Dawn had found Maglor sitting on the bow of the ship. After the disturbing meeting with the Black Númenoreans he had been unable to sleep. He loved what the Edain had made of their new land, but now he realised that they would live forever under the threat of darkness. The sons of Elendil had made the kingdom strong, they had rooted it deeply, and earned the love of their subjects, but their greatest trial was yet to come.
They were facing an enemy of unsurpassed cunning, a creature of legends older than the world itself. May Eru grant them wisdom. Still, he found himself unable to swallow in dark thoughts as the ship was making its way up the river. In the light of the newborn sun, the river was blazing with a soft golden light. A gentle southern breeze was blowing, and Maglor could smell the salty air of the sea in it. Both banks of the Anduin were made beautiful in the days of Sauron's long slumber. Green meadows, little forests; the perfect balance of wilderness and civilisation.
When he was taking the first steps on his musical career back in Tirion, Maglor's teachers had taught him to always keep an ear open for the sound of water. Water was the lifeblood of the world, something that ran from its very foundations all the way into the sky. The smallest surface stream and the deepest underground lake all kept an echo of the music of the Ainur. The sound of water was sad for the marring of Arda, but joyful for new life, despite it. Water was patience, wisdom of an old age. Water was compassion and the deepest melody that even elven ears had trouble understanding. But he had got poetic once more; his blade was needed, not his harp.
Maglor remembered how learning to kill had felt like in the First age. He was a musician, his hands were made for the harp and the flute, not for the sword and the bow. Of all the sons of Fëanor, he was the most reluctant to learn the lessons of warfare. His brothers used different means to cope with it. Maedhros did it to protect his people. That was his royal duty anyway. Celegorm adjusted most easily, for a hunter would have killed even in blessed Valinor. Caranthir was passion incarnated, a fiery rage directed at those that would threaten his brothers and his people. Maglor recalled all the battles they had fought together. Caranthir's battle cry was always the loudest. Curufin killed with the detachment of an expert craftsman, a blacksmith hammering something upon his anvil. It needed doing and so he did it. Amrod and Amras found solace in each other's company. Not that they needed it very much, they were both hunters anyway.
The first time Maglor had killed an Orc, he did not even realise what he was doing. In the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, the Noldor were ambushed by the armies of the Black Foe. But Orcs were just bogey-men for the elves who had spent their entire lives in Valinor: when Maglor was little, Maedhros would sometimes scare him with tales of Orcs.
But they had been something immaterial then, far away, something that could make a group of elvish youths shiver around a fire and find comfort in companionship. Not the hunched, screaming shadows armed to the teeth, bloodthirsty creatures baying for blood and begging for death with elven eyes. He had rammed a blade through the chest of one shadow and it had fallen with a grunt, staring at him with green eyes filled with sadness and gratitude.
The Noldor army was forged on that eve, when youths who had never killed something in their lives had found a motivation to keep going. Passion, anger, the urge to protect their loved ones, it did not matter. The Noldor had fought and the Noldor had killed. Before dawn, each elf was a veteran, a blade quenched and ready. Maglor had found his passion in the green eyes of his first kill. He was not killing them; Morgoth had killed them on the day he had made them into monsters. He was releasing them from their curse and hoping beyond hope that on the day when the world would be sung anew, they would find peace and home and love in the embrace of Eru.
Ulmo had not given him an opportunity to sate the blood-thirst Celebrimbor's death had woken in him; he had given him a chance to find redemption. He would fight with passion and for vengeance. Passionate warriors were rightfully revered, but he would not let those emotions cloud his judgement. He was not a blade. He was a shield that would protect the realms of the free peoples.
Maglor smiled. It seemed he had found a measure of wisdom. The elf was still smiling when Ulbar found him later in the morning. The sailor sat next to the elf. "We are nearing Osgiliath, Master Elf," he spoke. "We should reach the docks in the early afternoon hours. Brace yourself, it is quite a sight".
"I have seen many cities during my life, Master Ulbar," Maglor smirked. "I think I will survive Osgiliath's majesty. "
"Do you want to make a bet, Master Elf? I will bet a round of beer that Osgiliath will leave you breathless," Ulbar said.
"You have your bet, Dúnadan," Maglor said after a moment of thought.
He would not have made the bet if he had known what was coming. The banks were growing more tame as they neared the city. And then, one hour after noon, Osgiliath was in front of them. Tall white walls of incredible height on both sides of the river, so white they were shining silver under the light of the sun. Spires and towers rising to incredible heights, two enormous guard towers defending the docks, with a statue of a man Maglor could not recognize on the ground between them. And that was only the beginning.
Wide streets in regular intervals, inns, shops of all kind, traders, spices, leather, books, weapons, fruit, meat. Everything you could name, you could find in Osgiliath. And the people! Maglor had never seen such a multitude. Citizens, fishermen, lore-masters, blacksmiths, merchants. But the most majestic were undoubtedly the soldiers in their gleaming steel armors, armed with spears and shields, with swords on their belts. Archers with Númenorean bows as tall as they were, proud knights on beautiful mounts, each of them wearing a tabard with the White Tree beneath the seven stars, with the mighty crown in gold thread above it.
Maglor snapped out of his reverie to find Ulbar rolling on the floor with laughter next to him. Grasping the last remnants of his pride, Maglor said in what he hoped was a voice full of dignity "You have your beer." It still came out like a croak.
"You should have seen Armenelos in the days of its glory, master Elf. This is a mere attempt to recapture its majesty, but by the look on your face, it seems it was a successful one."
"A most majestic sight indeed."