A/N: Not sure if this is going to remain a one shot or if I want to continue it, but it's a story that has been stuck in my head for over a month so I decided to write it. Let me know if you want to see more.

For those who dwelled by the sea, the phantom singer was a long accepted part of life. A local legend that had been passed down the generations for longer than any could remember. None now could recall the origins of the enchanting voice that could be heard along the shore at odd times: some claimed that they were a spirit, luring sailors to their doom in order to feast on their flesh; others that it was a shade hailing from Numenor of old, drowned in the great flood that swallowed the Isle of Gift so long ago. Other still, claimed that it must be on of the fair folk, for who else could sing a melody so hauntingly beautiful nor even live so long as the singer was said to? No matter the truth however, there was one thing that was agreed upon: the singer wished for a life of solitude, wailing their lament upon the shore and he would be treated accordingly. In these times of watchful peace, there was no cause to be borrowing trouble.

And so the stories of the formless voice continued, nothing more than a solitary refrain drifting across the waves and bringing with it a melancholy longing for times long past. Just another fact of life for those who chose to live their life amidst the temperamental waves. Until, one day, it faded. Never to be heard upon these shores again. And, for the sea-faring men of Middle Earth, life went on.

Makalaurë had been many things in the long ages of his life: a brother, a father and a son. A poet, a soldier and a king. Both captor and captive. They all meant nothing now. It was impossible to be either a brother nor a son to those who had faded from memory long millenia ago, and of those who had once named him father, one was long dead and the other far beyond his reach. Of his other titles, Maglor cared little. There were few left who remembered them, fewer still who would remember him with any form of kindness. None that he could name anyway.

No, the second son of Fëanaro was happy to allow his existence to fade from living memory, just as he allowed his very being to fade from the fabric of Arda. For many long Ages, he wandered the western shores of the continent, voicing the crimes of the Nodolante to the waves and skin in an unending penance for his many, many sins. In this time, he gave little thought for the needs of his hröa, eating only rarely and resting only when he collapsed into an exhausted stupor. For countless lives of men he had performed his act of penance, heedless to the was his hröa withered away and his fëa faded a little more with every passing century.

Soon. It would be over soon. Then he would be free to drift into the unending darkness that had already claimed his father and brothers. Soon his penance would be over and he would finally be allowed to rest.

There had been a time, long millennia ago, when others had intruded upon his exile: a great king of Men with silver eyes that burned like starlight as he rode like one possessed, chasing desperately after naught but a faint voice in the wind. A master smith who had once stumbled in Maglor's wake on the shaky legs of infancy, pursuing him now with the confident strides of a lord, and, most painful of all, a healer in the garb of a princeling who's tear stricken pleading had shaken him to his core. At each of their calls, Maglor had almost allowed his heart to be swayed, but each time he had turned away. They would, he knew, fare better for his absence. So he had hidden away from their sight. One by one, his pursuers had fallen away, as they should, and now, the last great bard of the Noldor was free to face his punishment alone.

Makalaurë had always hated being alone.

Taking one last, trembling step forwards, Maglor allowed the shattered strain of his lament to fade away. He was not done, would never be done, but finally he felt as though he could sing no more. Golden voice Makalaurë had finally been silenced, and there were none left bare witness, not even himself for there was little enough left of him for such things. No, the formless singer of the shore had sung his last refrain and would, henceforth, be silenced.

Falling into the rough dunes of sand was less a sensation to be felt and more a series of images to be observed. The flickering remains of his fëa, after such a long period of abuse, clung so faintly to his hröa that Maglor felt little now. Hunger had faded months ago and so had the perpetual pain of his burned right hand. It was the latter that assured him that this was the end, for why else would the Valar spare him this reminder of his crimes? Perhaps it should have bothered him more but, for now, he was simply so exhausted that, when the darkness came, rising about him like a wave, he felt nothing so much as surrender.

"Makalaurë Kanafinwë Fëanorion."

That voice. He had heard that voice once before though then it had been stern and wrathful, pronouncing the doom that had claimed all those he had once held dear. Now it was filled only with sorrow, the grief of a father mourning a child.

