A/N Hello there! Continuing in the same vein as last chapter, today we get the next half of the alphabet as Maglor, Newt and Tina continue to learn about each other. And we get closer to some confessions which Maglor knows he has to make…

Raven, thanks for your comment! As for writing music, I swear by Daniel Jang and Simply Three string covers! I'm not sure about Credence, they could have some very interesting conversations about scarred hands and internalised self-blame, but I've already got some great DMCs with Queenie and Dumbledore lined up, so I'm a bit wary of overcomplicating the plot. We'll have to see! And completely agree, I do enjoy the way that Silm references are woven through the movies.

Useful to know for this chapter: 'The Fountain of Fair Fortune' is a tale in the collection 'Tales of Beedle the Bard'. It recounts the tale of three witches and a hapless knight who team up to overcome all the obstacles standing between them and the Fountain of Fair Fortune. They each have serious problems which they hope that the Fountain can solve. At one point, their path is blocked by a gigantic blind worm, which the knight, Sir Luckless, ineffectively attacks. It is moved instead by one of the witches' tears. Only one of them may bathe in the fountain and experience its effects, but by the time they make it there, all the witches have found the solutions to their problems through the trials they have faced, and thus a conflict over the fountain is avoided.

Words, Part Two (& a story)

Newspaper

One thing about modernity which Maglor heartily approved of was the availability of the written word. Compared with the world he had known, writing was everywhere. He supposed that magic must make copying easier and enable the scribes to achieve the incredible regularity of the fonts in the books, but still the sheer number of texts in the Scamanders' possession indicated that they must be fabulously wealthy, maybe even descended from royalty. Even knowing this, he couldn't hold back a gasp when Tina started casually tearing up a printed page and throwing the scraps into the fireplace. Newt startled in his armchair.

"Are you alright?" he asked urgently.

"Fine, but why do you burn that? It takes much work, much money." He made an aborted grabbing motion towards the rest of the papers, as if to protect them from Tina's destruction.

"This?" Tina confirmed, holding up the paper. "It's just an old newspaper, we get a new one every week, it's not expensive, don't worry."

"They write the news every week? How is that not expensive? Because of magic?"

Then it clicked that Maglor had come from a society that heavily relied on oral knowledge, in which manuscripts were painstakingly copied by scribes and were hence highly prized objects. Newt and Tina proceeded to explain the printing process, and how it was made even easier by magic, enabling the production of books and newspapers at low prices.

"Hang on, we've got a decent book collection: you must have thought we were filthy rich- er, had lots of money."

"Are you not?"

Newt and Tina looked at each other and burst out laughing.

"We both have good jobs, and my books bring in a good amount, so we get along nicely, but no. Sorry to disappoint!"

Owl

The habit of having owls deliver post was rather difficult to get used to; the first time Maglor shared breakfast with the Scamanders he was startled by a harsh tapping at the window, and his confusion only increased when, completely unperturbed, Newt got up to open it for a rotund barn owl which clutched a letter in its claws. He fed it a few pellets and sent it back out. The owl cooed and blinked a few times on the windowsill, and Newt shook his head in exasperation.

"You know that doesn't work here, Oswald, you're not getting another one, that's plenty to get you back home. Oh, stop looking at me like that, I know the Kowalskis spoil you rotten so it's no use pretending you're starved, those eyes don't work on me."

The owl hooted indignantly and flew away, and Newt returned to the table, letters in hand.

"That owl has Jacob wrapped around his little claw, it's ridiculous," he grumbled good-naturedly.

"Aw, cut him some slack. He's just excited about having one, makes him feel like a proper wizard, he says," Tina pointed out.

"I know, but it's really not healthy him finishing off Jacob's pastry scraps all the time, he could end up with all sorts of health issues…"

"Ah," Maglor cut in, attempting to find something more dignified to say than, "what?" and failing miserably.

"Oh yes, wizards train owls to deliver letters, probably should have mentioned that," Newt informed him cheerfully.

