads. They should be more concerned about getting their people to their destination safely.

Faelion casts a sideways glance to their mercenary, who sits straight-backed and still by the fire, staring into its depths with an odd, abstracted look in his pale eyes. He still hasn't given his name, and says little during the day, except to answer questions. This he does pleasantly enough, especially where the children of the caravan are concerned, in such a way, visibly restraining himself from going on at length on a topic, that makes Faelion suspect that he isn't this close-mouthed by nature. Why the silence?

Faelion can confess to being curious by nature, enough so that the unsolved question of who their mercenary is piques his interest. Judging by his dark hair and tall stature, Faelion would judge the stranger to be one of the Noldorin Exiles. Yes, by those features alone the stranger could just as easily be a child of one of the Exiles or simply a Tatyarin Sinda, but Faelion doesn't think so. He's seen enough Exiles, seen enough of the Elves of Aman to know the difference. Even the late Lord of Eregion, Celebrimbor, who was just a small boy when he left…

Thoughts trail off in Faelion's head. No, he thinks with a pained grimace, best not think of that.

A thin, piteous wail arises from one of the covered wagons. Faelion springs to his feet, heading towards the wagon in question; in the same breath, so does the mercenary. They make their way to the wagon, where Faelion pushes the coverings over the back entrance away. "Meril, what's wrong with your daughter?"

Meril, a Wood-Elf whose husband was killed in a recent skirmish, cradles her loudly sobbing seven-year-old daughter Edeneth to her chest. She shakes her head helplessly, a vein in her forehead throbbing. "A nightmare. She's had them ever since her father died."

Faelion grimaces again. "You'd best find a way to calm her, or else we'll have trouble." The words of telling a nís to calm her daughter in such a way sits bitterly upon his tongue, but there is the trouble. Bands of Orcs and Goblins and evil Men are roaming the land, and Edeneth's crying will be nothing but a beacon to them. But no matter what Meril does, Edeneth's crying does not abate.

"Let me hold her."

Meril's eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline when their mercenary speaks, and frankly, Faelion can't help but do the same. Hired swords are known for many things, but being able to soothe the fears of children plagued by nightmares is not one of them. Tall and gaunt and dressed in shabby, threadbare clothes, ever girt with his long sword, their mercenary looks more likely to inspire nightmares than soothe them.

But the mercenary sits down on the ledge of the wagon, and after a moment, Meril surrenders her daughter into his arms. Edeneth is tiny for an Elf-child of her age, and with their mercenary being as tall as he is, she is swamped and miniscule in his arms. He smiles gently down at her, stroking her silvery hair with a gloved hand, and begins to sing.

Faelion and Meril stare open-mouthed at him; Edeneth's breathing calms, and her swollen, heavy eyelids being to flutter shut. Their mercenary sings a simple Sindarin lullaby, and Faelion does not know if he has ever head such a lovely sound in his life. He sings but softly, but the way he sings…

He's not sure how to describe the way he sings.

Eventually, the lullaby comes to a close, and with an almost palpable reluctance, the stranger returns Edeneth to Meril's arms. He sits still on the edge of the wagon, after Meril's shyly thanked him and closed the cloth hangings of the wagon, shoulders hunched, great form bowed. He's staring at some point in the trees, staring into nothing.

That expression he's wearing seems familiar to Faelion, but he can't quite place it. Then, it clicks.

"Do you have children?" Faelion asks softly.

The mercenary looks up at him, startled. He doesn't answer for a long time, but then he just as softly answers, with a cracked and crooked smile, "I used to."

VIII.

Númenor is no more. Call it Akallabêth Atalantë, call it The Downfallen, even call it Mar-nu-Falmar, but do not call it Númenor.

Atalantë grew great in might and splendor, but it was rotten at its core and collapsed under its own weight, with the aid of Sauron. Ar-Pharazôn sought to make war upon the Valar and was imprisoned or killed, Tar-Míriel sought to escape the mounting green wave and was drowned, and Númenor with all its wealth and splendor and every hint of Valinor, was drowned beneath the waves.

The world has changed. Maglor could feel it bend. Valinor is no longer a place that can be reached by ships alone; now the world is Bent and round, and Valinor is out of reach from ships forever, apart from a Straight and narrow Road.

Maglor sits on the shores of what will come to be called Gondor, watching the last of the ships arrive in the Bay of Belfalas. He thinks of what he's heard from the Dúnedain (for that is all that they will call themselves now) of all that passed, and thinks of Atalantë as it was before it was Downfallen, before its decline had begun, when it was still the kingdom that Elros built.

No one will be able to find the singer who gives voice to the lament. They search for him, thinking him one of their own and intending to bring him to the safety of the camps, but he is well-hidden. He sings of Atalantë the Downfallen, of its lost glory and wisdom, of Tar-Míriel the Queen, of all that has been lost. They weep, and his eyes are burning dry.

IX.

There is no quiet after the Downfall. Elendil, Isildur, and Anárion of Atalantë have established the kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor in Middle-Earth. Sauron has returned to Mordor and his gathering strength. Great hosts of Elves, Men and Dwarves are gathering in the North, banding together to fight the forces of Darkness in Mordor, in what is already being called the Last Alliance, as though they are sure that they will be defeated and Darkness will settle over Middle-Earth forevermore.

