A/N So sorry everyone about the late posting! It's been a bit of a frantic time irl. Hope you like the chapter!
Chapter Five: Welcome to the Newtcase
Well, at least that confirmed it. His mind had finally cracked and he was in the middle of a bizarre hallucination.
He wasn't complaining, though. It had been mad and confusing and nothing made sense but it could have been so much worse. He could have imagined himself enduring the torments of captivity in Angband and on Thangorodrim (what Maedhros must have suffered, all that time, and I just left him there, we were supposed to be brothers, he was the one who should have been in charge, he would have come for me); or back in the middle of a battle (fighting my way through because it's the only thing left to do, faces contorting in pain and anguish as my sword crunches through their armour, so much anger rage wrath, uncontrollable, I no longer know myself); or endlessly trapped in the moment when the last Silmaril flew from his hand (all of that, everything we did for the Oath and it's over and gone, everything, everything is lost, I am oathbreaker and kinslayer and nothing is left but despair).
His mind could have fixated on those moments or any number of other traumas, but instead it had created a weirdly complex scenario with overpowered humans, thieving gangs, and a strange man with tawny-reddish hair who offered him healing and protection. Perhaps it was about wish fulfilment. That seemed most likely: it was the loneliness that had broken him, in the end, and he had dreamed himself up a brother to care for him like Maedhros once had. Even the hair colour hinted at it. It was silly and naïve of him, but he wondered, very guiltily, whether it would be so wrong of him to luxuriate in the fantasy for as long as he could. Deciding that yes, it absolutely would, he attempted to gather his scattered wits and wake up.
He visualised the beach where he'd been before he saw the mop of red hair in the sea which tore his world apart, tried to imagine himself rising from reverie there, to feel the sand under his fingers and hear the excruciating shrieks of the gulls, excruciating because he knew they should awaken something within him but instead there was only emptiness. It didn't work. He didn't wake up. He stubbornly remained where he was, surrounded by the earthy smell of the meadow and the feeling of blades of grass tickling the soles of his feet. He tried again, slipping into a meditative trance and conjuring the images of his seaside home in his mind, trying to pull himself up to consciousness. Again, he failed – it felt like he was conscious already. It was bizarre: he felt incredibly lucid for someone trapped in a hallucination, not at all like how Maedhros had described his flashbacks after Maglor had nagged his older brother into talking about them.
So, he couldn't wake himself up. Might as well try to navigate this random dreamworld he'd created as best he could, then. He rose, balance slightly off as he adjusted to having his right arm immobilised, and properly took in his surroundings for the first time.
The first thing he noticed were the stars.
"Varda," he murmured in awe, for once not immediately ashamed to hear the Starkindler's name on his impure lips, but simply overwhelmed by the fact that he was inside a trunk with the lid firmly shut and he could still see the stars.
It felt hopeful, in an odd sort of way. The sea had become a tangled mess of painful emotions for him: it was the siren that should call him home but did so no longer, the vast expanse that cut him off from his ostracised kin, the eternal, immutable force that had swallowed the Silmaril he could not bear to hold. But the stars…even through everything, even though the skies had changed, even though he had relinquished almost everything else that made him elvish, there was still something in him which delighted in the stars. It settled him, sometimes, to sit atop a cliff and look out to the heavens and console himself that whatever happened, the beauty created by Lady Varda endured. That a sky identical to the one outside existed inside this trunk was astounding, and he stood there, statuesque in his awe, amazed that the ellon who had waited four ages for the Everlasting Darkness of his broken oath to descend upon him had been allowed this incredible glimpse of light.
He drunk in the glorious beauty of the sky for quite a while, before he started to muse that a sight like that was probably beyond even what his broken mind could dream up as wish-fulfilment: the very idea that the stars would follow him into an enclosed space like this– well, he didn't have the hope left in him to make that up. But the alternative, that it was all real, that the Valar had allowed him this, was equally unbelievable. Still, there was no escaping the fact, impossible whichever way he spun it, that he was standing inside a very small, trunk-like container, which was nevertheless big enough to contain an entire starscape in its confines.