Piano

Maglor had identified the large wooden box with black and white buttons in the lounge as a 'piano' using his encyclopaedia, but his curiosity about how it sounded was only satisfied when he followed some intriguing music one weekend to find Tina deftly manipulating the instrument. The tune used unfamiliar chords and intervals, but soon enough he found himself enjoying it. He didn't even realise he was humming a harmony until she startled and looked round at him, but kept playing and told him to carry on when he apologised. She brought her piece to a close with a lovely succession of descending scales, reminding Maglor with a pang of the freedom he used to feel when he played similar sequences on his harp.

"I did not know you did piano," he remarked after she had finished.

"I play, yes, but I'm not very good," she replied, "I only started a few years ago."

"That's amazing," Maglor said sincerely. Time in Valinor passed differently, but if he were to equate it, he was probably still learning his scales at the same point in his musical education.

"Flatterer," she scolded him teasingly, "it's just a hobby, really- something I do for fun. I felt a bit sort of… lost, after Grindelwald fell., I didn't really know what to do with myself, and so we decided that I needed a project, something I did just for me. I always wanted to learn to play piano when I was a little girl, but I never had the money until now. Newt bought me the piano and some lessons for our anniversary, and here we are."

"You are very good. You learned fast," he insisted.

"That's high praise, coming from you," she smiled. And because she was used to him by now, she said, "anything else you want to know?"

"Is it magic?" he asked.

"No, actually, you can get enchanted ones, but I wanted to learn how to do it all myself first. Look," she lifted the lid and showed him the strings concealed inside, then how a tiny hammer would strike the string when she pressed a key. Forgetting all about his hands in a moment of distraction, he reached out to stroke his fingers over them, revelling in the joy of producing sound for a few precious seconds before the agony in his blistered fingers forced him to snatch them back.

"Careful!" Tina warned him, alarmed. Noting his crestfallen expression, she guessed what had prompted his desire to touch the instrument. "I know you sing, but did you play something?"

And as he looked at the beautiful instrument before him, oh how keenly did he feel the loss of a part of himself that was almost like another limb. The instrument itself had gone to Elrond, which he was glad of, but it still grieved him that one of his most precious modes of expression had been stripped away. For him, maiming his hands couldn't have been a more fitting punishment.

"I played the harp," he said quietly, and he would be eternally grateful to Tina for her sensitivity in not pressing him further on that, or on his hand injury. Instead she nodded in acknowledgement, sat down before the piano, and asked him if he would sing for her again.

He did, allowing the challenge of the new style of music to distract him, and thanked whichever Valar were listening for their mercy in leaving him his voice.

Quest

"Ah, good old Beedle the Bard! My brother and I were brought up on those tales," Newt remarked cheerily on seeing the book in Maglor's hands, "which one are you reading?"

"The Fountain of Fair Fortune. I just finished it."

"Ah yes, I know it's not supposed to be the point of the story, but I never forgave Sir Luckless for attacking the blind worm. I mean, honestly, taking a sword to a magical creature simply because it's in your way? That's just plain rude."

Maglor kept his face expressionless, but inwardly he shivered at the reminder of the pressing need to tell his own story, and the inevitability of this fantasy of family and home crumbling around him. If this was Newt's censure of a fictional knight who unsuccessfully attempted to harm a living creature which blocked his path, how much then would he abhor a real killer so devoted to his purpose that he massacred his own kin when they stood in his way?

But, like a coward, he decided that he wasn't yet ready for that conversation and picked up on something else Newt had said. He thought with a pang of discussing the same subject with Tyelpë, as young elves spurring each other on in their passion, fired up in the belief that together, they would discover all the hidden mysteries of the arts. No-one knew then how fraught the debate over a creator's right to control his creation was going to become. He concentrated on shaping his thoughts into English.

"Yes. I am often thinking… that there is no 'supposed' in stories. For you, it is about the worm. That is your 'Fountain of Fair Fortune.' A story is alive, one cannot cage it. It is Beedle's no more."

"Oh, I like that," Newt grinned, delighted, "'Supposed' has never worked out well for me anyway. Go on then, what's your 'Fountain of Fair Fortune' about?"