Maglor feels a burning in his chest to join the host of the Alliance, as though his heart has been set alight, and for a moment he is filled with terror. Is this the Oath reawakened? Has the terrible Oath of Fëanor and his seven sons awoken from long slumber in his breast? What could have awoken it? The Silmarils are gone, to the sea, the sky and the earth at his feet. What could trigger the Oath into wakefulness?

His terror passes after a moment, when he realizes that the burning, similar though it may be to the pain of the Oath, is not that. It is simply a want for revenge on the death of his nephew, so cruelly misused and slain. The idea that he just wants revenge for Celebrimbor is a relief.

Maglor finds himself another assumed name, and no one thinks anything of this tall Elf who wants to join the army, wants to help fight off the coming Darkness. Gil-Galad and Elrond will take anyone willing to join the Host, join the Last Alliance. Perhaps we will all die, Maglor supposes numbly as he sharpens his sword one day in the camp, waiting for the moment, always waiting. Perhaps this is the end, this is the end of all things. At last, I will find peace in death, or at the very least, if I survive, I will grow weary, and hear the summons to the Houses of the Dead.

Maybe Námo will even let me stay, instead of flinging me into the Void.

From the moment they enter the ruined, blackened land of Mordor, it takes seven years.

The Last Alliance besieges Sauron's stronghold of Barad-dûr for seven years. So many lives are lost, tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands—Maglor is not sure which. Anárion, co-Ruler of Gondor, younger son of the High King of the Dúnedain, Elendil, is killed in the sixth year of the Siege, in Gorgoroth. Finally, in the seventh year, Sauron emerges from the tower of Barad-dûr, to at last do battle with the forces of the Last Alliance.

Maglor sees it happen. He watches Gil-Galad, last High King of the Noldor, fall before the terrible might of Sauron, scorched alive by a single touch. Elendil, High King of the Dúnedain, falls the same way. Isildur rushes to his father's side, and takes up the hilt-shard of Elendil's sword, and even as Sauron advances on him to end the line of the Kings, Isildur lashes out, and cuts away the finger bearing the Ring of Power from Sauron's hand.

Maglor is there to see it happen. Sees Elrond lead Isildur up the path towards Amon Amarth as Círdan reassembles the shattered armies. Sees Isildur stop halfway up the path, and he and Elrond begin to argue over the fate of the One Ring.

"This I will have as weregild for my father's death, and my brother's."*

The words send a sick sense of foreboding deep into Maglor's gut. It sounds all too close to something Fëanor might have said, probably did say, after Finwë was killed.

Smoke rising from the ravaged land, the battle is over. Maglor stares about the field, at the corpses, and feels more tired than he ever has, since the end of the Nirnaeth, since the first day that he acted as King when Maedhros was taken into captivity in Angband. At least Ilmanis was still alive at that point, though now I wonder: how tired was she? Perhaps this is what it feels like, the beginning of Fading, to feel tired to your bones, and see no end in sight to your weariness.

He stares about the smoking battlefield, and sees Elrond moving wearily about, holding his head low, clasping the hilt of his sword as though trying to ward off some specter that only he can see. There's the glint of a ring at his finger, gold and sapphire, and Maglor wonders if that's one of the Rings his nephew made, ere he was slain. He looks so tired, and so drained, and Maglor is reminded all too keenly of the boy he once was, exhausted after sword practice, weary after a day of battle during the War of Wrath. Under those circumstances, Maglor would have ushered him back inside, whether 'inside' was the fortress of Amon Ereb, or a tent in an Edain camp. He and his brother would lean on each other when they were tired, and still had a ways to go before reaching their beds. How does he feel without Elros there beside him? How has he felt? I think I know. It must be the same way I've felt, without my brothers. Like the space around me is too wide, and too empty.

But he could still blight his life yet with the Doom laid upon him, or perhaps it is just cowardice that keeps Maglor well away from his fosterling this day. Either way, Maglor knows that it is time for him to disappear again, and so he does, going from the blood-soaked battlefield, shedding armor and weapons. Later, someone will find a sword with the Star of Fëanor carved into its hilt. The sword will make its way to Elrond, but he will not be sure what to make of it, and its owner will be long gone by the time he tries to find out who it belonged to.

X.

Maglor takes up wandering the shores again after that. He still searches the surface of the waves for any signs of glowing light, but it seems more out of tedium and frustration and a simple lack of anything else to do that he does so. Sad songs escape his lips less often these days. Sound of any kind has grown a rarity. His voice grows dim and silent. It's simply too much of an effort.

News trickles down to him, as it does. The Lord of Imladris has wed. He has married this past year Celebrían, daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn of Lothlórien. The news goes on, as years pass. The Lady Celebrían has given birth to twin sons, called Elladan and Elrohir. She has given birth to a daughter, named Arwen.

Maglor hears the news, and he smiles, a small, tired, nonetheless genuine smile. Elrond has lost home after home after home, and built a new one. He lost his family, and made a new one. He smiles, and is glad for him. It is heartening to know that not everyone lives ever-dwelling on the past.

XI.

Time passes like water through a sieve, and more news comes down to Maglor, nothing that makes him smile.

Celebrían was waylaid by orcs on the road over the Misty Mountains, as she was going to visit her parents in Lothlórien. This much, Maglor already knew. There have been detachments from Imladris and Lothlórien, led by Elladan, Elrohir and Celeborn, all tearing the countryside apart looking for her; he could hardly miss that. Then comes news that her twin sons found her and brought her back to Imladris so she could be healed, but that Celebrían could not endure in Middle-Earth any longer, and has taken a ship from the Grey Havens to Valinor, never to return.