How big even is this place? he wondered as he observed that the field gave out onto numerous different environments: an overgrown woodland to one side, rolling steppes at the back, and a savannah. Closer to him, a wooden terrace extended from the back of a twisted, ramshackle hut. And it was all inside a trunk. Truly, he had seriously underestimated humans.
It had been so long since he'd heard anything but the lapping of waves and shrieking of seagulls that he couldn't identify many of the noises around him. Chittering, lowing, chuffing, the odd growl: he had no idea what was making them, but he was evidently not alone. It made Maglor slightly uneasy, wondering why Newt would be carting around a menagerie like this and whether, due to his unfamiliar nature, he was intended to be kept as part of it. He was not entirely sure how the animals would respond to him. A very long time ago, he had had that easy elvish way with beasts, and would sometimes train his voice by sitting in the forest and imitating birdcalls for hours on end, with the birds generously creating more and more complex melodies for him to work with. Something had fundamentally changed since the Kinslayings, however: perhaps he had lost his confidence, perhaps his elven talents had sailed away from him with the rest of his kin, perhaps the animals could sense the taint on his fëa and quite sensibly avoided him. Whatever the reasons, he could no longer approach animals like he used to – the few attempts he had made to heal injured seabirds had usually resulted in him getting scratched and bitten for his troubles as the panicking creature tried to escape.
As if summoned by his train of thought, Maglor was suddenly confronted with the strangest creature he'd ever seen. He had no idea where it had come from: it had appeared as if out of thin air and was standing silhouetted in silver against the dark backdrop of the forest. It resembled the drawings of apes he'd seen long ago in books which discussed the Eastern reaches of Middle Earth, but he was quite sure he'd never seen this combination of features in a study before. It stood on its hind legs, about knee-height to Maglor, and surveyed him with warm amber eyes. It really was a thing of beauty, the starlight dancing in its rich, pale silver pelt, and giving it the air of an ethereal spirit.
The ape-thing stared at Maglor. Maglor stared at the ape.
"Go on, then, shoo," he told it irritably. "I know you're going to scamper off and tell all your friends about the horrible predator your keeper just let in. Get on with it."
The ape made an odd clicking sound, almost as though it was tutting, dropped to all fours and then against all expectations, ran towards Maglor.
"Hold a moment, this isn't how this goes, what? No, what are you- are you trying to hug me? No, I do not give cuddles, whatever gave you that ghastly impression? Would you leave off? Stop looking at me like that!"
The ape just smiled at him indulgently, as if watching a toddler attempting to look fierce. It batted away his shooing hand with its wrinkled one and then clambered into his lap, settling itself on the left side of his chest where it wouldn't get caught up in his sling. It slung its wiry arms around his neck, impatiently brushing aside his tangled hair, and sent him a look that spoke very clearly:
Move me. Go on. You can try. But you won't win. This spot is mine now. So are you.
"Oh, very well, if you must," he yielded, resting his left hand on the animal's back, finding its warmth surprisingly soothing on the aching flesh.
"What are you?" he wondered aloud. "You're certainly a strange beast if I ever saw one. Funny, you remind me a little of Círdan, all that white hair and that aura of knowing something no-one else does. What is it that you know, hmm?"
The ape fixed him with a steady gaze. Without warning, its eyes flashed blue and Maglor let out a startled yell. Unperturbed, 'little Círdan', as Maglor had mentally termed him, cocked his head to one side and studied Maglor thoughtfully. He gave Maglor two very deliberate pats on the head and then snuggled closer and hid his face in the crook of Maglor's neck.
"Ah, thank you?" Maglor ventured, utterly bemused.
The imagination of the greatest poet of the Noldor had surpassed itself with this one.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake, not you again!"