He thought of the three witches in the story, how deeply he empathised with their desperation for the one thing they needed to end their suffering. He thought also of his admiration for their mutual support, and their wisdom in knowing when they had found their answers in unexpected places. He could imagine all too well what might have happened if they had all insisted on bathing in the fountain no matter what the cost.

"For me, it's about quests," he said, "and knowing when it is time to let them go."

Resilient

"Come on inside, it's freezing out here! You'll catch your death!"

Maglor hadn't really noticed the cold, nor how much time had passed as he wandered the garden, mesmerised by the falling snowflakes; he'd weathered his fair share of snowstorms during his exile, but knowing that he had shelter to return to when he wished transformed the experience completely. He ducked back inside nonetheless, trying to process Newt's last phrase.

"'Death'- that is from 'die'?"

"Er, yes," Newt replied a little uncomfortably.

"Then how is death catched?" Seeing Newt begin to correct him, he held up a hand. "Wait, let me. So 'catch' is not like 'fetch'- is it like 'teach'? So, 'caught'? How is death caught?"

"Yes, that's right, very impressive," Newt praised him. "And 'catch your death' is an expression. It means to get too cold and then get ill or sick." He paused a moment. "Can you get sick? Is it possible?"

"No, the Eldar die when we are too hurt, only." He wasn't quite sure how to explain fading, so decided to leave it; if he attempted to simplify it by suggesting that being 'too sad' was fatal for an elf, Newt would probably panic that he was dying at his every frown.

"I see. You are a very resilient people, I must say."

"Resilient?" Maglor inquired, unsure what Newt was getting at.

"Resilient," Newt echoed musingly. "I'm not sure how to explain that one. Oh, hang on, I have an idea. Accio Slinky!"

A coiled metal spring covered in glitter and tiny gems sailed into Newt's outstretched hand.

"This is Helga's, for when she's good, she likes to chase it down the stairs," he explained. Maglor nodded, unsure of how this related to the word they were discussing. Newt pressed the contraption down and they both watched as it sprang back up vigorously.

"I push it down, it comes back up. It's resilient," Newt elaborated. "So for people, that means something bad happens, you're hurt for example, you recover and come back up stronger."

Maglor hummed in agreement, fitting in the new word with his rapidly expanding vocabulary and enjoying the sensation of the slinky springing back up against the back of his hand.

"So I think the Eldar in general must be a resilient species, but you in particular seem like a resilient fellow to me," Newt went on.

Maglor considered this. It was an uncomfortably positive adjective to apply to himself, but then he thought of everything he'd lived through, all the catastrophes he'd both helped to cause and endured, and realised that against all the odds, he was still here.

Anyway, not putting up an argument was worth it for the smile that crept across Newt's face when Maglor replied,

"Yes. I suppose I am."

Shy

Pickett's irritated reaction had discouraged Maglor from trying out the hybrid form of Quenya-Entish with the other bowtruckles, but eventually he decided to experiment and see how they reacted. None of the others responded quite so dramatically as Pickett. For the most part, they paused to listen, tilting their heads inquisitively, then concluded that the strange sounds were irrelevant and carried on slowly picking their way across the bark. He was about to give it up as a lost cause when he noticed a tiny green face peeking out warily from behind a leaf before hiding again.

"Who is that?" he asked Newt, who was observing.

"That's Marlowe. He's interested, I think, aren't you Marlowe? Don't worry, he's alright, just hiding because he's a bit shy. Ah, that means nervous around new people."

The bowtruckle had ducked for cover on hearing his name, but there was a flash of a beady little eye around the edge of the leaf and the tiniest, timid little squeaking noise.

"He wants you to carry on," Newt translated, looking mildly surprised and rather pleased.

So Maglor did. He recited the best short lyric he knew in Quenya-Entish, which nevertheless lasted the rest of the day, a reflection on an oak which had grown strong and tall despite lightning damage, incorporating its scars into its beauty. The other bowtruckles accepted the deep almost-song as part of the background noise, working on peaceably. Marlowe hid for at least the first hour, and Maglor could only tell he was still there by the quivering of his sheltering leaf.

But by the time Maglor concluded the final stanza, about the love and respect all the creatures of the forest held for the damaged oak, Marlowe had emerged into full view, listening with rapt fascination and a smile lighting up his tiny scarred face.