It is all too easy to imagine the grieving of her husband and parents, and her children. It is all too easy to imagine the grief of Celebrían herself, for often has Maglor desired to go home to a place where torment can not reach, often has he found life in this place joyless and dark. But Maglor finds that, rather than grieving himself, he simply feels tired.

Old images spring to mind, of his own family. Finwë, smiling, laughing, settling family disputes, dead on the steps of his house. Fëanor, burning so brightly, then burning in his death. Celegorm and Curufin, riding out over Himlad, then dead. Caranthir, often scowling and ill-tempered, but still capable of gentleness, but not meeting a gentle fate. The Ambarussa, together in life and death. Maedhros, consumed by fire of a different makeup than what consumed their father.

They left Nerdanel their mother on the other side of the sea. Did she feel for them as Elrond must for Celebrían, wondering if she would ever see her sons again, wondering without much cause for hope? At least Elrond does not say farewell to one who has done evil things, and is sure to do worse in the future. What about Mother? What did she think of us? What does she think of us? Does she grieve?

No. I can imagine that she grieved, but Mother wouldn't spend the rest of time languishing in sorrow over those whom she must know she will not see again. Mother isn't like that. She'd consider it impractical.

Nerdanel, daughter of Mahtan, is not one for grieving evermore. She's probably opened up her shop in Tirion again. She'd sooner do that than sit around in idleness for any reason.

Memories of one above all others rise in his mind at this news, however.

Maglor recalls images of Celebrían, from what little he saw of her during the years of the siege on Imladris. Celebrían much resembles her mother, and doesn't. She has the same light green eyes. Her face is shaped the same as Galadriel's, and her eyebrows rise during conversation the same way that Galadriel's would when she heard something she considered interesting. But her hair is wholly silver, without the gold of Galadriel's tresses. She is much shorter and more slightly-shouldered than Galadriel, and while Galadriel's eyes had the light of one who had beheld the Two Trees and been brought up in Valinor in the days of bliss, Celebrían has none of that. There was light in her eyes, Maglor remembers that, but it was not the light of the Trees.

Thinking of Celebrían and her torments, of eventually leaving her husband behind, thinking of Elrond, watching her go, brings up memories, more memories that he would like nothing better than to leave behind.

Dead in Menegroth. Always quiet, but she'd grown more so with each passing year, and I did not notice until the very eve of her death, when it was too late to do anything about it. His wife, Ilmanis, had voyaged to Middle-Earth with him. There she had been, dark-haired, dark-eyed and pale, radiant, but silent, and unsmiling. They had stood together in exile, but silence had grown between them, slowly, so slowly that Maglor did not notice it until silence had swallowed her whole, and was doing the same to him. And now she has been dead for more than five thousand years.

Perhaps Ilmanis has been let out of the Houses of the Dead, and re-embodied. Maglor can hope for that. But he has little hope that he will ever see his love again. He'll have to content himself with the knowledge that Elrond eventually will.

XII.

Maglor is surprised when the group of Elves approaches him.

More specifically, a company of Elves, a little over twenty, comes walking by the shore one night, singing a hymn of Elbereth Gilthoniel, and a golden-haired nér who seems to be the leader of said company spots him, breaks away from the group, and comes down the dunes to speak to him.

"Well met. I am Gildor Inglorion, of the House of Finrod," the nér introduces himself, speaking Sindarin in such a way that, even thousands of years later, Maglor can tell does not sit well upon his tongue—and indeed, one of the house of his cousin Finrod would have likely grown up speaking Quenya.

Maglor gives a false name again, wary of Gildor's reaction should he discover exactly who the stranger he has approached is. They speak at length, Gildor saying to him that he and his company are of the Noldorin Exiles. Maglor supposes that might be true for some of them, but Gildor, he can plainly see, has never seen the light of the Two Trees, and is more likely to be the child of Exiles, rather than an Exile himself. If so, his golden hair is not so odd; there were many Noldor among the Exiles who had Vanyarin blood, especially among the followers of the sons of Finarfin.

Gildor is pleasant enough, speaking calmly, as one would to a stranger who is not a friend, but no enemy either—again, Maglor has to wonder exactly how Gildor would react if he knew to whom he was speaking. His purpose, as he explains it, is one that catches Maglor's attention.

Gildor and five others were sent from Imladris by Elrond to gather any Elves they could find wandering Middle-Earth alone, away from settlements and not abreast of the latest news, and to offer them the chance to leave Middle-Earth. The Elves in Gildor's group beyond the five he started out with are those whom they met along the way, who elected to stay with the company rather than go on to Imladris or the Grey Havens. Elrond has directed Gildor to extend the offer to any Elf he meets, be they Sinda, Noldorin Exile, Silvan, or even Avar, if any of the Avari live still on the shores of Middle-Earth, but not to attempt to force any to accept the offer.

There is a new Darkness spreading over Middle-Earth, with Mordor as its epicenter. Elrond will have sensed this, and Maglor can only suppose that this is the reason he has sent Gildor out now, of all times, searching for Elves living on their own in Middle-Earth.

Maglor nods, and lies and tells Gildor that he will consider the offer, the better to say so in order to keep Gildor from being tempted to come to this shore again, looking to see if the Elf he met on the shores of Harlindon near the mouth of the Brandywine is still there, or has moved on to Imladris or the Grey Havens. All the while, he is appalled at how rusted and unused his voice sounds to his own ears.