"Ah. Auror Baylard. Yes, um. Hi. Fancy seeing you here!"
"How many times, Newton Scamander! It is incredibly unprofessional and downright rude for a ministry official to interfere with the work of another department without proper authentication!"
"I'm aware of that, yes, but you see with the legislation coming in soon I will be automatically authorised to take part in these sorts of investigations so it's sort of- nearly legal?"
Baylard pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Nearly legal. Nearly legal. There is a world of difference between nearly legal and actually legal which you seem obstinately determined to ignore!"
"Ah. Well. Given that I'm not supposed to be interfering, I suppose you don't want to know the location of the cave where three smugglers are currently tied up awaiting arrest?"
Baylard glared at him.
"You are honestly going to be the death of me one day. Since you've got yourself involved- against your brother's specific instructions, I might add- you'll need to tell us everything."
Newt handed over the map he'd taken from the cave earlier, pointing out the location, then explained, "They had three jarveys, four mokes and six lobalugs, kept in appalling conditions for at least a week in those cages, thought I'll need to check them over more thoroughly to establish that for certain-"
"Wait, wait, wait. Had?"
"Well, er, yes." Newt held up his case with a smile and a little shrug.
"They're supposed to go to Evidence, you know that, Scamander! Three to five days and then they're handed over to you for rehabilitation, that was the compromise we agreed."
"Three more days in a cage is three too many. And the Aurors in Evidence always end up calling me to assess them anyway, so it's easier for everyone if I just do it in my case and give you my report. Full reports on all of them, you have my word."
"Do you have any idea how much extra paperwork and smoothing over this is going to cause?"
"I do also consult for the Ministry, so yes, I do have an idea of how much parchment the place can churn through. And I'll be terribly grateful, of course…"
"Hold on, I haven't agreed to your ridiculous plan yet! I could confiscate that case right now and take those creatures back where they belong."
"You could, I suppose, yes. But I have an international licence for this case, which you very well know, and those creatures belong right where they are. If you want to move them, go ahead, but don't expect me to help. And you're dealing with the burns when the lobalugs spit venom on you for taking them away from the first clean water they've had in far too long."
Baylard sighed a very exasperated sigh, and Newt had to stop himself from grinning in triumph at the realisation that he'd won.
"You don't need to threaten us, Scamander. The Ministry's given up trying to contain you and you know it, so even if I tried to follow it up it wouldn't get anywhere. Just please tell me the prisoners are in a fit state for interrogation."
"Ah. That. Well, one of them at least is…"
"Scamander…"
"He was just Stunned, but I may have been a little late in calling Greg off the other two."
"I don't think I want to know what Greg is."
There was a very awkward silence in which Baylard stared expectantly at Newt, who squirmed a little uncomfortably, as if unsure what was being asked of him. Baylard cracked first.
"Tell me what Greg is," he groaned in utter resignation.
"Swooping Evil. There might be a few teensy memory problems, I got him off before they could be properly harmed, but…"
"But you might just have jeopardized our chances of a conviction. I know the Ministry gives you a lot of loose rein, but even if you're capturing criminals, your methods are highly dubious! Plus we're on foreign soil so everything has to go through the Norwegian Ministry too. Smugglers or not, they might not be too happy about their citizens being assaulted."
"I really am sorry for causing so much trouble," Newt said contritely, "but you see, I worked it out and I couldn't just leave them there."
"You're Newt Scamander, so of course you couldn't leave it to the professionals and just had to barge in first. How were they doing it, anyway?"
"Pocket watches. The Protean Charm was on the pocket watches. Unusual choice for a Protean item, I only noticed by chance because one of them touched it like he was checking the temperature. Proteans are cheaper and less conspicuous, usually, but actually that made it harder to spot because it was unexpected. Hiding in plain sight."
"Utterly brilliant," Baylard conceded bitterly. "You know, Scamander, you have quite a gift. There aren't many people in the world who have me constantly debating whether I want to hire them or throttle them. Hang on. Does Tina know you're out here? She's away this week, isn't she?"