Tall

Hilpy usually tried to perform most of her tasks away from Newt and Tina, a relic of her traditional training of being told not to get in the way, which her new family's repeated reassurances hadn't yet eroded. She seemed to relate to Maglor's desire to contribute, though, and their suspected shared ancestry allowed her curiosity to overpower her shyness; this enabled her to be slightly less skittish around him, especially once he had assured her that he really did enjoy her company. Hence she did not vanish immediately as he found her in one of the guest rooms, clicking her fingers and tutting furiously.

"Hilpy is cleaning the skirtings," she elaborated when he asked her, "Master Newt is raising baby talky-spiders last month and they is leaving cobwebs everywhere."

He suppressed a shudder. They're nothing compared to Ungoliant, he reminded himself. But it was her shadow that still made him a little leery of them. "Are they still here?" he asked, trying to sound casual and failing abysmally. He hadn't seen any, but it would be so like Newt to have an Acromantula nest stashed away somewhere.

"No, they is all going to safe colonies. Master Maglor is not to be worrying!"

"I wasn't worried," he said quickly, with a little sigh of relief nonetheless. Hilpy resumed her tutting and muttering.

"Can I help?" he offered, knowing that the little elf was far too like him to actually ask for it.

"Hilpy is trying to use her magic to clean them, but she is not tall enough to see so not knowing if it is working!"

Tall… that was always his brother's epithet but, compared to Hilpy, it most certainly described him. And that might just be the answer to their current situation. He crouched and gestured to his back, throwing in a gallant "my lady," since he rather liked the older patterns of speech from the fiction he'd moved on to reading, and he predicted correctly that it would make Hilpy giggle.

"Are you sure…Maglor?" It was the first time she'd dropped the 'master' from his title, and he felt a sudden rush of triumph on realising that his ridiculous gesture had convinced her that he really was just her friend.

"Absolutely," he confirmed, and on feeling the small body clambering onto his shoulders, he did his best to repress an unexpected surge of emotion as he remembered the last time he'd felt that sensation: plunging through the forest in a race against Maedhros, a laughing twin on each of their shoulders. He cleared his head quickly though and allowed Hilpy to direct him to the corner behind the bookcase which had been particularly annoying her.

So it was that Tina arrived home from work to the bizarre sight of Hilpy atop Maglor's shoulders, directing him around the house- "left a bit, please, no, no, that is too far, right an inch, yes, there, thank you, Maglor"- and then snapping away the last few remnants of cobweb from the corners of the room. Concluding that they both looked perfectly content, she waved hello to them and decided to leave them to it.

Umbrella

From time to time, Newt worked on a mysterious project in the shed; it was the one place in the property Maglor had been forbidden from entering, albeit with profuse apologies. He was achingly curious about what went on in there, but his inquiries were always met with an evasive, "It's a bit complicated, I'll explain later." He was working in there one afternoon when the heavens opened and soaked everything in freezing February rain. Maglor, meditating outside, simply drew his cloak over his head and remained where he was, pondering the mystery of the world renewing itself from Yavanna's tears, sorrow being transformed into life.

A few hours later, Newt emerged and carefully locked the shed behind him, with both a physical key and spellwork. He hurried over to Maglor as soon as he saw him there, a pearlescent shape hovering above him, deflecting the rain from his head.

"Good grief, how long have you been out here? Come on under."

"Not long," he replied nonchalantly. By his standards, he really hadn't. He moved as Newt directed, having to crouch to get his tall frame under the translucent curve which stopped the rain.

"Ah, sorry, let me fix that," Newt said, flicking his wand and causing the magical barrier to float higher, enabling him to stand straight again. He tapped its surface, causing it to shimmer, trying to ignore the way Newt's expression softened into fondness at his childlike curiosity.

"It's an umbrella," Newt informed him before he could ask. "Useful little spell, this one, don't you think?"

