A/N Thanks all for your continued support of this fic! In this chapter, Newt finally finds out a bit more about who and what he's rescued...

Chapter Six: The Eldar

It was getting a palmful of lobalug venom, after reacting a fraction too slowly to the creature's warning signs, which suggested to Newt that perhaps he should have listened to his inner voice telling him that he wasn't superhuman and should really, really call it a day and go to bed. (That voice always sounded an awful lot like Tina, which tended to please her immensely.) But he simply had to check that there was no scale rot starting out on the mokes, it was so much easier to treat if caught early, and by painstakingly applying the antifungal potion to the small spots he'd discovered on two of their tails, he knew he'd saved them a lot of suffering. And really, wasn't that more important than sleep? And then, well, no time like the present to get some venom samples from the lobalugs to analyse for diseases; they were likely to be riddled with them given the stagnant water they'd been kept in. He should have learnt by now that when he was tired, he made mistakes, but he'd never quite broken the habit of pushing himself past his limits and he didn't think he ever would. Nevertheless, bone-tired, gulping down some disgusting antivenom and with his stinging injured hand plunged into a bowl of murtlap essence, even he could accept that perhaps sampling the rest of the lobalugs and flea-combing the jarveys could wait until morning.

And then, of course, there was Maglor. Maglor. Despite everything, Newt grinned to himself with the sheer wonder of being entrusted with his name. He suspected he'd made a faux pas on their first encounter: maybe names were not revealed easily in his culture, and Newt had needed to prove himself worthy of that knowledge. Or there could have been a completely different reason. There was a peculiar exhilaration that came with researching a new species: treading uncharted waters, hypotheses changing like the tides as new information surfaced, starting with tiny unconnected facts which soon began to fit together in a beautiful mosaic of knowledge. Newt couldn't wait to discover the full, glorious picture of these- whatever the heck they were.

Sighing, he stood and slathered his hand in a salve, bandaging it carefully and hoping that it sorted itself out by morning; working with creatures one-handed was such a bother. One last check to make sure Maglor was sleeping soundly, then he could catch a few hours' kip before the morning feed and everything started all over again. He slipped into the side room and froze on the threshold, a gasp of pure horror escaping his lips.

Maglor was so still. He didn't even look like he was breathing. His eyes were open, glassy, staring unseeing at the ceiling. Somehow, Newt had managed to kill him: there was something toxic to him in the case and he'd breathed in the fumes, he'd reacted badly to the healing magic, Newt had missed an injury, he'd chilled or overheated. However it had happened, Newt had killed him.

"No!" he moaned brokenly, rushing across the room only to leap back in fright when the corpse abruptly startled upright, dislodging Dougal, and stared at him with panicked eyes. Seeing Newt's fear dismayed him, and he curled in on himself, looking absolutely crushed. There was silence for a few seconds save Dougal's indignant chattering, directed at them both. It took a few moments for Newt's fatigued brain to process what had happened, but once he managed it, he slapped his uninjured palm to his forehead and groaned,

"I'm an idiot. I am an absolute blithering idiot. Call myself a magizoologist, honestly. Maglor? Maglor, I'm so sorry for waking you. I didn't realise you slept with your eyes open, that's all. Sorry if I gave you a fright."

He perched himself on the side of the bed and reached out a hand to the curled-up ball of Maglor, causing him to flinch, peek out nervously, then lift his head fully, brow furrowed in confusion when he saw Newt's apologetic and no longer fearful expression.

"There we are, that's it, nothing to worry about, it was my fault. It's not that uncommon to sleep with eyes open, kelpies, doxies and runespoors all do it, so I should have known that was all it was. I just wasn't thinking straight because I'm tired and you look very much like a human, you see, so I assumed the worst."

Dougal gave him a playful shove and he laughed, in relief as much as anything else. "Yes, Dougal, Mummy's silly sometimes, I know."

Just then Maglor's expression cleared as he too worked out what had happened. He pointed to his eyes with his left hand and blinked slowly and deliberately, a small smile playing around his lips.