"Well, yes, she is away. And er, no, not exactly."
"Ohhoho, you are going to get quite the lecture when she gets back."
"I imagine I am, yes."
Baylard snorted. "That's some consolation, anyway, I'll think about that when I'm shifting the paperwork landslide all this is going to cause."
"I-er-hope you enjoy that. Now, if that's everything…"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, you can't just disappear on us like that in the middle of this mess!"
"Well, you have the location of the cave and my summary of the creatures they abused, I'll have the full report to you by next Monday. What else is there to do?"
Baylard looked up from the map, eyes narrowed. "Explain why you're merrily dashing about setting off our broomstick surveillance left right and centre in the middle of this forest when the smugglers you just assaulted are ten miles down the coast."
So that was how the Aurors, Baylard from the UK plus four Norwegians, had found them. Newt smiled, trying not to look nervous.
"Well, I was concerned they might have been careless and let some non-native species loose, so I'm doing a sweep of the surrounding area to check. I haven't found anything yet though, but I should really get on with looking."
"Conscientious of you," Baylard remarked dryly, still suspicious. "You're not hiding anything, are you?"
"You know me! Nothing to hide. I'm a Ministry man now, you know that," Newt smiled, forcibly relaxing his grip on his case, knowing that the Auror would notice his tension if he didn't. "Now if we're quite finished, I need to circle back and check the area south of the cave, so if you'll excuse me…"
He mounted his broomstick and prepared to take off, itching to be free of this situation.
"Scamander? Anything new in your case besides the ones you just rescued?"
He attempted to look like he was considering it, for a few moments.
"No, Auror Baylard, nothing you need to worry about. See you back in Blighty!"
With that, he kicked off that ground, leaving his frustrated Auror colleague to shout, "SCAMANDER!" fruitlessly after him and then attempt to explain the situation to his very confused Norwegian counterparts.
As Newt flew, apparated and then walked his way back to the guest house where he was staying, it started to sink in just how complicated dealing with his newest rescue was going to be.
He was an old hat at working with little-to-no information, given how under-researched magizoology was until he came along. He'd even discovered five completely new species before, including the Porpentina Fire Salamander, named for his wife and possibly the most unique Valentine's gift ever given. (Simply the newest version of Fantastic Beasts: The Scholarly Edition, with 'her' entry marked with a rare woven bookmark he'd found in Japan; Tina had been absolutely thrilled.) Usually when working in these circumstances, he'd use deduction: often families of creatures shared characteristics, so he could infer what kind of food and medicines would be appropriate for one species based on his knowledge of the others.
Magical humanoids, however, were another kettle of fish entirely. Despite similarities in shape, internal physiognomy varied wildly between the different kinds, meaning that they had different dietary requirements, were susceptible to different diseases, and different substances were toxic to them: garlic for vampires, silver and its derivatives for werewolves, not to mention the lengthy list of allergens which Veela had to avoid. That meant that potions were completely out, at least until Newt had run a test to be sure that he wouldn't accidentally poison his patient. Frustratingly, that excluded pain relief: Newt had done as much as he could with spells, but the broken arm must still be hurting him horribly, not to mention his hands. And Newt hated nothing more than being confronted with pain he couldn't ease.
Furthermore, interacting with this creature was likely to require something different of Newt than he was used to providing. The humanoids and part-humans he'd worked with before had all spoken a mutual language; and while he could intuit entire lectures from his creatures' squeaks and chitters, working with someone used to communicating verbally but hindered by a language barrier was an unusual circumstance for him. For now, anyway, the most important thing would be to get him settled in the case and ensure there had been no adverse effects from the injury. Though even that posed its challenges: how was he to know what temperature these creatures should be, when werewolves generally ran high, vampires low, and Veela fluctuated according to their mood? They were evidently strong, but had today's performance pushed his new friend right to his limit or just been run-of-the-mill for his species? There was so much he didn't know, so much to discover, and though he was worried for his new rescue – despite his philosophy – he couldn't deny that he was a little excited too.