Gildor offers him a half-smile that looks more like a grimace, perhaps an expression of sympathy, and he goes back to join his band, waiting up on the wiry beach grass above. As they go, the strains of their song reach Maglor's ears.

"O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!

We still remember, we who dwell

In this far land beneath the trees

Thy starlight on the Western seas."†

Maglor echoes the words in his heart, but his heart aches, and he does not sing aloud. The way his voice is now, Varda would likely take his singing as an insult.

XIII.

It is over.

The second Darkness has been extinguished, Barad-dûr has crumbled, and Sauron is vanquished until the breaking of the World.

Maglor had not been paying nearly so much attention to this second rising of Sauron as he had to the first, and as such, he'd not noticed how leaden and oppressive the air about him had grown until a mighty wind came and the air cleared around him, and he drew deep breaths, and for a moment it felt as though he was back in Aman.

But it is over. Sauron's Ring has been destroyed, and with it his power and vitality has utterly failed. Whether his houseless spirit has been flung beyond the Doors of Night or he has been left to wander, invisible and powerless throughout Middle-Earth, Maglor does not care. Morgoth's foul servant, who threatened Middle-Earth twice over, is gone.

Through gossip and hearsay and keeping his ears open while in places he should not be, Maglor has known of his Sauron's Ring since long ago, and the effect it has on others. There are times, such as this one, when Maglor wonders if Sauron didn't design his Ring with the Silmarils in mind, because the effect the Ring has on those who bear it seems just the same as does the Silmarils. They each seem to inspire obsession and all-consumption. Maglor supposes that this could be a topic of philosophical debate, but that doesn't matter to him today.

He is watching a ship leave out of the Grey Havens.

The Ringbearers, the bearers of the Three Rings of the Elves and the little periannath who bore Sauron's Ring up until the time of its unmaking, are leaving Middle-Earth for Valinor. The periannath are weary of this land, and in great need of healing. With the unmaking of the One Ring, the power of the Three has waned, and their bearers are afflicted anew with the weariness of the Elves. Artanis is on that ship, Maglor thinks to himself, numbly and yet not so. And so is Elrond.

Galadriel has lingered long in Middle-Earth, even when she must have been given a choice to return to Valinor after the destruction of Beleriand in the War of Wrath. Maglor remembers, in Tirion, how she had been when he and his brothers and father had sworn their terrible Oath. Indis had been in mourning for her husband. Findis, Lalwen, Nerdanel, Anairë, Eärwen, Aredhel, Elenwë and Idril were doing their best to comfort her. His wife, Ilmanis, and Curufin's, Telpalma, were nowhere to be found. But Galadriel stood tall in that time, the only nís of the ruling family of the Noldor to do so. She was great and proud, wishing for a land of her own to rule instead of forever being the vassal of her father, or her brothers.

And she found it here. Lothlórien she ruled, side by side with her husband, who apparently is not leaving with her—but when has Artanis ever cared for the rules of propriety that say a wife should go nowhere without her husband? She had her lands to rule, she had her freedom, with no one attempting to curtail it, and perhaps that is why she stayed. It could be that she was the same as me, fearing the judgment of the Valar. No. Artanis is many things, but I have never known her to be afraid of judgment. Too proud to face it, she might have been, but she can never have been afraid of it.

This day, Galadriel will make her journey home. Maglor will watch his cousin go, wondering if she will ever be happy there again, and ultimately, he will decide that Galadriel will be more than capable of making her own happiness.

This day, Elrond goes to a place he has never seen, a place that can not be home to him. But perhaps it will become home to him in time, for there is his wife, and there are his parents, his real parents (if Eärendil ever comes down from the sky, and Elwing ever down from her tower), and every member of the house of Fingolfin, from which Elrond ultimately hails. For one moment, Maglor desires at last to speak with him, to come down from his hiding place and look upon his fosterling, one last time…

…But the ship is pulling out of the harbor, and wandering out onto the clear blue sea, and it is too late.

This day, the Ringbearers leave Middle-Earth for good, and Maglor lifts his voice in song again for the first time in more than three thousand years, trying to sing a song of farewell and well-wishing, but his voice is weak, and lost on the wind. It is too much to hope that either Galadriel or Elrond heard it.

XIV.

Middle-Earth is gradually emptied of the Eldar, ships leaving the harbor of the Grey Havens, until at long last, Círdan himself sets sail, and the Grey Havens are left silent and empty. Lothlórien is empty, and fading. Imladris is empty, and crumbling. The Elves have returned whence they came, and the world is a lesser place for it.

Maglor wanders the shores and sings. Gondor and Arnor rise to new splendor around him, before inevitably crumbling again. Rohan does the same. The Dwarves pass out of history into legend, as do the periannath. Maglor wanders, and sings, and stops paying attention. His songs are of grief, of love, of hope, of truth, see-sawing back and forth from despair to joy and back again. He learns to sing happy songs again.

He spends so much of his time singing that he doesn't notice when the world, slowly and subtly, but inexorably changes around him. Maglor looks up one day from his singing, and realizes that the world has changed.

Gondor and Arnor and Rohan and Harad and all the other kingdoms of Middle-Earth are all gone. In their places are nations of Men: Uruk and Sumer and Crete and Greece and Nubia and Egypt and many others beside.