Veteran

Newt knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he didn't care. After the dark times his brother had been through after the war, to receive a letter like the one he'd just read, so full of hope and his old humour, along with a photograph too, lifted his spirits like nothing else could. Maglor, sitting across the breakfast table, quirked an eyebrow in what Newt had mentally termed his 'I'm curious but I don't want to pry' expression. Practically bouncing with joy at his news though, Newt was very happy to oblige.

"It's a letter from my older brother, Theseus. He's at a veterans' event with his charity in America this week. Here they all are, look."

He slid the photograph across the table. In it, Percival reached up in his wheelchair to clink his champagne glass against the one held in Theseus' left hand, the two of them at the centre of a motley crowd of witches and wizards bearing an impressive array of scars, missing limbs and prostheses. Maglor studied it carefully, going a little pale.

"Veterans?" he asked, and Newt belatedly remembered that Maglor had most likely lived through a war himself and might find the picture distressing.

"Yes, you remember there was the war against Grindelwald? My brother Theseus and his friend Percival run a charity for veterans, people who fought and were hurt in the war."

Maglor's eyes flicked between Newt and the picture and then he pointed out Theseus.

"That's your brother?" he asked in a tone of disbelief.

"Yes, that's Theseus," he replied a little frostily, apprehensive about what Maglor would say next. Given the compassion he'd already displayed, he'd expected Maglor to show at least some understanding about his brother's disability.

But Maglor's eyes kept flicking from Theseus' face to the point in the picture where his right arm ended at the elbow.

Newt prepared himself for pity, disgust, horrified fascination or dismissal, all reactions Theseus had encountered from people too prejudiced to see past his missing right forearm. But he could never have predicted what Maglor said next.

"My older brother also lost his right hand in a war," he said in a pained whisper and suddenly his fixation with Theseus' injury made a terrible sort of sense.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Newt said. He had so many questions about what had happened in whatever brutal war Maglor and his brother had lived through, how long his brother had lived with his injury, whether it had happened in the same incident that scarred Maglor's hands. But he knew from experience how much he hated when people met Theseus for the first time and acted like his disability was the most interesting thing about him. Maglor's brother was a person, after all, with an entire history far larger than the number of his limbs. So instead of asking any of those insistent questions, Newt said, "what was his name?"

Maglor's eyes flicked to his in surprise, and he nodded to Newt in gratitude and understanding.

"His name was Maedhros, and he was incredible," he said with fierce pride, and swallowed heavily as he struggled to maintain his composure. He managed it, looked down at the photograph again, at Theseus' face this time, Newt was delighted to note. He smiled weakly at Newt and returned the favour.

"Tell me about Theseus."

Wait

"I am ready to tell you my past," Maglor announced as he entered Newt's study.

Newt's forehead crinkled into a frown as he observed Maglor's shallow breathing and frenetically clenching hands.

"Are you now? Forgive me, but you don't look all that ready to me."

Maglor shifted his feet slightly, discomforted, and Newt felt absurdly like a headmaster with a chastised schoolboy before him. Albeit a millennia-old, seven-foot tall schoolboy with superhuman strength.

"I am selfish. It is nothing."

"It's clearly not nothing," Newt replied, standing from behind his desk and coming round to perch on it in an attempt to make the encounter feel more casual. "Breathe, Maglor, it's alright, no need to force yourself into anything. That's better. Can you explain why you wanted to tell me?"

"You must know. It is important. I did things, terrible things, and you have been very generous. You deserve to know what I am."

"This isn't about me," Newt insisted quietly. "This is your story and yours alone. If you feel that you want to talk about what happened, then I'll listen, but you shouldn't do this because of debt. You don't owe me anything, understand? And besides, I know all I need to know about you already. There's no rush."

"You don't know about me, you don't know what I did…"

"I know everything I need to know," Newt repeated, "I know you're gentle and kind and respect my creatures more than most wizards would. You've spent hours talking to Marlowe in that old- Ent-language, you call it?- and got him interested in the old trees; he's always been the most withdrawn of my bowtruckles, you know, and since you've been here he's got so much braver. You were there watching Katarina as she flew for the first time since her injury and your joy made it so clear that how much you care. You're generous and you always want to help me in the case, even though carrying things must hurt your hands. You're stubborn enough to keep my mother-henning in check, you're very intelligent and you've taken to English like a hippogriff to the air."

