Title: Peace At Last
Type: Possible scenario, AU
Author: Elvenwanderer, rolypolyerthybal@aol.com
Rating: PG
Primary Characters: Maglor, Celeborn, with references to other elf-lords (non-slash) and two elf-ladies.
Warning: none.
Disclaimer: There is no slash, profanity or other such nonsense in this fic. And here I quote Julie (one of the greatest authors I've ever had the fortune to read), who expresses this very well: "We write fan fiction solely for our own enjoyment and do not claim any copyright or ownership nor do we have intent to make financial gain. All original concepts and characters are from our minds and remain our property." I will use my right to poetic license, though not that much.
Beta: none.
Notes: One of my favorite elves from the Silmarillion is Maglor; his fate always has intrigued me. I like to believe that he always stayed near bodies of water rather than remaining solely by the sea– therefore he was able to travel inland up rivers and such. There was a message at a forum I visit asking what the inhabitants of Rivendell were like after Elrond left and the Last Homely House was deserted. I also read in the ROTK appendices that it is believed that, after a while of being King of East Lórien, Celeborn grew weary of Middle Earth and finally traveled west after an unnamed number of years. I perceive him, in this instance, to have recently left East Lórien and is making a stop, even though it is sorta out of the way, in Rivendell before continuing his final journey West. Perhaps he was led there by the Valar for their purposes, or was just visiting the city for the last time before leaving Middle-earth. "Reminiscing" would be a good term, I guess.
Summary: One stormy night, many years after the passing of Elrond, two strangers' paths converge in Rivendell, leading one to Valinor and the other to a long-awaited "death."
**
The elf observed from a remote cliff as the stranger strode stealthily down the dirt and gravel path towards the entrance of city. Upon reaching the iron gates, he finally turned to look around him – as if suspicious of someone one watching him – before turning again. The gate creaked on its lone hinge when it was pushed inward by a wraithlike arm; much of the eerie noise was drowned out by the roar of the nearby falls. Once full of life and cheer, the spirit of the Fords of Bruinen seemed to have left with the Last Homely House's great Master. The river was now dark and forlorn, lifeless even, just as nearly every other thing that resided in the valley was.
A foreign rumble sped through the sultry air, sounding rough and metallic to his sensitive ears. The elf glanced skyward, a silver-blonde lock of hair falling from his hood. He quickly lowered his face as the sky began to cry from sorrow over its lost cousins. Overhead, the clouds had changed to a sickly green, warning that those without shelter might do well to find some fairly soon.
By the time the elf looked back to where the stranger had been, it had disappeared into the mazes of Rivendell's roads. The elf shuddered remembering how beautiful the cold, stone-paved pathways and overgrown trees had once been. Green and luscious gardens filled the open spaces, while colorful mosaic-tiled roadways wound through the city, majestic fountains and statues interspersed throughout.
He should not concern himself with thinking of the past; it was gone, he reminded himself.
Moving swiftly, the elf slipped out of his hiding place, down a separate path of jagged stones, and under a small archway. He paused at the foot of a small bridge, which had – obviously – fully crossed the river many years ago, even the broken ends had worn down to smooth stubs with the years of erosion. He wondered briefly whether this had been intentional. Very few in this day and age could make use of the bridge in its current condition, the span of the hole being nearly thirty feet. No living Man could cross such a length unaided.
"How Elrond must have fought with Glorfindel and Erestor about this. He would never have wanted to bar Men from his home...." He thought, smiling sadly and retreating far enough back to give himself enough space to prepare for the leap.
Once he had landed soundlessly on his feet upon the other side, the elf kept beneath the eaves because the light, misting rainfall had increased to a steady downpour. He stepped through a doorway into a small, relatively open gazebo that (like everything else) had seen better days. Ivy had grown through the latticed walls, its tendrils grasping anything within reach with amazing strength.
He gently trod between the vines, being mindful not to disturb even a leaf. Rivendell's floors and walls were their place now; he was the trespasser on their home, not the other way round. The door opposite him led to a covered hallway that terminated somewhere close by to the bowels of the city. He stopped abruptly in his tracks; the putrid smell of rot wafting in the calm breeze struck his senses like a hard blow.