The world is not what he remembers. Maglor does not know when the shores stopped being what he remembered, when the people stopped being the people he once knew. Everything is different. Even the stars have changed their patterns, and even the Moon and the Sun seem different to him now, dimmer and further away. The lapping waters of the sea have grown alien to him. In that same moment, Maglor realizes that he has not even given thought to the Silmarils in untold years. He no longer loves or hates or even desires them, or perhaps it simply doesn't matter anymore.

Maglor comes up from the shores for good; he may return to the seaside in time, but he will wander them aimlessly no longer. The seas are not what they were. Maglor can not believe that Ulmo, Ossë, Uinen, or even the Silmaril he cast into the depths dwell anywhere in these waters. There is no point.

He wanders instead first along the dry hills of the land that the locals come to call Canaan, moving from settlement to settlement, slowly learning again the speech of Men as it has become in the lands. Civilization seems to have regressed significantly; the Men of Sumer have only just rediscovered how to write a few centuries ago. Everything seems to have gone completely backwards at some point in time, and has only just begun to move forwards again.

One night as a guest in a camp, Maglor sits at a campfire and listens to the storyteller of this particular camp tell a story of a Man who killed his brother, the very first murderer, by the reckoning of these Men.

There were once two brothers, Cain and Abel. The elder, Cain, tilled the land, and the younger brother, Abel, was a shepherd. One day, it came time for them to give sacrifices to God; Cain brought the food-plants that he had cultivated to sacrifice, and Abel brought up one of his choice sheep, but while Abel's sacrifice was looked upon with favor, Cain's was not.

Cain was enraged by this, seething with the injustice of it all, that he had brought up the best that he had to give to God, and God had favored his younger brother over him. Cain and Abel argued at length, and when they were far afield in the fields that Cain cultivated, Cain took up a rock of great size and smote it against Abel's head, slaying him.

God spoke to Cain, asking, "Where is Abel your brother?"

Cain replied, "I know not. I am not my brother's keeper."

But God was not fooled, and he replied, "What have you done? The voice of your brother's blood cries to me from the earth, claiming you as his killer. You are cursed upon the surface of the earth, who opened her mouth to drink your brother's blood. Henceforth when you till the earth, you will grow no grain nor fruit. All shall know what you have done, and you will be a vagabond and fugitive upon the earth."

At this, Cain was greatly dismayed, crying, "This punishment is more than I can bear. You have driven me out of the company of my kin this day, and you will look upon me no more. No man has ever before killed another, and when it is discovered what I have done, everyone who comes upon me shall wish to slay me."

Therefore, God set a mark upon Cain, a mark both identifying him as he who had slain his brother, first murderer in history, and as a sign to all who crossed his path to say that he must not be slain.

After the story is done, Maglor stares, shocked, at the storyteller, who does not notice the way the guest of the tribe is gaping at him. The group disperses, Maglor returning to the tent of the family who hosts him, still in a state of blank shock, barely hearing quiet Irit bidding him good night and good rest, barely hearing himself wishing her the same.

That is his story.

It is his story, twisted and mangled through the Ages, perhaps mixed in with the threat his father once made upon his brother Fingolfin's life and magnified. This is what history has made of him, even when the lands of the earth has forgotten the shape it once had. Nothing but a craven murderer. This will be his legacy now, to be remembered as nothing but a murderer. The thought makes a lump grow slowly in his throat. That is his story he heard told to him this past night, and lying in his pallet upon the hard, dry earth, listening to Ari and Irit and their children breathe softly in their sleep, Maglor can barely breathe himself.‡

After that, he leaves Canaan.

Maglor wanders north, and west, in no great hurry, and eventually comes to the land of Greece. Greece is a cluster of city-states of great might, and Athens is a glorious city, though Maglor can't help but think that he has seen greater earlier in Babylon and Persia, and that none of the cities of this new earth compare to the great and marvelous cities of Middle-Earth and Aman.

He comes upon a vast shop where a sculptor works, and wanders inside, looking upon the sculptor's wares.

There are statues here of stone—other sculptors make statues also of bronze, but not this one. Mostly of nude men, predominantly athletes, but there are others. There are statues of animals, of plants. There is one of a man bearing a calf over his shoulders. Maglor sees a man and a woman, lovers, locked together, lying prone, and his eyes prickle and burn with faint tears, and he has to look away.

The sculptor, sitting at a table and looking over his accounts, finally looks up and sees the stranger, tall, and proud and fair of face, and he springs to his feet, hurrying over to the stranger, possibly in the hopes of finding a buyer. "They're wonderful, aren't then? I think they're Master Alkaios's best works yet."

So this is the apprentice, and not the master. They talk long, the young apprentice attempting to maneuver Maglor into the position of being willing to buy a statue. Maglor eventually leaves empty-handed, much to the disappointment of the apprentice.

Yes, the statues are wonderful. Of the men of this new, strange-shaped world, these are the best statues Maglor has seen. But…

He remembers the days of his youth, laying eyes upon statues that once painted were often taken for living Elves. Nerdanel would come into her workshop, her long red hair swishing behind her and catching the light of Laurelin pouring through the windows. She would smile at her second-born, and quite briskly tell him to either stay out of her way or leave while she was working—but if you wish to practice your music here, I will hardly complain.

But these statues are clumsy and poorly made compared to even the simplest of his mother's sculptures.