Newt paused when he saw that Maglor was looking a little overwhelmed by this and continued in a softer tone.

"If that's all I ever learn about you, that will be enough. Those are the important things. Don't tell me your past just because you think you have to, especially if it's hard to talk about. Like I said, I will listen, but only when I'm sure you really want to tell me, for your own sake. I don't think you do, today."

"I…should want to tell you," Maglor said bitterly, clearly frustrated at himself.

"You should feel whatever you're feeling. If you don't want to, if you physically can't, then that's fine. There's no problem. Let's wait a little longer. Besides, if it's a hard story to tell, you don't want to have to think about the words all the time. Your English is incredible, but maybe give yourself more time to get really confident before you talk about something traumatic?"

Maglor nodded slowly.

"Alright. I will learn more English and get confident, then I will tell you. Thank you, Newt."

He had turned on his heel and left the study before Newt could try to reiterate the main point he'd tried to convey in that conversation; it had got lost, somehow, and this time Newt couldn't blame translation.

eXaltation

Maglor could have happily lived out the rest of his life just in Newt's case, but the magizoologist decided it would be good for him to get out a bit. So he started accompanying Newt on low-stakes investigations in deserted places where they were unlikely to meet anyone asking awkward questions; and if they did, Newt's quick and subtle Confundus charm had got him out of several tight spots in the past.

Thus they found themselves lying on their stomachs on the edge of some abandoned farmland in County Clare, investigating a sighting of a Morrigan's Raven, an Irish species of magical bird, famed for its intelligence and beauty. The sky was pinkening prettily as the sun began to emerge through a cluster of distant trees, casting a soft light on the early morning mist as it insinuated itself through the long grass. The morning itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something.

A faint chirruping began in the distance, then extended into a long chain of trills and complex melodies.

"This isn't something magical, is it?" Maglor whispered, imitating the birdsong for Newt's analysis since it was out of his range of hearing. It didn't sound like any ravens he'd ever known, but with magical creatures you could never tell.

"No," Newt concluded, "It's a skylark. Not a magic bird, but almost, I've always thought. My pet theory is that at some point they bred with snidgets."

A brown speck appeared on the periphery of Maglor's vision, and the song grew clearer and more complex. No sooner had he pointed it out to Newt, who squinted through his binoculars at it, than another bird appeared in the sky, closer to them, and took up the call. It seemed he was trying to outdo the first singer, jumping between pitches with astonishing dexterity and creating ever more complicated sequences.

The songs merged, creating a stunning counterpoint, the melodies competing yet enhancing each other. Soon, a third picked up the song too, and then another, and another still. Little by little the chirps and chitters and clear chiming calls linked into each other like a silver chain, their songs filling the air as though they were summoning the sun itself from its slumber with their irrepressible joy. As they poured out the music of their souls over the rolling landscape, Maglor knew that despite all his years of practice, in these unassuming minstrels of the field he had met his match. Then, as quickly as they had come, one by one they vanished, until at last one sole lark circled higher and higher until he disappeared from view, leaving the silver threads of their song rippling through the silence.

"Exaltation," Maglor murmured at last.

"Pardon?"

"We saw an exaltation of larks."

Since Newt continued to look confused, Maglor faltered a little.

"That is right, isn't it? That book Tina got me last week has a list of common nouns in it. They're delightful. It said that the word for a group of larks is an exaltation."

"Is it really? I never knew that. I'm sure it's right, though. You're teaching me, now. Exaltation. That fits rather well. No other word really comes close."

"Yes, it feels exactly right," he agreed, and they both quieted, lost in their reflections, souls still flying on the wings of an exaltation of larks.

Years

"So there's twelve months in a year, ten years in a decade, a hundred years in a century," Newt explained, concluding his exposition of the human reckoning of time; a useful refresher for Maglor, who hadn't needed it since negotiating with Men in the First Age.

"For example, I am fifty-one years old, fifty-two later this month, which is February." He licked his lips nervously before asking the next question. "How old are you?"