"Eyes," Newt agreed, pointing to his, then demonstrating "closed," and "open" as his charge echoed the words after him. As much as he wished he hadn't startled Maglor, he saw a way to use this discussion to find out what he should be calling his species.

"Newt, sleeps eyes closed," he began, illustrating with actions. "Newt is a human. Maglor, sleeps eyes open. Maglor is a…?"

Perhaps this wasn't the best idea, he realised, as Maglor looked away with sudden anguish clouding his features. He steeled himself quickly though, and looked back at Newt solemnly, indicating himself.

"Maglor issa Elda."

"Elda," Newt breathed. It seemed so right, so descriptive of the ancient wisdom with which Maglor practically resonated. He had to stop himself grinning like a lunatic. The world's only known Elda was currently residing in his suitcase, and he was being given the privilege to learn about them.

But all your questions can wait until tomorrow, his conscience/Tina insisted in his head. The guy is injured and you just scared him out of his mind. Let him get some sleep, for Merlin's sake.

"Thank you," Newt told him seriously, itching to know why Maglor shook his head with such a mournful expression when he said that, but reining in his questions. "Sorry I startled you. Are you alright? Your arm?"

Maglor wiggled the fingers of his right hand in response and nodded, with a sad sort of smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Alright, good. Now back to sleep, I think. For both of us."

Catching his gist, Maglor settled back down and Dougal snuggled back into his chosen cuddling spot, nudging the tangled hair away before he did so. Newt smiled softly at the two of them and whispered "sleep well" before heading back out of the case and into his guest room.

Barely pausing to kick off his shoes and slip out of his waistcoat, he collapsed onto the bed face first and fell asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Notwithstanding the rude awakening and the brief moment of crushing despair before Maglor deduced that Newt's fear related to the strange appearance of elven sleep, and not him specifically, the reverie he found that night was the longest and most peaceful he'd had in several ages. Perhaps it was just because the stress of the day had exhausted him, but his dreams simply took him on a gentle meander through the wild country around Maglor's Gap that he used to love so much, rather than their usual dark paths. Sunlight was streaming through the window when he came around, blinking with the strangeness of waking up inside in a bed rather than on the sand in the lee of a boulder. If this was indeed a hallucination, it was a remarkably persistent one; although he had to admit that though the alternative was even more ridiculous, he might have been mistaken about that.

There was a sling of soft cloth folded for him on the bedside table, and he resigned himself to wearing it, suspecting it would be put on for him if he didn't, even though there was only a dull ache remaining from the injury. Dougal was no longer there, and he was surprised by how much he already missed the creature's companionship. That was a dangerous sign. He resolved that he would thank Newt and get out from under his feet that very day before he could do anything stupid like get attached. Determined, he pushed the blankets off, pleased to note that his usual indifference to temperature had returned, and set off in search of Newt.

He found him at the table on the terrace, which was groaning with a huge selection of different foodstuffs and some things that didn't look edible at all. Newt jumped when he looked up and saw him- ah, it had been so long since he'd had to think about deliberately making noise as he moved so as not to inadvertently creep up on humans- but after a moment of surprise he greeted Maglor by name with a bright smile. Momentarily taken aback by the sheer miracle of someone actually being happy to see him, he quickly gathered himself and returned the greeting.

"Food," Newt explained, indicating the laden table, and there was absolutely no need for Maglor to carefully file away that word but he did. Newt then beckoned Maglor over, made a sweeping gesture across the whole thing then gave a little embarrassed shrug, saying something slightly apologetic-sounding. Maglor frowned in confusion. There was enough for the High King's table there, surely it couldn't all be for him; admittedly he did appear somewhat wraithlike but even if Newt was trying to feed him up, he must realise that he couldn't possibly eat all of that at once. Moreover, some of it was positively revolting: there was even a bowl of little wriggling grubs that were still alive, plates of bloody raw meat and a dish of fish scales amongst the more conventional bread, fruit and cooked fish and meat.