"Open your eyes, little one."

He could do nothing but obey as he slowly blinked away the haze that had covered his very self. The half light which greeted him was a surprise for he had expected the everlasting darkness to wich he had sworn himself, but that was nothing compared to seeing the Lord of the Valar kneeling beside the bed upon which he lay.

"Lord Námo!"

For indeed, it was the Lord of the Dead who regarded him now with such a look of pity and sympathy that it made Maglor's heart twist within his chest. Nothing about him could possibly be deserving of such a look.

"Oh, but that is where you are wrong, little one. So very wrong."

A large hand came up to tenderly brush the strands of hair away from his face leading to the realisation that, while he could no longer feel the pain that had been his constant companion through the years, he could feel little else either. The fingers upon his face were faint as feather strokes ad it was only the vague notion of being horizontal that informed him that he must be laying down. Everything else was distant, kept away by an uncomfortable sensation of warmth that left him feeling dizzy. It was deeply disconcerting, but reminiscent of the time he had been poisoned by an orcish blade in a battle he could no longer recall. Why could he not remember?

"My childe, the damage you have done to yourself…"

Námo must have sighed for there was the faintest feeling of a gust of wind against his face and the gentle fingers paused in their caress. Unbidden, a quiet whine built in the back of his throat, but Maglor clamped down on the urge to set it free; despite how the Valar had been addressing him, Maglor was not an elfling but a fully grown ner and he would behave as one. Just as soon as he remembered how.

"Why am I here?"

There, that was adult enough. He had even managed to push himself upright a little, though his arms screamed their protest at each movement. It would be pointless asking where he was when every observation pointed to this being the Halls of Mandos, yet he felt justified in asking 'why' when the wording of the oath had been very clear.

"You are here because, of all those who have entered my halls, you are the one most in need of healing."

Now that had to be false. Many had suffered in Arda Marred and Maglor was no longer arrogant enough to believe that his suffering was even worth considering. Most of his suffering had been wrought by his own hands after all and, while he had known the tender mercies of Sauron for well over a century before the Umaia's fall, there were many who had been imprisoned for far longer than he.

"Why do you shake your head, little one? Do you not see the state of your own fëa?"

Maglor had not, in fact, looked at himself in over a yeni, had not been able to in truth. Observing how his sunburned cheeks and chapped lips grew more ghoulish with every passing glance had been an unending blow to his remaining vanity. So he had stopped looking.

"See now the damage you have wrought upon yourself."

Unable to disobey the command in his wretched sate, Maglor unwillingly glanced down at himself. What he saw brought forth both a broken sob and a choked gasp that combined into a rough noise that tore at his throat. He had not expected his fëa to look so… thin. Frayed and flickering around the edges. Worn so sheer in places as to be almost see through. He looked as though one strong breeze would shatter him completely.

"And now you see my dilemma for my halls are a place of healing, yet I know not how to heal you."

Once again, Námo's voice sounded both distressed and grieved. Maglor could understand that now, his state really was that concerning. Though that did not explain the concern for him personally. He did not deserve it, not with all he had done…

"All in the service of one you loved or yet coerced through the chains of a malicious oath. You are not a monster, Makalaurë, no matter how you attempt to paint yourself thus. You, like all others, deserve a second chance."

Maglor could scarcely believe his own ears and yet…

"What if I don't want one?"

And it was true, for in the depth of his being, all Maglor really wanted was to fade away. Away from the guilt and the pain that had dogged him for millennia. He had no use for a second chance when the very thought of such a thing left him feeling even more exhausted.

"Oh, my little one, what am I to do with you?"

"Let me go?"

"Never!"

Th force of the statement shocked the remainder of Maglor's protests into silence. Instead, he could only lay there, pliant as Námo lifted him and cradled him to his chest with all the tenderness one would afford a new born babe.

"I was a father once, you know?"

No, Maglor had not known. None of the Quendi had. The very idea that one of the Valar had once had a child was beyond comprehension.

"It was a long time ago that I lost my little Nightingale."

"Luthien?"

A soft chuckle met his question and the ghost of a kiss on his brow.