The elf had not smelled such stink in many years, not having been in a real library for nearly a century. From the size of the room, he could tell that this had been one of Elrond's smaller libraries, possibly even his sons' library. The previous space had presumably been a reading room of sorts.
His head spun and he reflexively reached for his sword as a shadow flew towards him. His guard now raised, and adrenaline was coursing through his veins, but he forced his head to clear, as he felt nothing attacking him.
A moment later, he grinned at his own foolishness; on the far wall, many such shadows fought with one another, all bathed in an orange glow – that of a fire. His restlessness decreased, he now understood where in the House the prowler had settled.
Startled once again, he shrunk down behind a desk as someone else entered the room. Through a crack in the wood, the elf observed the stranger. He had removed his cloak, as well as any ungainly weapons he may not have wanted to carry about in a cramped space. Even without his cloak, his face was still veiled by the darkness of the room. He walked to a shelf and grabbed an armful of the disintegrating books and left again.
Soon the shadows leaped up higher on the wall; taking the elf a moment to comprehend what the other was doing – burning the priceless and inimitable tomes. He felt a flash of anger, but then remembered how many people would now take the time to read history books. A long time ago, had he lived in this place, or had indeed visited more often than once in the course a century, he would have. But that was a very different time, and he was now a different person. He stood and crept to the lighted doorway, and was mildly surprised at what he saw.
The stranger, instead of mercilessly throwing book after book into the fireplace as the elf imagined, was seated in an armchair, his booted feet on the hearth with a large book spread open in his lap. A sword had been leaned against a nearby tea table with a longbow and quiver of arrows.
"Come sit, friend. Warm yourself by the fire on this cold, sodden night." The other did not look up from the book as he spoke in a low, cracking tone that hinted that his voice had once been melodious and flowing, but was still rhythmic and mellow.
This was probably some outcast troubadour or traveling minstrel from the realm of Gondor.
Having now given up on having the element of surprise, the elf stalked wearily towards the fire, his hand on his sword hilt for safety.
"I am unarmed and more in want of a friend than an enemy. Certainly you are also wet and chilled." He commented, his voice already improving from the usage.
The elf dared to trust the other, seated figure, and snuck a glance at him, discerning that he had hair the color of night. The elf untied his drenched mantle and hung it from the corner of the fireplace to dry in the heat. Rain drummed loudly on the ceiling, giving the room the sound of a beehive.
The dark haired stranger seemed not to have noticed the further movement as he flipped through the pages of the large book in his lap.
The elf let his silver-blonde hair down from its loose braid, sitting on the hearth and combing his fingers through it to work out whatever small tangles that might have lodged in it.
When his hair had at last dried to his liking, the elf reached for his travel bag, rifling through it until he pulled out an item wrapped in a dry greenish-brown leaf.
He cleared his throat, trying to politely interject the other while he read. "It is not much, but if you wish, we may share this way bread." The elf offered, wistfully thinking that it was his final Lembas cake from the Lady Galadriel back in the days of Lothlórien.
The other looked up, his eyes glittering slightly at the mention of food. With his left hand he pulled the leather bookmark into the book and set it down on the dusty floor. "I thank you for your generosity, but you need not share it."
The silver-haired elf smiled lightly, "No trouble. This seems to be a time to share." Being careful to not remove the entire leaf wrapping, he broke off a corner and offered it. "Besides, it lasts longer than it looks."
The other took it in his left hand and hungrily bit off a hunk of the bread, his eyes glassing over as he chewed.
A flash of lightning illuminated the chamber and the silver haired elf got a good glimpse of the other – enough to see most of his features.
A pair of light colored, yet deep grey eyes stared back past a long, sloping nose. The high forehead and nearly flawless skin perhaps would have given away what he was, had he not seen the tips of the elf's ears. This was definitely not a traveling minstrel of Gondor, but nor could he be an elf of this old city. His ancient eyes shimmered with a gentle light that only those who were born in Valinor had.