"Choose," Newt instructed, picking up two dishes and glancing between them as if comparing them. He apologised and shrugged again, and finally Maglor worked it out. After the confusion last night, Newt was making no assumptions about his nature, so he'd laid out an extensive selection for Maglor to pick from. Thanking Newt and trying not to be offended by the implication that he might eat grubs, Maglor picked up some bread and cheese, feeling positively decadent: he'd been living off roots, edible seaweed and the occasional fish, mostly, so this was a rare indulgence. Newt sat opposite him in companionable silence as he ate, scribbling in a little notebook. He gestured to the table again once he'd finished, inviting him to take more, but Maglor shook his head. He'd already practically feasted. Newt frowned and cajoled him a little, but he stubbornly refused. The sooner he could get out of this, the better.

Finally accepting his refusal to eat any more, Newt slid a hand under his elbow and led him inside to the desk, then unrolled a piece of parchment in front of him and secured it with a paperweight. Maglor couldn't hold back a gasp. Right in the centre of the parchment, there was a figure which was unmistakeably him: but not how he imagined himself. In his imagination, he was grey. A hair away from fading, gaunt and full of sharp angles, marred by the disfigurement of his hands. In the drawing, hints of colour transformed him: bluish tints in his hair that gave the neglected black mass character, a silvery sheen to his skin that made him look spritely rather than barely-there, even the muted browns of his roughly-made tunic and leggings appearing natural rather than drab. The hands were certainly his, curved in on themselves, but they didn't draw the eye like he imagined they must. The drawing made him look wild and alive in a way he never thought to see himself again.

"Maglor," Newt explained, rather unnecessarily, indicating the image. Then he pointed to the other reason the parchment had taken Maglor's breath away: the multiple line drawings, figures with distinctly pointed ears, which surrounded the rendering of Maglor, not quite as detailed but still clearly recognisable as the kin he had forsaken. Newt was showing him a vision of himself, fierce and strong-willed and back with his people, and Maglor wondered that his host couldn't hear his heart stuttering in his chest at the impossible sight.

"Eldas," Newt continued, indicating the anonymous elves that he'd drawn surrounding Maglor.

And because pedantry springs eternal in the poet's breast, apparently, Maglor automatically corrected,

"Eldar."

"Eldar," Newt conceded, smiling, dipping his head graciously in acknowledgement. Then he flipped open a book from a pile on the desk to a map of a country; studying the coastline, Maglor realised that it matched with his mental image of the beaches he'd been wandering. Newt gestured over the map.

"Eldar, where?" he asked.

Suddenly, Newt's intentions resolved into crystal clarity and Maglor had to stifle a sob. Newt was trying to do right by the strange wanderer he'd rescued. Trying to take him home.

And Maglor had to find a way to tell him it was impossible.

He shook his head, biting back the tears and fighting to stay composed. He suspected that an emotional breakdown was not going to give Newt the impression that he could cope on his own. Of course the ridiculous human noticed, though, and rubbed his arm in consolation, murmuring reassurance. He flipped to another page in the book of maps, showing a different-shaped land mass. It didn't match any of Maglor's impressions of the larger view of Middle Earth, but then there had been a huge earthquake just after the last elves sailed, so perhaps the world changed shape when the Straight Road and the last path to Valinor were lost forever. Maglor shook his head again and tapped the table just outside the book, trying to convey that his people were off the map forever. Newt pursed his lips at this, thinking, then found another map, showing what looked like very large islands in the sea. He pointed out a small promontory on one of them, saying, "Newt and Maglor. Here." Leaning in, he could identify the coastline he knew and nodded, realising that this map was from a very different perspective and marvelling that apparently this was what the world looked like now.

"Where are the Eldar?" Newt asked again, and Maglor ached with the frustration of not being able to explain that his people's home was closed to him forever. A quill caught his eye, and inspiration seized him so he took it up. Excited by his initiative, Newt opened an inkpot for him, and Maglor steeled himself to do what was necessary.

Part of him protested the destruction of Newt's beautiful artwork (in another age, I would have shown that to Celebrimbor, he mused, he would have liked it). But it was the only way he could think of to communicate his forsakenness and the impossibility of Newt ever carrying out his well-meaning intentions. The picture was a glorious dream, anyway, him standing amongst his kin again. Hopeful dreams like that couldn't last.