XV.

Maglor scowls down at the lyre pressed into his hands.

He has never had much use for any instrument besides the harp. The harp was his one joy besides singing in music, the first instrument he ever learned to play, and the only instrument he ever wished to play. Maglor only knows how to play any other instrument, among which the lyre can be numbered, because Ilmanis had persuaded him to learn. You limit yourself by refusing to learn to play any instrument but the harp, she had said, a thin smile curling over her lips as she sat down and pulled a lyre on to her lap. This is similar enough; won't you at least try to learn? Or will you let it be said that Kanafinwë Makalaurë was bested by a lyre?

Well, he could hardly let that stand, and thus Maglor learned to play the harp—he didn't notice when Ilmanis used the same argument to persuade him to learn to play the flute and lute as well.

He has left the Silmarils long behind, beyond fresh grief or hate or desire, but there is something they have left with him. Not since Maglor swore the Oath has he had any enthusiasm for music as he used to. The ability to sing spontaneously has returned to him, bit by bit by bit, though he does not think it will ever be as strong as it used to be, but to play an instrument, he has no desire. He had taught Elrond to play the harp, tried to teach Elros the same before it became clear that Elros had no particular talent or enthusiasm beyond a game willingness to learn to do anything put in front of him, but Maglor had had no love for it, even then. He had loved teaching Elrond, but he had not loved playing. In silent moments when he was alone and he did not need to put up any pretense, he stared down at his silver harp, and his mind ran blank at the thought of playing it. Longing for the Silmarils took up every bit of space in his heart that had been devoted to his music, and forced it out, and even now, will not let it back in.

But there is a small crowd who has already heard him sing, and they're all staring hopefully at him, so Maglor sighs and begins.

His long fingers strum against the lyre's strings, testing, familiarizing himself with the instrument again, and it amazes Maglor how easy it is to recall how to play it, when he has not held a lyre in a little over ten thousand years—how easy would it be for me to remember the harp, if this is how easily I remember to play an instrument I never loved?

Maglor runs his fingers over the strings, doing the scales back and forth, and then, he begins to play, and sing.

It's a short song, a song of the grief of losing a beloved wife, the words rising out of his mind without any prompting, and for the length of time in which he sings, Maglor feels as he did before he swore to Manwë and Varda and Eru. He's not sure what made him settle on such a maudlin topic; perhaps it was the weight of the lyre in his hands.

His song ends. At first, Maglor stares down at his hands, realizing for the first time that his burned fingers should not have possessed such dexterity, but then he looks up to find his audience much enlarged, and every one of them in tears.

"You sing as the living soul of Orpheus," an elderly man says to him, as Maglor surrenders his lyre and rises to his feet.

"Orpheus?" Maglor asks, brow knitted in confusion.

Perhaps the old man thinks him a foreigner who does not know their tales, for he explains it to him. Orpheus was a musician and poet who lived long ago, he says. It was said that his skill in song and with the lyre was so great that he could charm all living things. On the day of his wedding to Eurydice, Eurydice, walking alone through a field of tall grass, was beset by a satyr who intended to ravish her. Eurydice fled, only to fall into a nest of vipers, where she was bitten on the heel and killed.

Orpheus's love and grief for Eurydice was so great that he travelled to the underworld to retrieve her. His singing was so wondrous fair and heartbroken that Hades, ruler of the underworld, was moved to pity for the first time, and wept tears of iron. He agreed to allow Eurydice to live again, on one condition: Orpheus had to walk in front of her, and not look back until both were in the lands of the living. However, Orpheus, upon reaching the land of the living once more, looked back too soon, and Eurydice vanished, descending back down to the underworld forevermore. Orpheus wandered the earth alone after that, until he ran afoul of and was ripped apart by Maenads.

Maglor thanked the old man for complimenting him in comparing him to this legendary singer, but that he did not think that comparing him to Orpheus was quite apt.

And indeed it is not.

Frankly, Maglor prefers the way the story of Lúthien and Beren ended, rather than that of Orpheus and Eurydice, and wonders at exactly what point people started conflating the fate of Lúthien with that of Daeron.

And what's this business about being ripped apart by Maenads, anyways?

XVI.

The more Maglor sees of the world, the more he sees of people he once knew in the stories he hears.

If he saw himself in Cain, he sees himself in Scheherazade and her thousand-and-one tales as well, when Elrond and Elros would ask for a story and weren't content to listen to a story they'd heard before. Atalantë has shifted to Atlantis, with eerily few differences. The Fisher King and his ailing kingdom is very much akin to Lothlórien's decline after Galadriel left it. The Round Table of King Arthur seems to him the same as the Union of Maedhros, both in what it represented and what became of it. Avalon is so similar in name to Avallónë that the same as Atlantis Maglor is sure that it can't be a coincidence.

Atalanta the virgin huntress and her suitor Melegear evoke memories of Aredhel and Celegorm. With stories of people trapped in Fairyland for years upon years and finally being released, with no idea of just how much time has passed, Maglor remembers Aredhel there as well. Every set of twin brothers becomes Elrond and Elros, or the Ambarussa. Every wise woman becomes Nerdanel in his mind. Every hero of legend said to have red hair becomes Maedhros; everyone said to be that hero's most beloved friend becomes Fingon. Every beautiful female musician becomes so vividly Ilmanis that he can almost remember the timbre of her soft voice.