Once safely back in his accommodation, with the bedroom door repelling muggles and securely warded, he knocked on the lid of his case to announce himself before heading out to the field where his case helpfully placed new arrivals before a habitat had been assigned to them. He was greeted by a heart-warming sight: Dougal, visible, slung around the new creature's neck and gently patting him on the back.
"Hello there! I see you've met Dougal," he announced himself cheerily as he made his way over. The creature looked up, brow furrowed in confusion as he glanced between the sky and the shed as if trying to work out where Newt had come from.
"Oh yes, there are several ways in," he explained, indicating the different entrances, "It's a little confusing but it works for me and the family. As he approached, he noticed the creature's eyes flicking past him as if searching for someone else, then looking up to the sky as if waiting for someone to descend. Ah. He hadn't explained what had happened with the broomstick riders. This was going to be a challenge for his miming.
"No-one else here. Just me," he stated succinctly, first looking around as though searching for someone then shaking his head, and secondly pointing to himself. Inspiration striking, he took up the 'protection' mime he'd improvised earlier, which looked a lot more effective with him standing and his friend sitting behind him.
"I protect you. You're safe," he explained, not knowing how to enact 'safe' but simply smiling and gesturing around himself in the hope that it would get the message across.
"Sonkyur. Sankyar?" his charge replied, making a very impressive attempt at the word considering he'd only heard it twice.
"Thank you," Newt confirmed for him, enunciating clearly in response to his friend's inquisitive glance. The creature repeated it back several times, making miniscule adjustments to the sound until he could say it with only a very slight unidentifiable foreign twang. Newt was seriously impressed.
"That's amazing! You're quite the linguist!" At the confused look he got in return, Newt simplified it.
"Good," he said with a wide smile. To his surprise, the creature shook his head vigorously, pointing to himself, clearly denying that he was 'good.'
"Oh yes you are!" he said, nodding, before realising that they could be here for quite some time, just nodding and shaking their heads at each other. He chuckled ruefully. "You're also cold, I reckon. I don't know anything about your sleeping habits – well I don't know anything about you at all, really – but I think it's best to put you inside to get some rest in the warm tonight. Come on."
Realising that none of this had been processed, he stood and beckoned. "Come."
Seeing his uncertain look at Dougal, Newt chuckled again. "Dougal can come too. Looks like he's adopted you, he has a tendency to do that. Gets that from his mummy." Yet another puzzled expression informed Newt that he would have to clamp down on his rambling instincts if he wanted to be understood. He pointed to the demiguise. "Dougal," he explained.
"Dorgal. Duggle? Dougal." His new friend repeated, testing the pronunciation again until he got close. Dougal lifted his head from where it was nestled against the creature's neck and gave a serene smile.
"Thank you, Dougal," he murmured, almost too softly for Newt to hear, but the demiguise nestled closer into him and rubbed his furry head against his collarbone in response. Newt felt the familiar and joyous warmth of seeing two creatures help each other, and his respect for his newest rescue skyrocketed. It was confirmed: this creature was part of his family now, however long he ended up staying.
He rose then, Dougal clinging to him like a limpet, Newt's hand hovering at the small of his back in case he needed support, and together they walked across the field, down some steps onto the wooden terrace, and into the shed. He paused at the desk, looking wistfully and almost nostalgically at the pile of half-corrected papers littering it.
"You're interested in my notes? I can read them to you later if you like. For now though, bed," Newt instructed, guiding him through into a side room and pointing at said object.