"No, though she reminded me greatly of my Morilinde. Perhaps that was why I granted her wish."

The last statement was spoke in little more than a breath and was clearly not meant for Maglor's ears. So he simply hummed in response and curled deeper into the warmth pressed against him. These actions seemed to draw Námo back from his musing as the Vala chuckled again.

"No matter. My point is thus: I know well the pain of eternal separation from my child and would never seek to inflict such a thing on another. Not even one such as Fëanaro. I cannot allow you to fade."

So there was no chance of the peace that Maglor had dreamed of for so long. The burning warmth began to build in his eyes so the bard twisted to hide his face against the steady strength encircling him. He knew not where these long buried impulses were coming from, but he wished dearly to be able to send them back.

"No, I will not let you fade and yet… I cannot heal you. This leaves me with but one choice; I must send you to one who can. Your fosterling has become a great healer I hear. He would be best to see to your care."

Not Elrond. Maglor had already inflicted enough harm on his… former captive. Not his son. Not in the ways that truly mattered for how could a child ever grow to love their kidnapper even after 49 years of care? No, he would not inflict his presence upon his former victim any longer. Unfortunately, his attempts at escape were soon thwarted by the wave of exhaustion that threatened to swallow him whole.

"Yes, he would be best, though I cannot send you back as you are, your fëa is far too damaged for that. I shall send you back changed; a fresh chance for a new life."

Although the words were ostensibly aimed at Maglor, it was clear that Námo was very much talking to himself as he began to move through his mist halls. Tired as he was and further lulled by the swaying motion, the las son of Fëanaro allowed himself to clip back into dreams, paying little attention to the world around him. Something he would soon learn to forget.

Neither Gildor nor Cirdan had sent word in over a year and the Lord of Imladris was beginning to grow concerned. Their's was not a formal agreement, nor was it one that had ever been spoken and yet… it was an open secret that Elrond longed for any news of his wayward father. As such, his friends had taken it upon themselves to relay and sightings the found to the hidden valley. For the last 2000 years, these reports had trickled in, infrequent and yet constant enough to ease his fears, but no they had stopped. Elrond tried desperately to not consider the implications of this.

The sturdy desk in his study wad cleared of the mountain of correspondence generated by the daily life of the valley, his twins had been played with and coddled before being tucked into bed and now even gentle Celebrian had banned him from their shared chambers. He had been exiled until such a time that he could quiet the nervous energy that saw his hands shaking as they slowly worked a pestle. He was almost done with the simple healing salve that was normally left for the apprentice healers to make and then… then he would find something else to do.

His body ached for rest, but there would be no sleep for him this night. There was something stirring in the still air of Imladris and it would allow him no rest until it was uncovered. There was no way to predict when that might be.

After wiping his hands dry on a clean rag, Elrond finally turned from the healing halls and allowed his feet to take him where they may, paying little heed to his surroundings for he was touched with melancholy this night and his mind was fixed on the past. It was nights like this when the absence of Elros by his side sharpened from a dull ache to the fierce agony of a sword stroke. He was not made to walk this earth alone, forever sundered from the over half of his being and yet his brother had abandoned him long ago; leaving him for what ever fate befell men when they died. On his darked nights, Elrond could not help but wonder what it was about him that drove others away: Elwing and Earendil, Elros, Meadhros and Maglor… even Gil-Galad had left him alone through his death. But no, the healer was not so arrogant as to believe that it had all been down to him. They had all had their own reasons, though that did not dilute the pain.

Oh. Without meaning to, Elrond found himself at the foot of a hidden statue in the gardens of his home. Maglor as he had been in those years in Himring. Proud and stern, yet with lips that always threatened to twitch with laughter and eyes that sparkled with reflected tree-light. There was no name attributed to the figure, in truth, there were few elves in the valley who would even recognize the subject, yet it eased Elrond's heart to have a fragment of his father so close. Reaching out to pluck one of the white zinnias that bloomed at the statue's feet, the elf-lord offered up a prayer to Varda that, where so ever Maglor may be, he fared well.