There are no figures of legend that can properly embody his father; there is no one who can serve as a stand-in for Fëanor. The only one who comes close, in Maglor's view, is Kagu-tsuchi, who burned his mother with his birth.§

They have all become stories, though they bear different names and are very different from what they have become. But when Maglor hears these stories, he can almost believe that he hears tales of his family again, so he drinks them up, clinging to eerily familiar tales.

XVII.

"Poor, dumb beast," Maglor mutters, as the knight draws his sword from the soft spot on the breast of the dragon and a spray of blood as red as rubies spurts out, before dribbling away. The knight shoots him an utterly aghast look, but Maglor ignores it.

This dragon was menacing a village in the south of Britain, and a young knight was sent out to slay it. Maglor took one look at the knight, at how young and green he was, and knew that he would not survive if he tried to take on the dragon alone. It had taken some doing, but he'd convinced the knight to let him accompany him and aid him in the slaying of the dragon.

"'Poor, dumb beast'?" the knight echoes incredulously. "It nearly razed an entire town!"

"Oh, Alfred." Maglor bends low over the massive red-brown, scaly head of the dragon, and watches as the light at last goes from the dragon's yellow eyes. There's a faint impression of terror in its eyes, but then, nothing but darkness. "You don't understand. You really don't understand."

This was the last dragon.

This was the last dragon, and it was a dumb, piteous beast, with none of the intelligence that its forefathers had possessed. The dragons of the east had been more intelligent, and indeed, some of them could speak and converse with men, but all the same, they had died out more quickly then had the dragons of the west, who went on nothing but instinct and hunger and greed.

When Maglor thinks of dragons, he is most likely to recall Glaurung, who laid waste to his lands in Beleriand, killed many of his household and nearly killed him, but when he looks at this poor, dumb, dead beast, he feels nothing but pity, and a deep, sharp shaft of sorrow.

Here lies the last vestige of Middle-Earth.

Except for him.

XVIII.

I've forgotten their faces.

Maglor wakes from a dead sleep with that thought screaming in his head, screaming at him to wake up and try to remember. He shakes sleep away, sits up straight on the soft, mossy earth, and tries to process his thoughts, tries to remember the faces.

Mother, whom he left behind first of all, as she shook her head in anger and left their camp after her last argument with Fëanor. Father, who was consumed with the fire of his own spirit, and left his sons to flounder in Beleriand, unsure of what to do without him.

His brothers, who died one by one, going down into darkness.

His nephew, from brilliant child to brilliant gemsmith to cold, mangled corpse.

His wife, radiant in his eyes, but who nonetheless he forgot about so easily, pale and withdrawn.

His foster-sons, whom he loved and cherished, who brought cheer into his heavy heart.

Grandfather, who was killed on the steps of his house. Grandfather, who was working at his forge. Grandmother at her paintings. Indis, who was not his grandmother but whom Maglor thought of as such anyways, humming softly. Uncles, aunts, and cousins, so many, languishing on the Ice and in Beleriand.

Sitting up on the mossy earth, sitting in the dark, Maglor tries to recall their faces, and realizes that if one of them was to appear in front of him now, he would not be able to recognize them by face alone. It's been too long. But it occurs to Maglor that this matters little.

All traces of Middle-Earth are gone, except for him. Even the scars on his hands have faded. Where once his hands were twisted and blackened, thick with scar tissue, unable to grasp, now the scars have faded. His hands are slightly misshapen, and the lines on his hands are invisible in places, but he can grasp and grip just as well as any other person here, or perhaps Maglor has finally adjusted to the difference, and no longer notices that his hands are clumsier than they ought to be.

This matters little.

The Noldor were placed under a Doom, the house of Fëanor under a Doom specific to them, and Maglor knows what his specific Doom shall be. For he who rejected the judgment of the Valar, his Doom is to wander the earth until the end of time. For this reason, he has not Faded, nor felt the weariness that signals the first sign of Fading, though he is sick at heart in a numb sort of way. He has not felt the summons of the Houses of the Dead, for there is nowhere in Aman that will have him. He must wander. Unless there is a place for the Elves after the breaking of the world, Maglor will never see his family again. It matters little whether he can remember their faces or not.

XIX.

Maglor finds that he prefers old, storied cities.

Alexandria, Luxor, Timbuktu, Carthage, Axum. Samarkand, Beijing, Osaka, Baghdad, Jerusalem, Damascus, Mumbai. Krakow, Vienna, Rome, London, Athens, Syracuse, Istanbul.

He prefers cities with history dating back centuries, sometimes thousands of years, and the older, the better. He prefers old, large cities that a person can get lost in, and stay lost in. All this, because of what happens sometimes.

Sometimes, it will be early in the morning in summer. The sun is just starting to rise, and Maglor will be walking in a narrow alley. It can be in Damascus or Syracuse or Istanbul. The city is just starting to wake up, and for one moment, one long moment, Maglor can look around, and believe that he is home.

XX.

But sometimes, Maglor must go away from storied cities.

Maglor feels the footsteps of doom approaching, slow and faltering, but sure nonetheless. He feels it in the way the sun and moon have grown colder and dimmer with each passing year. The course of the Straight Road has shifted, but he suspects it to be somewhere in the area of Bermuda. He's taken up work as a gardener in a town in Great Britain, earning a modest living and sleeping in an almshouse. Maglor will sing absently in Quenya when he's working and going up and down the street to pick up milk or food.