He immediately went to sit down on the edge of it, so at least he recognised its purpose; Newt had wondered if his people preferred to sleep in outdoor hammocks or nest arrangements or something similar. However, the bed was far too short for the creature's impossibly long legs so he lengthened it with magic, noting with pleasure that though still apparently awed by his magic, the creature was no longer afraid of it, simply watching in wide-eyed amazement as Newt worked. Water was next, and he drank thirstily, draining the glass twice before Newt left it filled on the bedside table in case he wanted more. He scrambled back into the corner of the bed when Newt bent over to check his right hand, however, glaring with a slightly betrayed look in his eyes.
"Alright, sorry, not touching the burns, I promise," Newt assured him, "Just wanted to check the circulation to make sure the splinting spell isn't hurting you."
Now there was a difficult one to convey in mime: did his people even have the concept of circulation? He ended up trailing his left hand from the shoulder to fingertips of his right arm, intermittently opening his hand to convey a pumping action. Miraculously, this seemed to work and he edged forward again warily, but allowed Newt to compare the circulation in his right hand to his left, even obligingly wiggling his fingers when Newt indicated that he should do so. And if Newt managed to get in a quick visual exam of the burns too, well; his friend couldn't blame him for looking. They were precisely as horrific as Newt's first glance had suggested, and he was unsure how much he would be able to do for them even if his patient consented. Sensing a suspicious pair of eyes watching his every move, he reluctantly transferred his attentions to the upper arm, sliding a finger under the straps and double checking that they weren't digging in. Satisfied that the splint was working as it should, he encouraged his friend to lie down, Dougal and all. He rescued his scarf from sling duty and replaced it with a pillow, resized to fit snugly and supportively under the broken arm. He reached for the folded blankets at the foot of the bed but froze and gasped when he saw the soles of Maglor's feet.
"What in the name of Parcelsus have you been doing to your feet? Have you got a vendetta against shoes or something?"
Not expecting a response, he summoned some clean rags, bandages, and a bowl which he filled with warm water from his wand. The feet weren't anywhere near as bad as the hands, but despite their callouses from long exposure they were still fairly badly scraped up and bruised, albeit less than a human's if they had been running around barefoot over sandy and pebbly beaches, climbing cliff paths, and scrambling through forests.
"You're a mystery, you are, you know," he commented conversationally as he picked up the right foot and dabbed at one of the grazes, "if your people don't normally wear shoes I'd imagine that your feet would have adapted to being without them, tougher soles and all that. But this is like you should be wearing shoes but you couldn't be bothered. I don't think you've been looking after yourself all that well all round, have you?"
He fixed his thoughtful gaze on his charge, who quite impressively did not show any signs of discomfort but simply stared back with one defiant eyebrow raised. Newt shook his head and cast Episkey multiple times over the wounded foot, then secured gauze over the more serious, lingering lacerations. He repeated the process on the left.
"Well, you won't get away with that here," he cautioned. "I'm going to take care of you now, and tomorrow if you show me where your people are, I'll make sure to get you back to your friends so there's someone you trust looking out for you. You'll probably think I'm interfering but I'm afraid that you do rather look like you need it, my friend. I wonder how you ended up on your own in the first place, hmm? Maybe if your people agree to teach me your language, you'll tell me one day."
Sighing, he rose, all the numerous checks he needed to do on the mokes, lobalugs and jarveys reminding him of how long it would be before he could sleep. Not that he resented it, but it had been a rather tiring day all round, even by his standards. He tucked his charge in with the thickest and softest blankets he owned, pausing to give Dougal an affectionate scratch on the scruff of the neck. He placed a bell on the bedside table, charmed to link to one on his belt which would only ring if its partner also did. He demonstrated this, and the creature nodded along, looking at least like he understood.
"Get some rest," he instructed kindly. He might feel more comfortable without a stranger watching him try to sleep, Newt thought, so he made to leave. Therefore, he was very surprised, as he turned to go, to hear his own name in that gorgeous, lilting voice, pronounced perfectly. He'd only offered it once and the creature had become distressed and fled straight after, so he wasn't sure if it had registered.
"Newt," the creature called from behind him, so he whirled round on his heel and tried to look approachable.