The reclining elf saw his companion for the first time that night, also. He gazed into the silver-haired elf's dark eyes – whether they were brown, blue or black he could tell not – and recognized his features from somewhere. It would puzzle him to no end until he could remember who this was. The silver-blonde hair dictated he was probably of Lothlórien descent, but as the lightning again flashed, he could see the subtle lines on his face, and the wisdom in the silver-haired elf's eyes that said he was much older than the dark haired one had at first thought. The Moriquendi of Doriath also had light hair that shone as moonlight. Thunder rumbled in response to the lightning in the distance, though it sounded less threatening than it had earlier.
"You would be of the ancient realm of Doriath, I imagine?"
In the darkness, he could now almost feel the Doriathrim's eyes search his face questioningly.
"Yes, I too was alive then." He smiled, a lilting grin that must have been handsome to many elleths in days long past.
The other swallowed nervously. "I was indeed born in Doriath."
"I thought so-"
"But from the light burning in your eyes I can tell you were not."
"It is merely the glow from the fire." The elf excused, perhaps too quickly. "The same is in yours." He was beginning to become uncomfortable, and he hid his subtle shift in position by throwing another book on the fire with his right hand, not realizing what scars the other's eyes saw.
Careful to hide his observation, the silver-haired elf shrugged nonchalantly. "If you say so." He paused, pondering the other's words, as well as his mangled hand. Something now bayed him to study the sword. Upon its worn leather and decaying wood were runes in a language that he did not understand all that well anymore. "Then you are an exceptional Moriquendi, your sword is inscribed for a high-born Noldo of Valinor. You have lied somewhere, elf. But, perhaps you stole that weapon or came upon it in a bargain, I would not know. And it would be none of my business." He bent his gaze to the fire and forced himself to watch the pages of the newly added book blacken and curl as they burned. Without looking away, he spoke.
"You are Maglor, are you not?" Hearing nothing in answer, he turned to gaze at where the elf was, but found that he had been temporarily blinded by the bright firelight. When the imprint left, and his vision once again returned, he could not believe what he saw.
The Noldo had disappeared.
**
The next morning, the silver-haired elf awoke – unaware he had even fallen asleep – to find that although Maglor had not returned, he had left a piece of parchment on the arm of his chair.
I am indeed Maglor, though I suppose in return I have to venture a
guess as to who you would be. Your name is Celeborn, true? I thought I
recognized your face and accent. You were one of the Moriquendi who
Maedhros and I first taught the High-Elven speech, if my memory does
not yet fail me.
When you travel to Valinor, which I assume is soon, I would that you
offer my sword and bow to my beloved Mother, Nerdanel the Wise. Let her
think that the last of her sons has joined their father in Mandos, so
that she may finally be at peace thinking I am, even if I am not.
Thank you.
In the brilliant morning sunshine, Celeborn glanced at the book Maglor had been reading, then to the pile of ancient weapons now neatly piled on the chair. He nodded apparently to no one while reverently taking the sword in his hands.
**
In Valinor, a few weeks shortly afterward, a crimson-haired elleth dried her eyes as she accepted her son's sword from the silver-haired stranger. She later thanked the Valar for their pity on Maglor, second son of Fëanor.
The End.
A/N: I know that the end is sort of corny, but I thought it somewhat fitting. I realized that Maglor is asking Celeborn to become a liar – and to live with that lie until the end of time– but I believe that Celeborn could partly understand Nerdanel's plight, though in a different scale. I think he would have wanted to know through some sign that Celebrían was happy in Valinor, but would have also wanted to save her the pain beforehand, for he also must have suffered emotionally from both her injuries and departure. Nerdanel can now believe that her second son has been absolved by the Valar of his sins, and Maglor's fëa is now "happy" in Mandos (as happy as a fëa can get being houseless, I suppose) compared to what he was during the thousands of years of wandering and mourning both his own faults and those of his father and brothers. That must have been a nasty thing for Nerdanel to picture, especially living in the bliss of Valinor.
Reviews greatly appreciated.
