I fled when I saw him thus, believing that remnants of Morgoth still remained and he was to devour my soul. Living alone on a hidden haven near a pristine stretch of sandy shore, self preservation entails mostly of running away and collecting my nerves before fighting back.
It was when I took my brother's sword, Figwit my loyal canine by my side that I dared risk searching the wraith with the aide of moonlight and my oil-lamp. To my surprise, Figwit happily wagged his tail at the sight of him and trotted to his welcoming coos, who bent on his knee to pet him.
"What may your business be, sir, off with you on your way," I said. "We welcome no strangers, Figwit and me."
"You have a good dog. I am merely a weary traveller seeking a meal and a moment's rest where it is not troublesome in return for a day's labour, if it troubles you not, mistress," he replied in a melodic voice, which sounded like honey spilling down the table as it does sometimes when Figwit wants a taste on my winter store, sweet and makes you hunger it more.
"He likes you enough," traitor. I was hesitant about inviting a total stranger, let alone a wraith inside my home, but my Mother always said to be kind to travellers. There are logs to be split after all. I gave a quick look on the surrounding area. "There are no more in your company?" On his face registered an expression of total loneliness so profound it nearly broke my heart.
"No," he nearly whispered,"there is only me." I made a decision to trust him-well, to not stab me in my sleep at least. Figwit does not take to strangers easily, and for a canine he has a sound judge of human character, and so I said, "Come with me now, you may sleep at the hearth, and I have some broth and bread leftover from supper, if it is to your liking? I live a simple life compared to the grand cities."
"It shall serve," his accent, I realized was quite thick, but I made no comment as he followed me.
"What is your name? Mine is Fara," I offered a hand which he slowly took, as if the gesture was rare to him. "I was-am called Maglor." He has a firm grip, but he looked slightly lost so I shook it up and down awhile and let go. "We're introduced then."
I pointed to the basin of clean water I used to wash up before I entered my small cottage and told him to wash himself first before entering, and to leave his boots outside, I took the Harad practise of removal of shoes when inside their homes, it is cleanerand easier to clean up later. I started the fire and hung the pot in its place, warming up the broth I offered him. I also found the extra blankets, and as an afterthought brought out my father's old tunics collecting moth in my dresser. He might need it more than my old father ever will now, 6 feet under and probably no less argumentative.
He came in, his cloak he hung on the coathanger near the door. In the now clearer light of good beeswax candles, I gasped when I saw him face. He was beautiful, far more beautiful than is expected of a male, beardless and his long hair hung in matted knots around his head. His tunic was torn and obviously have not been mended in quite some time, while his breeches, while sensible and good, were showing use. His duffelbag was placed almost negligently near a chair I intended to allow him to sleep on later on.
Maglor also looked hesitant and I came to my senses "there is food on the table," pointing to a bowl of broth and a crude spoon, and gestured towards the armchairs ladened with cushions."There are blankets, and some clean clothes. Put it on so that I may alter them to fit you." There was a shift in his eyes, "you need not do that" a soft reply to which I shook my head, "you need it more than my dead father, bless his soul." Then I took to my room, the only room in the cottage and said "Good eve, Maglor."
He replied in a language I do not understand, and so I locked my door with Figwit sleeping alongside the stranger at his accustomed place. I found myself staring at the sky through my window asking myself why couldn't rest wouldn't come to me easily and thinking of the beautiful stranger with the sad eyes.
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I awoke at dawn with Maglor awake earlier than me, much to my surprise. From my larder, I found some eggs that the chickens laid the day before and butter which I set the table with bread I made myself. After breakfast I directed him to my axe wondering on the wisdom of it and pointed to the pile of wood needing splitting. He nodded, pulled my father's shirt off and set to work.
I had other chores and things to do, but I found myself stealing a glance at the stranger. It had been a long time since I have seen another human being after all, and a male who seems polite is understandably a welcome distraction. The fact that he was easy on the eye helps as well. Figwit was basking happily in the warm sun, yawning contentedly while he sat or lay vigil at my door.
I served lunch and dinner and fed Figwit with meat, we both ate while chatting randomly about nothing in particular. He spoke of his family, now gone and of following an oath, "There is folly in material things, though we realized it far too late" and he said nothing more. I spoke of my family's untimely demise, my mother from a plague, my father from the grief of her death, and my brother the sailor lost at sea when I left to find peace. Then I noticed after he washed the grit and sweat that his hair needed combing. I offered my help, and he endured me tugging and pulling and made great effort not to flinch, as badly off as it is. Then, while tucking strands of hair behind his ear did my fingers brushed against something impossible; a perfectly pointed ear.
My fingers froze immediately, a fey being! I dropped the comb, and he quizzikally looked up me from the stool, the eyes pleading me not to retract any human compassion that has been given and denied to him for so long. Maglor, the Cursed One! The one who walked the shores, forever doomed to never find peace. He answered my unuttered question, "It is true, I am an elf." Everything clicked into place.
"Am I right to fear you, or are the gossip, as usual, untrue?" I said finally.