A young boy follows him back and forth when he has free time, thinking that Maglor doesn't know that he's being followed.

However, Maglor does know that he's being followed. It does not particularly bother him; this boy poses no danger to him and Maglor has no hatred for children in his heart. The boy will reveal himself eventually, Maglor is sure.

Finally, he does. Maglor is in the butcher's shop one day, trying to decide what cut of pork to buy, when suddenly the boy who's been following him appears at his shoulder, looking up at him with an air of polite curiosity. "What is that language you sing in when you work?"

Maglor is so startled by this question (for never before has anyone shown any curiosity for the strange languages he sings in), that he answers the boy honestly. "It is Quenya, child."

The boy tilts his head to one side, eyes even more alight with curiosity than before. "I've never heard of Quenya. Is it some sort of Oriental tongue?"

A bubble of laughter rises to Maglor's lips despite himself. "No, child. Quenya is one of many languages that was once spoken all across the earth, but has been lost."

Normally, Maglor supposes absently, someone would at this moment look at him, deem him to be either joking, lying or mad, and politely (or not so politely) excuse themselves, the better so that they would no longer have to listen to falsehoods being spoken to. Not so this boy. The curiosity in his eyes, if it's even possible, grows even brighter. "Will you teach me to speak it?" he asks with an odd eagerness in his eyes.

Maglor nearly says no. He can remember the words and script of Quenya easily—how could he ever forget the script his father made? The same goes for Sindarin, and to a lesser extent Nandorin, Adûnaic and what little he ever learned of the Dwarvish tongue. But the boy looks up at him with a feverish eagerness painfully reminiscent of Elrond and Elros when they wished to learn something, and Maglor sees the chance to see one boy grow up to be not a man, but a Man. So he says yes.

They meet beneath a tree on the banks of a stream. The boy brings a book of blank paper and a pen, and they sit together beneath the tree. Maglor traces characters and words in the dirt with a stick, and the boy copies them down with endearing intensity.

Quenya, Sindarin, Nandorin, Adûnaic, Westron, the tongue of the Dwarves, Maglor teaches the boy the languages he once heard spoken all around him. Then, he tells him the stories. First, of Gondolin and its fall. Then, of Beren and Lúthien. Then of the making and the Marring of Arda. Then, of his father. On and on and on, he tells the stories. The words flow from his mouth, can't and won't stop, so much of a relief it is to finally have someone else again who knows what he once saw and lived.

One day, the boy looks up at him. He smiles slightly, and says, "One day I'll make a book out of all these stories. Other people should know."

Maglor smiles weakly down at him. He suspects that stories lose something of their power when committed to the written word—something of the magic is lost. The idea of that happening to his beloved Aman, his beloved Endóre, is wrenching. But mayhap it will not be so bad, when others know.

End Notes:

* The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'.
† The Fellowship of the Ring, 'Three is Company'.
‡ The story of Cain and Abel is taken from the King James Version of the Christian Bible, with some changes for storytelling purposes. It really is startling, the similarities between the stories of Maglor and Fëanor and Cain, isn't it? The name Cain isn't that far off from Kano in sound. Fëanor once threatened to kill his younger brother, and Fëanor and his sons were the first Elf-on-Elf murderers, and all of the killings carried out by Fëanor and/or his sons on Elves are remembered in histories as the Kinslayings. When Maglor and Maedhros came to Eönwë's camp at the end of the War of Wrath to steal the two Silmarils found there, Eönwë bid that neither of them be harmed. Moreover, Maglor was marked in a very specific way by the Silmaril, and he lived as a vagabond ever after (Though Cain would eventually go on to found a city). It really makes me wonder if Tolkien wasn't doing this on purpose.
§ Kagu-tsuchi is a god of fire in Japanese mythology. The son of Izanagi and Izanami, the first two gods, his birth burned his mother Izanami, killing her. Izanagi beheaded Kagu-tsuchi, and from every drop of blood from Izanagi's sword sprung up a new god.

Maitimo—Maedhros
Curufinwë—Curufin
Telperinquar—Celebrimbor
Artanis—Galadriel

Belegaer—The Great Sea of the West
Endóre—Middle-Earth (Quenya)
Elenna—a Quenya name for Númenor, 'Starwards'
Westernesse—the translation of Anadûnê, the Adûnaic name for Númenor
Adaneth—human woman, woman of the Edain (Sindarin)
The Powers—a name for the Valar; as Ossë and Uinen are both Maiar, calling them such may be the result of forgetfulness or defiance on Maglor's part
Gil-Estel—'Star of Hope'; Sindarin name for Eärendil bearing his Silmaril through the sky in his ship, Vingilot
High Eldarin—Quenya
Akallabêth—'The Downfallen', the name for Númenor in the Adûnaic tongue after it is sunken
Atalantë—'The Downfallen', the Quenya equivalent of Akallabêth
Mar-nu-Falmar—'The Land Under the Waves'
Mithlond—The Grey Havens (Sindarin)
Tatyarin—of the Tatyar, the original name for the Noldor (named after Tata and Tatië, the original Noldor)
Nís—woman (plural: nissi)
Amon Amarth—Mount Doom; the name given to the mountain of Orodruin when its fires awoke again with Sauron's return to Mordor
Nér—man (plural: neri)
Elbereth Gilthoniel—another name for Varda
Periannath—Hobbits (Singular: perian) (Sindarin)