Chapter Twenty-Four: Webs of Mystery
The news that a Kinslayer was staying in Mithlond spread through the place like wildfire. Elrond tried his best to douse the blaze of scorn and superstition – he knew what it felt like to be the target of such violent verbal abuse – but the stubborn flames refused to die.
Maglor had become a rigid recluse, shutting himself in his bedchamber for hours on end and refusing to come out, even at mealtimes. Although Gil-galad's servants left plates of food outside his door, Maglor left them there to grow cold.
"I fear for Lord Maglor," said Gil-galad to the half-elf one day. "He hasn't eaten in nearly four days."
"I've never met a more stubborn elf," Elrond agreed. "Except for his brother, Maedhros."
"Perhaps you should speak with him," the King suggested. "Take his breakfast to him. With any luck, he will listen to you; you are friends, after all."
Elrond complied readily, and was soon carrying a tray laden with fruit and toast down to his comrade's bedroom.
"Maglor?" he called out, reaching the right door.
"Go away."
The voice from within the room was cold and harsh. Elrond flinched as it met his ears, but did not retreat.
"It's Elrond," he said gently. "May I come in? You haven't eaten a thing for several days now, and I'm starting to worry about you. We all are."
"Who is 'we all'?" Maglor challenged from behind the door. "Everyone in this city thinks I'm a murderer. But I'm not!"
"I believe you," Elrond told him caringly.
Maglor snorted in contempt. "Of course you do."
"And I'm not the only one who does, believe me," the half-elf went on insistently. "King Gil-galad and Lord Cirdan are on your side as well." The shipwright had at last accepted the former Kinslayer's redemption the day before.
There was a long hiatus before Maglor spoke again. "You wouldn't happen to have some breakfast with you, would you?"
"That's partly why I came," Elrond replied. "May I come in?"
Elrond heard a gloomy sigh, a pause, and then a faint creak as Maglor slowly opened the bedroom door. The half-elf gasped in shock.
Maglor stared silently at his friend through dull, bloodshot eyes. His hair hung in greasy strings about his blotchy face, which looked stained by countless tears. Elrond gave a sob of disbelief.
"What have you done to yourself?" he cried.
Maglor said nothing, but beckoned Elrond inside with a forefinger. The half-elf carefully set the plate of food down on his friend's bedside table, gazing at him in mute horror. The son of Fëanor wouldn't meet his gaze; Elrond had to forcibly turn his face toward him and hold it there.
"Tell me, Maglor," he said gently but firmly, "why did you do this to yourself? Starving yourself, refusing to speak with your friends–"
"What friends?" Maglor snarled, pulling Elrond's hands from his face and turning away. "Name three people who don't think I'm a mad killer."
Elrond was shocked. "Me, for one! King Gil-galad and Lord Cirdan as well."
Maglor sniffed, apparently dissatisfied. But Elrond saw his comrade's countenance soften a little. He placed a gentle, brotherly hand upon the elf's shoulder.
Maglor turned to look at him, and Elrond smiled encouragingly, nodding toward the plate of food near his elbow. The son of Fëanor reluctantly chose a slice of apple, nibbling at it morosely.
"I know how you feel, Maglor," said Elrond sympathetically. "I've endured many of the same things that you're handling right now."
Maglor frowned at him, his mouth full. Elrond took that as a sign to continue.
"When I arrived in Sirion," he went on reflectively, "I came in the company of the Lords Mandos and Lórien. I quickly earned a good name by helping to deliver Lady Elwing's sons, but my reputation was tarnished when someone came up with the idea that I was a herald of doom, simply because Lord Mandos was one of my companions.
"That same elf started a riot one morning, during which I faced many untrue accusations. I admit, I did keep away from the general population of the haven for a few hours, but not for four days."
"And your point is?" Maglor said icily.
"My point," Elrond continued, "is that locking yourself away from the world isn't going to solve your problems. You'll need to face them sooner or later. Stand up for yourself if what you really want is to be known as a free elf, one who has crossed over the threshold of darkness and emerged on the other side in the light of redemption."
He stopped to take a breath, and met Maglor's mute stare. Maybe he had overworked his scheme a bit.
The son of Fëanor nodded slowly, murmuring, "You're absolutely right. I can't hide from this anymore. I'm the one who has to prove I'm not a murderer. Maybe they'll believe me if they hear it from my mouth."