"The oath, and my family's fall in disgrace, you know?"
"I can read too."
"It is true," he bit off the words bitterly, "I shall leave. I overstayed my welcome as it is" and stood up quickly, swinging his duffelbag on his back. Surprising myself, I took a step closer, "No, stay." I took his hands, "I live alone, it matters not." I shrugged, "better you than only Figwit listening to me chatter so."
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As it turned out, he was an indispensable companion.
He improved the conditions of my cottage greatly. I suggested that he might prefer his own room other than the comfortable yet unsuitable armchairs (a pair, inherited from my parents and I could not be parted from them) and he built an extension which also consequently expanded the space inside. My solitary fireplace doesn't clog as much anymore, the place smelt a lot better when he introduced me to useful and fragrant herbs. I also, as time when on, trusted him more and felt safer with someone also keeping vigil on the cottage other than me.
I never had to split logs again.
He also sings like only the Valar could, especially during long winter nights when nothing could be done due to bitter chill. One of the items in his duffelbag happens to be a worn harp which he sang laments most of the time and happier songs I have never heard before at my request. Sometimes, when I dozed off at the armchair in the hearth I would always find myself in my warm bed in the morning without fail.
It was not always so calm and happy, of course. Maglor has nightmares, crying out in languages I know not the meaning or significance, but I caught the name Silmaril and Ada alongside repeated names of many elves in his past long enough to know that it meant something somewhere locked deep within him. I would hold him until he calmed down, and slip quietly back to my room. Sometimes though, as if on purpose, he would unconsciously respond in such a way that I could not remove myself as he'd hold on to me firmly. "You had troubled dreams," I would say in the morning, and he'd reply, "I recall them not." Elves do not usually lie, so I let it pass.
So our life went on in the isolated cottage in the coastline, with us both settling into a comfortable routine of shared chores. We ate meat more often, Maglor being an excellent hunter. Figwit adores him more than me, of which I felt a certain irritation. He also has a wealth of tales about the elves, of which I drank in with a thirst of which I never knew existed.
I was not an old maid nor a young one when I met him, and knowing the nature of elves it was inevitable that one day he asked me; "Fara, how many summers have you seen?"
"Quite a few, I supposed. I must be about 45 summers or so. Why do you ask?" I saw in his eyes a dread or fear, a worry, concern for...me? "My grandmother lived till a hundred, I have many years in me still," I laughed as if it was a small matter. He failed to see the humour, and gazed at me seriously. I smiled to assure him. "I will leave at my appointed time, and not before. Now, would you like strawberry or honey with that tart I made you?"
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We were blissfully happy in our own way, but being mortal I declined slowly in front of him. Whatever progress I made in making him laugh and sing happy songs more than 'brood' would always have the underlying question casting its shadow. I walk slower and am more prone to illness, and he would insist on me resting more and more as my skin grew wrinkles and my hair lost its deep brown sheen to snowy gray.
Figwit died when I was 60 summers from old age. He lived well for a dog.
Whenever he broached the subject of my mortality, I shook my head "It is nothing, just nature's way of showing that my days are lived as it should be." His eyes which were bright and filled with quiet contentment prior to my accelerating change are now reversing towards when I first found him. "Find no sorrow in my passing, for we shall see each other again when the circles of this earth is done. Ea has designs beyond even your race's understanding, and we shall trust his wisdom of my place in this world," I told him, when he looked lost.
It was a morning like any other, but everything seemed brighter. The bird's chirping more cheerful yet sad, the air purer and fresh, the sea seems not to crash but lap the sandy shores. Age had hampered my movement and left a constant feeling of tiredness which left the flesh of my bones on this day. I felt as if I was young as the day I met him. I even felt strong enough to walk and see the sea again, albeit with one elf on one side and my walking stick aiding me.
That evening, when I lay on my bed and he the one helping me sip my broth and drink my milk, I felt the calmest and most content feeling I have ever felt in my entire life. I have lived well, and loved by my most faithful friend. I will not die alone as I originally thought with the death of my family members, but with one I have counted as a dear friend. I did no harm on others, and thankfully lived a quiet life.
It was time.
Maglor looked out the window, a look of helplessness around him, for he had indeed done everything within his herbal knowledge, even resorting to interacting with the outside world for medicines that would delay this very moment. "Maglor, come sit with me." He did. "It is my time. There will always be forgiveness and love for you in the changing world, my friend. Ea has it in abundance, which he shared with his servants the Valar. In time, when you have repented your actions truly, the elves will forgive you as well. Forsake your oath, if you have love for me, and sail home, Maglor." Tears trickled down his ever-youthful face, his eyes crinkling in suppressed sobs. He held my hand to his cheek as I uttered my last words.
"Go home to Aman, beloved, and be forgiven at last."
And I was no more. As my soul stood alongside my body in the seconds after I left it and gazed in wonder upon my now youthful impression in the wind, I whispered in his ear and rode the wind to rise to the stars where all human souls await the Final Judgement of all peoples in Arda.