His brows furrowed as he tried to work it out. He really hadn't been paying attention to the passing yéni, but he could probably manage a rough guess. The conversions between numbering systems weren't helping either, he was as able with numbers as the next elf, but not particularly fond of complicated mathematics unless it had to do with musical time signatures. Curufin was always the best at this kind of thing, he could perform wizardry on an abacus that made him seem almost Maiar, and he would be utterly livid to watch his brother fumble with these sums. And that was before you even mentioned Fëanor…

Newt misinterpreted his frown.

"Sorry, that's a bit personal, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No, it's fine, I am attempting to calculate…we numbered with yéni, 144 years each, and I did not note them well for a long time."

"Just to clarify," Newt said slowly, going a bit pale, "you measure time in blocks of 144 years and you lost count?"

"Yes," Maglor confirmed, the numbers finally clicking into place in his head "but I can estimate. I am fairly sure that I lived over ninety yéni, but I do not think I have yet reached one hundred and twenty…therefore I am between twelve thousand and seventeen thousand years old."

That didn't really mean much to him, given that he'd always known that he'd exist in some form until the breaking of the world, but he probably should have considered the effect of that on a human not used to dealing with Eldarin longevity. He'd learnt by now that Newt sometimes came out with particularly mild comments to mask internal screaming, and his reaction to this shock was no exception.

"Ah," he said weakly after opening and closing his mouth a few times like a landed fish, "you certainly are looking remarkably well for your age."

Zing

While Newt and Tina saw to most of Maglor's education about the modern wizarding world, Jacob appointed himself head of culinary education, bringing him a box stuffed to bursting with pastries from his bakery.

"Queenie said you could do with a bit of cheerin' up," Jacob informed him jovially. "And there ain't nothin' better for that than my pąckzi."

"They look like nifflers," Maglor observed, fascinated by the intricacy of the creation set before him.

"A bit of inspiration from Newt's suitcase, added to my gran's trusty recipes, and it's pure magic," Jacob agreed. "Go on, give it a try!"

He bit into it, taking time to savour the explosion of new flavours in his mouth. There was not only sweetness but also something warm and spicy delicately balanced with something light and tangy.

"Delicious," he announced, delighted to see the way Jacob's entire face lit up at his praise, "what's that slightly sharp flavour? The balance is exquisite."

"That's a great palette you got there, buddy! That'd be the orange zest. Key to proper pąckzi, gives it that little bit of zing."

"Zing," Maglor repeated, enjoying feel of the word. "That describes these rather well."

He didn't even protest as Jacob served him another, and both Jacob and Maglor came away from some quality pastry time with a little more zing themselves.

& a story

"So this notation makes no distinction between A sharp and B flat?"

"Yes, the difference only really matters in music theory, so for my purposes they're the same. And on a piano, it's the same key, it's this one…"

Newt knew he was something of a third wheel in this scenario, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. Over the past years, he had loved watching Tina finally invest in something for herself and fulfil a long-neglected desire after devoting so much of her life to protecting others, and he couldn't get enough of watching her play and talk about her music. Maglor, too, was full of life as he discussed musical notation systems, comparing the modern one to his people's, which had left a lot more room for the individual musician's interpretation, apparently. Half the time Newt didn't have the foggiest what they were on about, but they were both happy, so he was content just to let the warm tones of their animated discussion wash over him. As he did so, an idea occurred to him: a potential way in to breaking the stalemate they'd reached over the matter of Maglor's injury.

He continued to mull it over, trying to find the right moment to bring it up, but he didn't find the opportunity until the next day. Maglor had been a little restless that morning, and when Newt noticed him looking wistfully over at the piano, he seized his chance.

"Tina could teach you piano, you know," he suggested. "I'm sure she'd love to. If you'd just let me look at your hands…"

"No, I'm sorry, Newt, but no," he said firmly, any semblance of ease evaporating in an instant, getting up again and pacing to the other end of the room.

"Well, it's your choice, of course. But if it's because you don't think it can get better, then why not try? It might not work, but I've treated severe curse damage before, I'll be very careful, and I hate to see you suffering when there's a possibility that one of my potions might help, at least a bit…"

He sighed deeply, and though his back was turned Newt could see him curl in on himself as he exhaled.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," he said in a terribly small voice.