Type: Possible scenario, AU
Author: Elvenwanderer, rolypolyerthybal@aol.com
Rating: PG
Primary Characters: Maglor, Celeborn, with references to other elf-lords (non-slash) and two elf-ladies.
Warning: none.
Disclaimer: There is no slash, profanity or other such nonsense in this fic. And here I quote Julie (one of the greatest authors I've ever had the fortune to read), who expresses this very well: "We write fan fiction solely for our own enjoyment and do not claim any copyright or ownership nor do we have intent to make financial gain. All original concepts and characters are from our minds and remain our property." I will use my right to poetic license, though not that much.
Beta: none.
Notes: One of my favorite elves from the Silmarillion is Maglor; his fate always has intrigued me. I like to believe that he always stayed near bodies of water rather than remaining solely by the sea– therefore he was able to travel inland up rivers and such. There was a message at a forum I visit asking what the inhabitants of Rivendell were like after Elrond left and the Last Homely House was deserted. I also read in the ROTK appendices that it is believed that, after a while of being King of East Lórien, Celeborn grew weary of Middle Earth and finally traveled west after an unnamed number of years. I perceive him, in this instance, to have recently left East Lórien and is making a stop, even though it is sorta out of the way, in Rivendell before continuing his final journey West. Perhaps he was led there by the Valar for their purposes, or was just visiting the city for the last time before leaving Middle-earth. "Reminiscing" would be a good term, I guess.
Summary: One stormy night, many years after the passing of Elrond, two strangers' paths converge in Rivendell, leading one to Valinor and the other to a long-awaited "death."
**
The elf observed from a remote cliff as the stranger strode stealthily down the dirt and gravel path towards the entrance of city. Upon reaching the iron gates, he finally turned to look around him – as if suspicious of someone one watching him – before turning again. The gate creaked on its lone hinge when it was pushed inward by a wraithlike arm; much of the eerie noise was drowned out by the roar of the nearby falls. Once full of life and cheer, the spirit of the Fords of Bruinen seemed to have left with the Last Homely House's great Master. The river was now dark and forlorn, lifeless even, just as nearly every other thing that resided in the valley was.
A foreign rumble sped through the sultry air, sounding rough and metallic to his sensitive ears. The elf glanced skyward, a silver-blonde lock of hair falling from his hood. He quickly lowered his face as the sky began to cry from sorrow over its lost cousins. Overhead, the clouds had changed to a sickly green, warning that those without shelter might do well to find some fairly soon.
By the time the elf looked back to where the stranger had been, it had disappeared into the mazes of Rivendell's roads. The elf shuddered remembering how beautiful the cold, stone-paved pathways and overgrown trees had once been. Green and luscious gardens filled the open spaces, while colorful mosaic-tiled roadways wound through the city, majestic fountains and statues interspersed throughout.
He should not concern himself with thinking of the past; it was gone, he reminded himself.
Moving swiftly, the elf slipped out of his hiding place, down a separate path of jagged stones, and under a small archway. He paused at the foot of a small bridge, which had – obviously – fully crossed the river many years ago, even the broken ends had worn down to smooth stubs with the years of erosion. He wondered briefly whether this had been intentional. Very few in this day and age could make use of the bridge in its current condition, the span of the hole being nearly thirty feet. No living Man could cross such a length unaided.
"How Elrond must have fought with Glorfindel and Erestor about this. He would never have wanted to bar Men from his home...." He thought, smiling sadly and retreating far enough back to give himself enough space to prepare for the leap.
Once he had landed soundlessly on his feet upon the other side, the elf kept beneath the eaves because the light, misting rainfall had increased to a steady downpour. He stepped through a doorway into a small, relatively open gazebo that (like everything else) had seen better days. Ivy had grown through the latticed walls, its tendrils grasping anything within reach with amazing strength.
He gently trod between the vines, being mindful not to disturb even a leaf. Rivendell's floors and walls were their place now; he was the trespasser on their home, not the other way round. The door opposite him led to a covered hallway that terminated somewhere close by to the bowels of the city. He stopped abruptly in his tracks; the putrid smell of rot wafting in the calm breeze struck his senses like a hard blow.