Behind him a branch snapped sending the predhel's hand twitching for a sword he had not born in centuries. No one should have been able to surprise him in his own realm and yet… this stranger had.

Garbed in deep blur travelling robes and sporting a foreign yet intricately braided beard, it would have been easy to consider the stranger a man, yet their eyes glimmering in the darkness and the barely suppressed aura of power revealed the truth. Before him stood a Maia who had been able to slip through his wards with no warning. Elrond would have to proceed with caution.

"Greetings friend. What brings you to my halls so late in the day?"

Only long practice in the courts of Lindon allowed him to keep the bland disinterest in his voice, but when paired with a cool frown and raised brow, Elrond cut a striking figure. Not striking enough for the unwanted guest met him with a grin.

"Elrond Maglorion, it is an honour to meet you."

The Maia's voice was deep and curled in a accent reminiscent of Rhun which just served to put the elf even more on edge, though a suspicion was beginning to grow in the back of his mind. Along with the manner of address, there were few who would know to use Elrond's preferred Patronymic, fewer still who would be comfortable ding so.

"It appears you have me at a disadvantage. To whom am I speaking?"

The Maia chuckled, the movement drawing attention to the way that he was partially stooped, one arm partially hidden from sight as though he were holding something.

"I have many names, though here they call me Pallando. Long have my brother and I wandered in the west, though I come to you at the behest of my Lord Námo."

Pallando, one of the blue wizards. It was enough to ease some of Elrond's tension, but that just raised the question of why one of the Valar would be so concerned with him.

He pushed down the thoughts that tried to remind him that there was one family member who could have departed for the halls. Námo was known to inform elves in Aman as to a loved one's return, but Elrond was in Arda, and a death was not a rebirth.

"And what would Lord Námo have me do?"

Another laugh, and the Istari's nature was becoming a source of frustration for the peredhel, even more so when combined with the restlessness he had felt the past few nights. This was probably what his senses had been warning him of, but Elrond could not find it in himself to be courteous. Not tonight.

"No requests as such, but I was entrusted with delivering this little one to your keeping."

So saying, the wizard shifted his cloak enough to reveal a tiny elfling slumbering in his hold and Elrond's breath caught in his throat, hands twitching with the desire to touch.

The little one was young, little more than an infant with silky black curls and the tawny skin of the Noldor. The tiny face held hints at refined features waiting to emerge with age and two delicate hands were tucked gently over their breast, shifting with every breath. All in all, a pretty babe, but what was most captivating were the teal eyes glazed over with sleep. Very familiar eyes.

"Is this…?"

He didn't finish the question, he didn't know how. Not once had he ever expected Maglor to have a child, despite how doting he was as a father. For a second, Elrond felt a pang of jealousy spike through his heart at the proof that he had been replaced, but it was quickly overshadowed by the looming dread that had been bothering him for days. There was only one reason why the Lord of the Dead would be sending the elfling, his apparent younger sibling, to him.

"Maglor?"

His heart sank as the smile finally fell from the Maia's face to be replaced by a look of solemn pity. So it was true then, Elrond was an orphan once again, as was the child before him. Unable to restrain himself any longer, he reached forward to take the babe into his own arms, curling around the small form in an attempt to stave off the grief in his mind. Even the little one's fëa was reminiscent to his fathers, though weaker and purer that he had ever felt in the older elf.

"I'm sorry."

Elrond simply shook his head, tracing the delicate features with a gentle finger, trying desperately to think of anything but this new found truth. Celebrian would adore this child and the twins would love to have a younger playmate.

"Do they have a name?"

"You should give him one."

That was very telling of the situation behind the little one's birth. No mother if he was being delivered here, and not even a father name. Still, Elrond couldn't fight the urge to honour their father in some way. Let the elfling have at least one connection to his origins.

"Lindir. His name is Lindir."

He followed the pronouncement with a soft kiss to the babe's brow, hiding the few escaping tears in those raven curls as he promised his father's spirit that he would care for his child. When he had finally collected himself enough to resume his calm façade, he lifted his head once again, words of thanks on his lips, only to find that the Maia had vanished as silently as he had appeared.