"What? What is it that you can't do anymore?" Newt asked gently, inwardly berating himself for bringing this up again and spoiling the mood.

"Carry on pretending that I'm someone you can fix!" he burst out, frustrated.

"Just so you know, that's not how I see it," Newt said softly as he rose and crossed the room to stand a respectful pace behind his friend. "I don't need to fix you, because you're not broken."

Maglor turned his head over his shoulder to send Newt a look of utter incredulity. Newt shrugged.

"It's true. You're working through some things, of course you are, but then again, so am I. Doesn't mean either of us are broken. You're clearly a wonderful person who's lived through some terrible things…"

"You don't know who I am!"

"Of course I know who you are, we've been through this…"

"You don't know who I am until you know what I did. Please, Newt, let me tell you and you can see if you're still saying all that after you've heard it. Please."

Newt was about to gently but firmly reject the idea on the grounds that Maglor wasn't in the best state of mind to relive his traumatic past, but something in the desperation in that final plea gave him pause. If Maglor felt that insecure about Newt not knowing his history, perhaps it was best just to tackle that hurdle so he could move on. And maybe an outside perspective would help him to shed some of his irrational guilt; whatever he mistakes he had made, Newt was certain that such a gentle soul wouldn't have done anything intentionally malicious.

"I'll consider it," he said cautiously, "But first, you need to breathe. Nice and slowly there, that's better."

Maglor managed to steady his breathing somewhat. "Will you hear me?" he asked, and Newt shivered at the depth of the fear in his expression. The problem was, he didn't know if Maglor was afraid of him saying no or saying yes. Perhaps both.

"That's entirely up to you. I think it's perfectly understandable if you don't want to talk about it, but if it would help you to let it out, then you're very welcome to tell me."

"I need you to know," he insisted, and Newt held up his hands in concession.

"Alright, this is clearly important to you, so I'll listen. We should make sure to do this somewhere you feel safe, though."

"The case, if you don't mind."

"Then the case it is."

The walk down to Maglor's space was calming for them both, the tension between them vanished now a decision had been made. They seated themselves on a grassy verge on one of the foothills leading up into the mountains, and Newt gave Maglor some space to gather his thoughts.

"It's strange," he said at last, "I was counted among my people's greatest storytellers, but when it comes to my own, I scarcely know where to begin."

"Start with something easy, something light," Newt suggested.

Maglor nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he began:

"You would have adored Huan. He was my brother Celegorm's companion, this great enormous hound…"

All right, I know, I know, I cheated on X! I thought it made a better and more natural story than somehow trying to shoehorn in X-ray or something. And the ampersand (&) was historically the 27th letter of the alphabet, which I'm using to excuse the randomness of the tag section leading into Maglor's confession.

And yep, I went there. I sacrificed Theseus' right hand to the gods of Narrative Symmetry. Theseus, I'm so sorry, I love you really?

Also, you know what I wish was represented more in fanfic? Older characters discovering new hobbies later in life, it not being a massive character-defining THING or turning into a major talent or anything, but just something they do because they find out they enjoy it. YDHTDOEAYA21ATO (You Don't Have To Decide On Everything About Yourself At 21 And That's Okay) *gets off soapbox*

According to my calculations, taking a Valian Year as equivalent to ten years and the time between the end of the Third Age and the 20th century as 6,000 years, Maglor is 15,552 years old or about 108 yéni. I've left it a bit more fluid in the fic because I don't think he would pay loads of attention to precisely counting the years during his exile, time in Valinor is weird, and there was a period between the Trees and the Sun when the Noldor had essentially no way of knowing how much time was passing. Also age probably isn't a massive thing when you're immortal.

English has some fabulous collective nouns, especially for birds. An exaltation of larks, a murmuration of starlings, a parliament of owls, a murder of crows and a pandemonium of parrots! It got me thinking about collective nouns for magical creatures. I would like to propose 'a shimmer of occamies' and 'a mob of nifflers.' Would love to see your ideas in the comments!