Clamping firmly down on the threatening tears, he carefully crossed out every anonymous elf in the image with a thick black line, leaving the drawing of himself just like the real thing: completely and utterly alone.

"Oh. Oh. Oh no."

As those awful black lines moved inexorably through his sketches, understanding slowly crept into Newt's mind, and the truth was so terrible that he almost wished it hadn't.

"You're…you're the last one, aren't you?"

It explained everything. Why he was living alone on a beach, why no-one had heard of the species before, the general air of neglect, that excruciating sadness in his eyes, the burned hands and the abject misery that came over him when Newt had mentioned his people.

There had been some terrible incident with an immensely powerful magical object, that much was clear. It seemed that it had killed all the Eldar and injured Maglor, who was the lone survivor of his race and had been hiding ever since. Newt felt tears spring to his own eyes as Maglor laid aside the quill and thrust the parchment towards him with a shaking hand.

"I am so, so sorry," he breathed, devastated for the Eldar, devastated for Maglor, devastated for the world that was deprived of the presence of this beautiful community, probably just because some rogue Dark wizard had abandoned a cursed object uncaring what it would unleash. "Oh, Maglor, I'm sorry that happened to your people." He reached out to comfort him but he flinched away, the tears he had been valiantly fighting back spilling over at the touch.

"It's alright to cry," he reassured him, assuming that his jumpiness was due to embarrassment. "Perhaps you should sit down, look, here." He pulled over a crate and guided him down to sit on it, attempting to leave a consoling hand on his shoulder but being quickly shrugged off. He understood what it was like to be so upset that even comforting touches felt invasive and wrong, so he didn't persist, simply handed Maglor a handkerchief, grabbed one for himself, sat down beside him and let his own tears flow freely, crying right there with him for the tragedy of the Eldar.

Maglor exclaimed in surprise, making him look up and scan the room, smiling through his tears when he saw what had caused it. Two glossy-skinned red apples were floating across the room towards them.

"That's a very kind thought, Dougal. I think Maglor would appreciate seeing you, though."

Predictably, Maglor nearly jumped out of his skin when Dougal materialised- not much chance of seeing a demiguise in Norway, and Dougal hadn't been invisible in front of him yet- but at least it was a distraction from his sorrows.

"Dougal's trying to make us feel better," Newt explained, plucking an apple from one of his extended hands. "Apples are his favourite food, you see, so he always brings me one when I'm upset."

Newt was unsure how much of this Maglor understood, but at any rate he followed Newt's lead and thanked Dougal quietly in English as he took the other apple and bit into it. Dougal scrambled up into his lap, heedless of Maglor's attempts to divert him, and settled himself contentedly against his chest. Giving up, Maglor sighed and let him nestle there. They both calmed significantly as they munched on the apples, and Dougal looked decidedly pleased with himself.

"Well, that's one thing settled, at least," Newt announced decisively at last, earning himself a curious look.

"You're staying here so we can look after you. It won't do to have you on your own again." He bit his lip, trying to work out how to communicate this, and eventually managed to convey the idea of 'here' by pointing emphatically at the ground then gesturing to their surroundings. Rather than the relief he was expecting, though, this just made Maglor more distressed, and he shook his head emphatically.

"Maglor," he shook his head, "here." "Maglor," he shook his head again, "goot."

"Maglor is very good," Newt countered, old adaptive speech patterns from his days working with house-elves re-asserting themselves. But how to convince his charge of his own goodness? Newt was beginning to suspect that he was suffering from some sort of survivors' guilt from the incident that killed his people, and mistakenly believed he didn't deserve to be cared for. He returned to the image he'd drawn earlier, pointing to the solitary figure amid the forest of black lines.

"Alone," he said, the already-familiar soft voice echoing the word after him. Maglor nodded sagely.

"Maglor is alone. Isa goot," he said, and Newt barely had the chance to marvel at the linguistic dexterity of this mind already creating sentences in a language he'd first heard less than twenty-four hours ago, too busy being saddened by how horribly inaccurate that statement was, and what it said about Maglor's mental state.

"Alone is not good," Newt argued fervently, shaking his head. "Alone is bad." He thought about how he felt when he looked into Maglor's eyes, the impression of ages upon ages of sorrows layered there.