The elf had not smelled such stink in many years, not having been in a real library for nearly a century. From the size of the room, he could tell that this had been one of Elrond's smaller libraries, possibly even his sons' library. The previous space had presumably been a reading room of sorts.
His head spun and he reflexively reached for his sword as a shadow flew towards him. His guard now raised, and adrenaline was coursing through his veins, but he forced his head to clear, as he felt nothing attacking him.
A moment later, he grinned at his own foolishness; on the far wall, many such shadows fought with one another, all bathed in an orange glow – that of a fire. His restlessness decreased, he now understood where in the House the prowler had settled.
Startled once again, he shrunk down behind a desk as someone else entered the room. Through a crack in the wood, the elf observed the stranger. He had removed his cloak, as well as any ungainly weapons he may not have wanted to carry about in a cramped space. Even without his cloak, his face was still veiled by the darkness of the room. He walked to a shelf and grabbed an armful of the disintegrating books and left again.
Soon the shadows leaped up higher on the wall; taking the elf a moment to comprehend what the other was doing – burning the priceless and inimitable tomes. He felt a flash of anger, but then remembered how many people would now take the time to read history books. A long time ago, had he lived in this place, or had indeed visited more often than once in the course a century, he would have. But that was a very different time, and he was now a different person. He stood and crept to the lighted doorway, and was mildly surprised at what he saw.
The stranger, instead of mercilessly throwing book after book into the fireplace as the elf imagined, was seated in an armchair, his booted feet on the hearth with a large book spread open in his lap. A sword had been leaned against a nearby tea table with a longbow and quiver of arrows.
"Come sit, friend. Warm yourself by the fire on this cold, sodden night." The other did not look up from the book as he spoke in a low, cracking tone that hinted that his voice had once been melodious and flowing, but was still rhythmic and mellow.
This was probably some outcast troubadour or traveling minstrel from the realm of Gondor.
Having now given up on having the element of surprise, the elf stalked wearily towards the fire, his hand on his sword hilt for safety.
"I am unarmed and more in want of a friend than an enemy. Certainly you are also wet and chilled." He commented, his voice already improving from the usage.
The elf dared to trust the other, seated figure, and snuck a glance at him, discerning that he had hair the color of night. The elf untied his drenched mantle and hung it from the corner of the fireplace to dry in the heat. Rain drummed loudly on the ceiling, giving the room the sound of a beehive.
The dark haired stranger seemed not to have noticed the further movement as he flipped through the pages of the large book in his lap.
The elf let his silver-blonde hair down from its loose braid, sitting on the hearth and combing his fingers through it to work out whatever small tangles that might have lodged in it.
When his hair had at last dried to his liking, the elf reached for his travel bag, rifling through it until he pulled out an item wrapped in a dry greenish-brown leaf.
He cleared his throat, trying to politely interject the other while he read. "It is not much, but if you wish, we may share this way bread." The elf offered, wistfully thinking that it was his final Lembas cake from the Lady Galadriel back in the days of Lothlórien.
The other looked up, his eyes glittering slightly at the mention of food. With his left hand he pulled the leather bookmark into the book and set it down on the dusty floor. "I thank you for your generosity, but you need not share it."
The silver-haired elf smiled lightly, "No trouble. This seems to be a time to share." Being careful to not remove the entire leaf wrapping, he broke off a corner and offered it. "Besides, it lasts longer than it looks."
The other took it in his left hand and hungrily bit off a hunk of the bread, his eyes glassing over as he chewed.
A flash of lightning illuminated the chamber and the silver haired elf got a good glimpse of the other – enough to see most of his features.
A pair of light colored, yet deep grey eyes stared back past a long, sloping nose. The high forehead and nearly flawless skin perhaps would have given away what he was, had he not seen the tips of the elf's ears. This was definitely not a traveling minstrel of Gondor, but nor could he be an elf of this old city. His ancient eyes shimmered with a gentle light that only those who were born in Valinor had.
