Maglor's visit to Imladris a fortnight before Elrond's departure to the West was not entirely unexpected. What was surprising was the fact that the Noldo stumbled through the gates half-conscious and covered in blood just two weeks before Elrond was due to sail. The inhabitants of Imladris were already moving at a fever pitch preparing for a new lord; Maglor's dramatic arrival could only serve to cause more confusion.

He knew this. However, he also knew that Imladris was the only city that would take his arrival in stride even during a time of such stress. That, and he was fairly certain he would end up dead in the wilderness somewhere if he tried to go much further.

When Maglor had chosen to go to Imladris, he had expected it to solve his problems. His current one, at the very least. He hadn't expected it to become the source of a hundred more. He should have known better, he thought bitterly. When did anything ever go right for the Sons of Fёanor?


The last thing he remembered was being drastically outnumbered by orcs and his subsequent flight to Imladris. Now he was kneeling in the leaves in a forest he hadn't visited in six thousand years, a teary-eyed, slightly bloodied Elfling cradled to his chest.


Maglor had come to slowly and painfully. And, much to his own anxiety, definitely not in Imladris. He was dressed in a thin nightshirt, not nearly enough for someone wandering the forest in the dimming twilight. The first thing he noticed, and arguably the least important given the situation, was that he could hear a whip-poor-will starting to sing somewhere above him. The most important, which took him a few moments, was that there was an Elfling curled up at his feet, asleep in a pile of lavish silks and velvets. Said Elfling was far too familiar for comfort, but Maglor couldn't read too far into that at the moment or he might panic.

He shook the Elfling awake, careful of the blood drying on the tiny arm. He wasn't sure where the child was wounded or how badly, but he was shivering on the ground, and Maglor was suddenly reminded of the first time he had seen this Elfling, clinging to his twin brother in terrified silence during the aftermath of the kinslaying at Sirion.


He gathered the waking child to his chest, bouncing and rocking him as best he could while still sitting. His breath was measured, his voice soft and even as he tried to soothe the Elfling, but he was shaking to badly to stand up. He wasn't supposed to be here anymore; the Elfling had never been here to begin with.

It was far too real to be a nightmare. He could feel the wetness from the forest floor on his bare legs, the warm blood dripping slowly over his fingers from the cut on the Elfling's upper arm. And… Maglor knew what hallucinations felt like. This was too complete, too clear, to be anything but real. And if it was real, then the first order of business had to be wrapping the Elfling's arm. He could handle that.

The child appeared to be about nine years old, so perhaps twenty-five by an Elvish reckoning. He was dwarfed by the heavy robes he had been wearing the last time Maglor had seen him—when he was still a fully grown ellon. No, he wasn't going to think about that. If he did, he was sure he'd lose it, and the Elfling needed him.

He had to start using the boy's name eventually, he supposed, tearing one of the thinner pieces of fabric into strips to bind the wound.

"Elrond," he breathed, jostling the child to get his attention.

The little one looked up at him, eyes wide and wet. "Hurts," he managed between sobs.

"I know. I know, I'll find us some help in the morning, alright?"

Elrond nodded, trusting Maglor to keep to his word. Maglor thought he felt his heart break just a bit when he remembered that he'd only known Elrond for three years at this point in the boy's first time around, it had taken much longer to gain his trust, and Maglor found himself worrying about the extent of the child's injuries.

He bandaged the cut as best he could with what he had and bundled the Elfling in the remaining fabric to keep him warm while he slept. There wasn't much he could do by way of a fire, but the night was dry and windless. He was more worried about their lack of supplies than the elements; if they were where he thought, Yavanna governed the weather. She wouldn't allow an Elfling to die if she could stop it. But there was no Valar who could ensure food or medical supplies.

When morning came, he would start walking. Six thousand years was too long for him to remember which way was home, but he knew these woods were kept by the House of Finwё, so someone was bound to discover them eventually.

He didn't know how well he would handle coming face-to-face with people he hadn't spoken with outside his nightmares for six millenia. He wondered when, from their point of view, they'd last seen him. Had it been a day? A year? A hundred? And how would they react to Elrond?

He stopped himself there. He didn't even know how far back he'd gone. Perhaps his kin had already left Aman and gone to retrieve the Silmarils from Beleriand. Or perhaps he hadn't gone back at all, though he couldn't imagine why Elrond was suddenly nine years old if it was still the beginning of the Fourth Age.

Elrond shifted in his sleep, beaded fabric scraping against Maglor's left palm. The ellon gasped sharply, pain radiating up his arm. He examined the never-quite-healed burn mark in by the dim light that seemed to pervade the land. Well, at least he had an idea of what time period he was in, then, if Telperion still shone. The not-scar looked the same as it had for centuries, but it felt as it had just after he had cast his Silmaril to the sea, tender and burning.

He made quick work of wrapping it in one of the strips of fabric he'd left laying on the ground. He knew it likely wouldn't help, but it was the sentiment that mattered. He settled down with Elrond in his lap, back against a nearby tree, and let himself drift into the realm of Irmo.