"I think you've been alone for far too long," he said softly. "Too much alone," he clarified when Maglor's brow creased in confusion at that, spreading his hands wide to give an impression of quantity.

"Not! Maglor is not goot! Maglor not here!" he cried, clearly upset by the idea of remaining in the suitcase. It was tricky situation; usually with something as close to human as Maglor Newt would respect their capacity to decide whether they wanted his help or not, but he could tell that Maglor's reluctance seemed to stem from a fundamental misjudgement of his own worth rather than a rational choice. And he knew that it would be an utter tragedy if he had to leave the last of the Eldar as he had found him: a lonely wraith on a beach singing beautiful laments heard only by the waves and the wind.

"Alright, alright," he soothed, deciding not to gesture for a moment in favour of calming Maglor with his voice. Maglor flinched away as Newt crouched in front of him and reached up to cradle his face with one hand, but Newt left his hand there and as if drawn by magnetism, Maglor leant back into the touch and a shiver visibly ran through his body. Well, yes. Centuries of solitude probably would leave one rather touch-starved. Maglor's eyes widened in panic at his own reaction but Newt intervened before he could get worked up about it.

"Hush, now, it's quite alright," he whispered, moving his thumb in tiny circles on Maglor's hollow cheek, noting that he went still as a statue as he did so. "Here you are, just relax, we'll work all this out. We'll work out why you're being so terribly hard on yourself and why you think you should be alone. I don't think anyone deserves to be alone, you see. And that includes you. Especially with how much you're obviously hurting. There's a great big family here waiting for you, and I think you'd fit in splendidly. Dougal already loves you, and he's a fantastic judge of character. You could belong here, if you want to. Maybe you just need some time to see that, hmmm?"

Maglor had relaxed into his touch, still trembling a little, but Newt had even more trouble than usual holding his gaze. There was something in it that was so desolate, so lost, that it terrified Newt even whilst making him determined to help this wanderer find his way again. Maglor echoed his 'hmmm' noise, making it sound confused, begging Newt with his eyes just to say something that made sense. Newt suspected he still wouldn't be able to accept a simple 'stay in the suitcase', though, so he came up with a plan.

"Alright, then, here's what we'll do," he declared assertively.

"Your arm," he began, pointing to the limb, "it's hurt," he winced. "Stay here until it's better," he suggested, pretending to hold his arm in a sling and then gradually regain the movement in it. He'd have an alternative career in mime after a few more days with Maglor, he thought wryly. Maglor, stubborn rogue that he was already proving himself, pointed to his arm and moved to start unbuckling the straps on the splints.

"Itsabetta," he announced. Newt intercepted his hand and gently moved it back to rest on Dougal.

"No," he chided. "Not better. Three days." He showed the number on his fingers and then made the sun (his right hand) rise and set above the horizon (his left forearm) to illustrate 'day.' Maglor regarded him suspiciously.

"Sree dayes," he repeated, unsure.

"Three days," Newt confirmed. "Stay three days, then choose."

Maglor's eyes widened, clearly recognising the word from earlier. "Coose," he echoed, frowning as he struggled to replicate the 'ch' sound. "Maglor c-choose?" he sought confirmation.

"Yes, three days, then I'll let you choose. Stay or go." Newt affirmed, knowing that that was going to be a hard promise to keep if he did choose to go, but also knowing that he might have to accept that this was one wild soul who needed to be free. That happened, sometimes, and one of the hardest parts of Newt's profession was knowing when to let go. He was hoping, however, that three days with his suitcase family would remind Maglor of what he was missing and help prove to him that he deserved all the care they lavished on him. At the very least, he could coax him into eating a few good meals before he went.

Maglor considered this for a few excruciating moments, then with a deep frown of contemplation he inclined his head.

"Yes. Maglor setay sr-three dayes. Maglor go."

He was certainly stubborn, Newt had to give him that. It sounded like he'd already decided that for whatever reason, he had to return to his solitary life, but Newt was determined to prove him wrong.

Three days to show someone as much love and care as he and the suitcase family could possibly give?

That was Newt Scamander's kind of challenge.