The reclining elf saw his companion for the first time that night, also. He gazed into the silver-haired elf's dark eyes – whether they were brown, blue or black he could tell not – and recognized his features from somewhere. It would puzzle him to no end until he could remember who this was. The silver-blonde hair dictated he was probably of Lothlórien descent, but as the lightning again flashed, he could see the subtle lines on his face, and the wisdom in the silver-haired elf's eyes that said he was much older than the dark haired one had at first thought. The Moriquendi of Doriath also had light hair that shone as moonlight. Thunder rumbled in response to the lightning in the distance, though it sounded less threatening than it had earlier.
"You would be of the ancient realm of Doriath, I imagine?"
In the darkness, he could now almost feel the Doriathrim's eyes search his face questioningly.
"Yes, I too was alive then." He smiled, a lilting grin that must have been handsome to many elleths in days long past.
The other swallowed nervously. "I was indeed born in Doriath."
"I thought so-"
"But from the light burning in your eyes I can tell you were not."
"It is merely the glow from the fire." The elf excused, perhaps too quickly. "The same is in yours." He was beginning to become uncomfortable, and he hid his subtle shift in position by throwing another book on the fire with his right hand, not realizing what scars the other's eyes saw.
Careful to hide his observation, the silver-haired elf shrugged nonchalantly. "If you say so." He paused, pondering the other's words, as well as his mangled hand. Something now bayed him to study the sword. Upon its worn leather and decaying wood were runes in a language that he did not understand all that well anymore. "Then you are an exceptional Moriquendi, your sword is inscribed for a high-born Noldo of Valinor. You have lied somewhere, elf. But, perhaps you stole that weapon or came upon it in a bargain, I would not know. And it would be none of my business." He bent his gaze to the fire and forced himself to watch the pages of the newly added book blacken and curl as they burned. Without looking away, he spoke.
"You are Maglor, are you not?" Hearing nothing in answer, he turned to gaze at where the elf was, but found that he had been temporarily blinded by the bright firelight. When the imprint left, and his vision once again returned, he could not believe what he saw.
The Noldo had disappeared.
**
The next morning, the silver-haired elf awoke – unaware he had even fallen asleep – to find that although Maglor had not returned, he had left a piece of parchment on the arm of his chair.
I am indeed Maglor, though I suppose in return I have to venture a
guess as to who you would be. Your name is Celeborn, true? I thought I
recognized your face and accent. You were one of the Moriquendi who
Maedhros and I first taught the High-Elven speech, if my memory does
not yet fail me.
When you travel to Valinor, which I assume is soon, I would that you
offer my sword and bow to my beloved Mother, Nerdanel the Wise. Let her
think that the last of her sons has joined their father in Mandos, so
that she may finally be at peace thinking I am, even if I am not.
Thank you.
In the brilliant morning sunshine, Celeborn glanced at the book Maglor had been reading, then to the pile of ancient weapons now neatly piled on the chair. He nodded apparently to no one while reverently taking the sword in his hands.
**
In Valinor, a few weeks shortly afterward, a crimson-haired elleth dried her eyes as she accepted her son's sword from the silver-haired stranger. She later thanked the Valar for their pity on Maglor, second son of Fëanor.
The End.
A/N: I know that the end is sort of corny, but I thought it somewhat fitting. I realized that Maglor is asking Celeborn to become a liar – and to live with that lie until the end of time– but I believe that Celeborn could partly understand Nerdanel's plight, though in a different scale. I think he would have wanted to know through some sign that Celebrían was happy in Valinor, but would have also wanted to save her the pain beforehand, for he also must have suffered emotionally from both her injuries and departure. Nerdanel can now believe that her second son has been absolved by the Valar of his sins, and Maglor's fëa is now "happy" in Mandos (as happy as a fëa can get being houseless, I suppose) compared to what he was during the thousands of years of wandering and mourning both his own faults and those of his father and brothers. That must have been a nasty thing for Nerdanel to picture, especially living in the bliss of Valinor.
Reviews greatly appreciated.