"Yes? What is it? Can I get you anything?"
He looked hesitant now, with a vulnerability Newt hadn't yet seen in him. He'd been either determined and in control, absolutely despairing, or wary and calculating before. Despite Newt's conviction that he was at least centuries old, the shy hesitancy that came over him at that moment made him look, just fleetingly, impossibly young. He reached over Dougal with his left hand and indicated himself.
"Maglor," he whispered, and Newt's face lit up with a brilliant smile as he realised what an effort of trust that had been.
"Maglor," he repeated, reaching out to gently brush his wild dark hair away from his face.
"Welcome to the family, Maglor."
Even four ages of solitude couldn't crush the wordsmith out of the Noldor's greatest poet.
Getting involved enough to learn the language was an extremely bad idea. Maglor knew that. Already, with the few words he had identified – Newt, Dougal, thank you, come, bed, water, protect, safe, good – he felt something long-dormant inside him shifting in its slumber. For the first time since he'd listened to Círdan recount the tale of a Fellowship of Nine, who had defied the odds and succeeded where his family had failed, he was beginning to feel interested in something outside his grief. After the fall of Sauron, and the assurance of the safety of Middle Earth, he had retreated into strictly focusing on the horror of what he had done and its consequences, nothing else. And yet, hearing a new language, his word-obsessed brain wouldn't stop listening for patterns, searching for meaning, carefully hoarding the snippets of information he picked up. Moreover, if he was going to attempt to speak it, he was going to keep repeating it until the pronunciation was near to flawless. He couldn't possibly do otherwise. Strange how even after coming through the wringer of war and death, he still had it in him to hate mispronunciation.
It would certainly be helpful to be able to communicate to Newt that he'd been an incredible ally, but Maglor couldn't possibly stay with him, so he didn't feel guilty for his linguistic endeavours on that front. However, he was highly suspicious of himself. Once he had begun to learn something, he would obsess over it until he attained mastery – it was simply the way he was. And with his burgeoning interest in Newt's language, he sensed that he might be tempted to stay in his care for far longer than was right and proper, not because he deserved it, but just out of sheer curiosity. He couldn't let that happen.
Nevertheless, as he lay there begrudgingly letting Newt tend his feet (he'd given up on shoes at the start of the Fifth Age: it was too difficult to get hold of the materials without Círdan, and he almost welcomed a new sort of pain that didn't come from his hands), he knew that he had to give something in return for all the care Newt had invested in him. The trouble was, he had nothing to give. He didn't have anything that Newt would possibly want.
It was when Newt was tucking him in that he remembered. Newt had actually asked something of him, the first time they'd met, which Maglor hadn't given. He'd chosen to run away and deny the request instead. Now, after everything, it was the least he could do to grant it. He didn't quite pluck up the courage until Newt was almost out of the room though; the man changed course immediately when called, attentive to a fault. Maglor hesitated a little, though he wasn't backing out now: it felt as if he were about to commit to something, but he wasn't quite sure what.
"Maglor," he managed, tapping his own chest, hoping and simultaneously not hoping that his story was remembered in myth, and that realising who he was, Newt would do the only sensible thing and cast him out. Newt's reaction immediately dispelled that – fear? hope? – though: he tenderly reached down to caress Maglor's hair and pronounced a sort of greeting as he did so. He seemed delighted, and even though he'd never have taken such a step under normal circumstances, Maglor was glad that something he did brought the man joy.
He probably didn't need to worry about all that, given that this was presumably a hallucination anyway. Perhaps if he took his reverie in the hallucination, he'd wake up in reality, he theorised as he drifted off, Dougal's warm body pressing down soothingly on his torso. It was kind of the Valar really, to give him this type of madness, where he fantasised about the things he couldn't have, rather than relived his trauma. This way, when he woke up back on his empty, lonely beach, he would know that once, even if it was just once and only in hallucination, he'd been allowed to imagine that someone cared.