Elrond smiled. "Good for you."
----
The day seemed a little bit brighter after that. Maglor finally emerged from his bedroom after breakfast, much to the approval of Gil-galad. The King greeted him with an obvious air of relief.
"I was worried about you," he smiled, upon noticing that Fëanor's son was again walking among the rest of the elves. "I'm glad Master Elrond was finally able to convince you to come out."
"So am I," Maglor replied. "I think it's time for me to show your people who I truly am – a friend to my own kind, and not a Kinslayer. I am no longer burdened by Lord Mandos' curse. But the question remains: will these people accept me? I had a terrible reputation as a notorious murderer up until a week ago. That fact will be difficult to dismiss."
The King frowned thoughtfully. "We will see."
Maglor nodded mutely. Gil-galad placed a kindly hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sure everything will be fine," he said reassuringly. "Once the elves hear from your mouth that you are not the elf they thought you were, things will change for the better."
The son of Fëanor nodded again. "I hope so."
----
Soon afterward, another string of gossip unwound: Maglor, son of Fëanor was redeemed by the very Vala who had cursed him in the first place. The blood of the innocent, which had once stained his hands, was now only a memory.
Maglor walked the halls of Mithlond much more self-confidently now. The elves were far more civil to him now that they knew he was no longer a killer of his own people.
"Things are turning out exactly as you said they would!" he related elatedly to Gil-galad. "You must have the gift of Foresight!"
The King shook his head, laughing. "No, I am afraid do not. I merely gave you the best-case scenario. You are the one who twisted the odds to your favor. And you should thank Master Elrond for getting you out of your room in the first place. He had a part in this as well."
"Yes, sire. Rest assured, I will!"
Things seemed to go steadily uphill after that, until the night Maglor's heart was broken.
----
The servant said it was from an unspecified source. A simple scroll of parchment, sealed inexpertly with wax. Nothing very elaborate, and yet it made Maglor's heart beat a frantic drumroll against his ribs. He opened it secretly in his bedroom, watched by no-one save Elrond, his most trusted friend.
"Open it," the half-elf urged him. "It will be worse if you put it off any longer."
Maglor carefully broke the seal and unrolled the letter with a visibly trembling hand. An untidy scrawl across the page read:
Lord Maglor:
Your brother has died. He was found in Master Elrond's bedchamber, with his only remaining hand severed from his wrist and several wounds on his body, particularly the back of his head. We can only say that he bled to death.
The signature was blurred to complete illegibility by Maglor's tears. The scroll slid softly through his fingers as he fell to his knees on the floor, sobbing. Elrond bowed his head in sorrow, stung by a massive jolt of guilt.
You did it, a nasty voice hissed somewhere in his head. You cut off his hand, you knocked him out. You let him bleed to death. You killed him.
Elrond could say nothing to deny it.
----
"I did it," Elrond muttered to his friend, as he and Maglor sat side-by-side at breakfast the following morning. "It's all my fault."
"No, it wasn't," Maglor insisted. "You didn't mean to kill him."
"But it happened anyway," the half-elf muttered. "He died at my hands. I'm a murderer. A Kinslayer."
"No! It's not true!"
"What am I, then?"
Maglor never wavered. "You are an innocent elf who is wrapped in a web of sorrow and self-loathing. It's choking you, Elrond. Let me cut a few strings."
Elrond said nothing, for he was lost in a memory of the past.
Cut a few strings…
Elrond had been so caught up in the darkness and doubt of his life that he had completely forgotten how he had come to be that way in the first place. The Valar's voices echoed in his head:
For even as I speak, you are disappearing from every tapestry of your existence, one by one. If the fading reaches you in this moment, you will vanish from the very design of the world, without hope of renewal.
It has been decided that you shall be sent back through the ages to the very day of your birth. From there you shall live your life through again. But there will be one difference; you shall remain in your present body, even as you are born and grow.
He remembered now. Vairë's loom was crucial for his survival. His life was snared in the strands of her bright tapestries; every instant of it, from his birth onward. But now that he was thinking of it, he couldn't help but wonder…
Did she weave the journey back in time?
The question surged into his mind. It certainly was difficult. Would Vairë have woven the dream he had had, and the journey from the present to the past? And if she had, would it have been worth it? Would it have been lost as soon as she finished it, a waste of time?
So many questions; not a single answer…