Happy (late!) birthday to We Stand Victorious!

A/N: As requested, a slightly more optimistic 'what happened to Maglor' fic—because, after all, poor Maglor deserves a break! ;) (Note the word slightly—I couldn't keep the angst entirely out of it!) Some parts of this were written a long time ago when I first had the idea for this fic and have been edited.

Reviews, of course, are very much appreciated. Please enjoy! :)

-o-

Taking the old sack that contained all his worldly belongings—his harp, food supplies and a few ragged items of clothing—Maglor flung it over the side into the tiny craft that bobbed in the ripples of the shallow water he was standing in. He winced as the rough material grazed the palms of his hands. After all these years, he should have been used to the pain—the raw, red marks streaking angrily over his palms as testimony to his theft and the blood he had spilt. But no, it never went away. He bowed his head and let out a long, slow breath as the sharp, stabbing pain once again resumed its usual dull throbbing.

He had wistfully watched many a ship in this past year set sail from the Havens for the west, never to return, but had never himself decided to leave until now. The knowledge of a settlement of Elves from Mirkwood being established somewhere in the east had come to his ears; but here on the western coast of Lindon, there were few Elves to trouble him. Hardly any had seen him, and none knew him. There was no doubt in his mind that they would have shunned him anyway, even if they had known his identity. He doubted even kindly Cirdan would allow him onto one of his ships.

The Valar had not stopped his cousin Galadriel from sailing—and he comforted himself in the knowledge that there was the hope of their forgiving him too. The thought made him work faster. The sooner he got going, the sooner he would get there.

Maglor did not know much about sailing and watercraft. The last time he'd been in a ship, it had been a Telerin one—a beautifully-crafted ship whose white decks were stained with innocent blood. The small vessel that he would be using to sail westwards was shabby and plain, though at least there had been no bloodshed in acquiring it. In truth, it was little more than a dinghy, but it was all he had.

A smile tugged at his lips at the irony. He had left Aman in one of the most beautiful ships ever built, and was returning—in a dinghy.

He splashed his way ashore again in search of the rope he had put on the sand, but when he returned, there was a gull sitting there on his boat, perched audaciously atop the mast. He gave a loud shout and waved his arms to scare it off. It continued to sit there, staring at him down from its chosen perch in an almost haughty manner. Maglor frowned.

"Alright, shoo!" he said in his husky voice, dropping the rope onto the deck and waving his hands at the gull. "Off you go!"

He was met with the same indifferent stare. With a grumble, Maglor clambered aboard, making a lot of noise and causing the boat to rock, and the frightened bird flapped its wings frantically to take off. But it did not leave without vengeance, and Maglor felt something warm and sloppy plop onto his shoulder.

Well, this certainly wasn't the new beginning he had hoped for. He fully expected that once he reached Aman, he would have to face the Valar—but he certainly had not expected a confrontation with an impudent seagull!

With a sigh he climbed out again with a splash, and swiftly removed his tunic. The wind was strong, and a little chilly even though the sun was shining, but so used to the cold was he that he hardly felt it at all as it whipped against his bare chest and blew back the wavy strands of dark hair from his face.

As he tried to wash the offending substance from his shirt, his gaze happened to drift towards the shore. He hardly ever came into contact with those of his own kind, if he could possibly help it, and was not used to being watched by anyone. So it was that when his eyes rested upon the form of an elleth who was standing barefoot in the sand, he staggered back in surprise, flailing his arms about and gracelessly landing with a splash backward into the water.

He resurfaced, gasping for air and pushing his hair out of his eyes. He held up the soaked tunic in front of him ruefully. Well, at least it was more or less clean—but he would not be able to wear it until it dried. Though on second thoughts. . .he turned and caught sight of the cause of his rather embarrassing fall. She was watching him closely, making no effort to hide the fact. If she continued to stand there, he would have to put it back on—it was an uncomfortable feeling to be watched, and especially since he was shirtless.

Maglor gave a sigh and started wringing the salty water out of his tunic, hoping that she would leave and not ask any questions. He was not so sensitive about it all as he had been at the beginning, but to be reminded of all the evil he had done so long ago. . .he could not bear it. The very uncertainty of his ever being forgiven—and the tiny part of his heart that told him to cling to hope—was that which was now driving him to sail into the west. . .to ask the Valar for forgiveness, and pray to Eru Ilúvatar as he did every day in his heart for mercy.

"Where do you go?"

The voice was soft yet he heard it over the waves that rolled in around his knees and those that crashed ceaselessly further out to sea, flashing their white peaks against the darker blue. Looking up, Maglor's grey gaze was met with the openly questioning look in her large dark eyes, framed with thick lashes. He was startled both by the question, and by the beauty of those eyes that stared back at him. He replied, softly, though he never had the intention of responding. "Into the west."

He was aware just how husky his speaking voice sounded—wondered at just how much it had changed since he had last spoken, and not sung. He only ever sang now, cried out despondent melodies over the deaf and unfeeling seas till tears streamed down his face. As they were now, beginning to course in rivulets down well-known paths.

"Macalaurë."

He wiped furiously at his eyes with the back of his hand. It was one word spoken in Quenya, the tongue of the Exiles—his own native tongue. It had been Ages since he had last heard his own name. Had he not heard it echoing in his head—called over and over again by father, mother and brothers—he might have forgotten his name altogether. Forgotten how to speak, knowing only songs without words, endless strings of notes that were poured from the depths of his saddened, weary heart.

It was only when he looked up that Maglor realised who she was. Though she looked young, her eyes held the depths of wisdom gained from long years of both joy and suffering. He had seen those eyes before, in days whose memory was not stained with blood, and recognised her. He gave a gasp.

"Avasarië!" Caranthir's wife. The only one of any of the married Feanorion's wives to follow her husband through misery and death into Beleriand.

They had believed her long dead.

She nodded, and Maglor saw the tears that were beginning to fall from her own eyes. She lifted her head, her lips quivering as she spoke. "I am coming with you."

"I'm glad of it," he murmured, and he smiled through his tears. She smiled back and he found himself pulling her into a tight embrace. How overjoyed he was to see one whom he recognised, and one who would not despise him!

"Brother in heart." Her voice was quiet and muffled against his chest. Maglor released her, and she climbed into the small craft wordlessly. He suddenly thought of Telpelindë—his own beloved, who had been left behind in Valinor—and wondered how he would even begin to make amends to her. Would she even still have him after all this time?

As if she could read his thoughts, Avasarië turned and smiled. Maglor's heart was suddenly filled with hope for the future, and he wept no more. A calm fell upon the waters, as if Uinen Lady of the Seas had taken pity and bestowed her favour upon them.

Maglor looked out to the horizon with a sudden grin.

It was high time they went home.