Chapter 26 – Baby Steps
I held my mother's hands when I took my first steps. It is how each of us is taught, one foot in front of the other. Those first few are clumsy, awkward steps – impossible without the support of one we love and trust.
Baby steps.
I take them now, as I did then, and pray if I should fall some hand will reach out to catch me.
Valinor
Fourth Age
Maglor sat on the balcony with his harp in his lap, plucking its strings absentmindedly. He had not been himself for days, ever since he shared his memories of Sirion with Eruanna. Not been himself. The thought was laughable. Did he even know who he was anymore? Why he was here? What he was doing? Maglor pondered these questions for many days, but the answers continued to elude him. His sole comfort – if it could be called that – was the knowledge that in all his confusion, Maglor was certain of one thing; he had reached a point where his path would grow markedly steeper. Eruanna could drag him no further. The next step was his, and his alone.
"You are quieter than usual today, my friend."
Elemmírë's voice shook Maglor out of reverie, so thoughtful he was he had nearly forgotten Elemmírë was there. He lifted his gaze from the harp strings to find his companion watching him curiously. "I'm sorry. My thoughts were...elsewhere."
"That much is obvious." Elemmírë made a few notes on a sheet of paper before returning his attention to Maglor. "Tell me then, what's troubling you?"
Maglor took a deep breath as if preparing for a plunge into deep waters. He laid his harp gently upon the table beside his chair. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a small, folded paper. He turned it over in his hands. "What troubles me is what comes next."
"Next?" Elemmírë's gaze shifted from Maglor's face to the letter in his hands. "Who is that from?"
"My mother."
Elemmírë's eyes grew wide. "Nerdanel? What does it say?"
"I have no idea." Maglor turned the letter over to reveal the wax seal still in place.
"When did it arrive?"
"Mahtan brought it when he gave me the harp."
Elemmírë gaped in utter disbelief. "But that was …you mean to say… you have been carrying that letter around unopened for years?"
Maglor traced the outline of his name on the envelope with a finger. "Yes."
"But…why?"
A frown formed on Maglor's face. It was a good question, and the answer was simple. "I've been too much of a coward to open it."
Elemmírë, in a state of utter disbelief, could not imagine how Maglor could have waited this long to read his mother's letter – coward or no. "What if she expected a reply?"
"She does. But Mahtan told me to wait until I was ready to open it – however long it took."
Elemmírë heard what Maglor had not spoken. "And you are ready now?"
Maglor shrugged. "Maybe. I think so. I don't know." He turned the letter over again in his hands, fingering the seal. Once he opened this letter there was no going back.
Elemmírë sensed his friend's unease, but was unsure what he could do to comfort him. So he offered the only thing he could think of – privacy. "Do you wish me to leave?"
Maglor smiled, grateful for his friend's consideration, but he couldn't face this letter alone. "No. Stay. Please." Maglor took a deep breath once more. He shut his eyes briefly and slid his finger beneath the wax seal, breaking it. He unfolded the paper and stared unblinking at the message it contained.
Elemmírë grew worried when Maglor continued to stare silently at the letter. He rested his own harp beside his chair and went to Maglor's side. He reached out for the letter. Maglor permitted Elemmírë to take it from his hand.
The message was written in a flowing, elegant script – eight little words upon the parchment.
My beloved son.
Come home to me.
Nerdanel
Mahtan's estate lay to the southwest of Tirion, halfway between the city and the Mansions of Aulë. It was a twelve day journey by horse if ellon and animal kept a steady pace, but Maglor's journey took far longer. Each time his resolve weakened, he would slow or sometimes stop altogether. He knew every cave and fall along the way and visited each one a day or two before moving on. The landscape was unchanged by the passage of time, a reminder of the power the Valar wielded over Valinor, who cared not to have their perfect homeland change, save for the ebb and flow of the seasons and the patterns of wildflowers laid out each spring.
Elemmírë rode beside him, at times in silence and at others bursting with song. He was once again attuned enough to Maglor's moods to sense when one or the other state would be appreciated. He never spoke to Maglor of his mother's message, nor pressured him to ride faster when his speed slowed. He merely rode beside him, a constant companion on a journey the two had shared a thousand times together in their youth.
They first caught site of their destination on the afternoon of the twenty-eighth day of their journey. Maglor brought his horse to halt at the turn in the road leading to his grandfather's home. He could see it, sheltered beneath Oromë's trees, beside a small river which disappeared into the Vala's wood. He sat upon his horse, drawing up the courage to press on. No one was expecting him. He had not sent word ahead for fear he would falter along the way and leave his mother waiting in vain.
Elemmírë's horse lowered its head to munch on a mound of grass. He allowed the animal to graze until Maglor made his decision to press on as he knew he inevitably would.
After what might have been an hour's silent deliberation Maglor finally turned to Elemmírë with an apologetic smile. The Vanya was a true friend to put up with him these many years. Even more so to accompany him on this overlong journey home. Maglor knew with absolute certainty that he would not have made it so far without Elemmírë by his side, though the ellon had done nothing more than ride with him and sing a few songs.
"Thank you."
Elemmírë gestured towards Mahtan's home, a smile curling the corners of his lips. "Shall we find out what's for supper?"
Maglor laughed despite himself. They had run out of all but lembas and water nine days past. "Anything will be better than way bread."
"I couldn't agree more."
Maglor stroked his horse's mane and whispered the forward command. The horse obliged. Elemmírë and his mount followed behind. They arrived at the stables within the hour, the final leg of their journey taking no time at all. A dark haired ellon, tall with broad shoulders and a stern expression came out to greet them. His eyes grew wide when he saw who it was coming to call.
Maglor dismounted in one fluid motion and handed his reins to the stunned ellon. "It is good to see you well, Morcion. You remember Elemmírë, do you not?" He gestured towards Elemmírë as his companion's feet hit the ground.
Morcion's gaze moved from Maglor to Elemmírë and back again. By then he had regained a sliver of composure as well as the ability to speak. "Prince Maglor, forgive me. I was not informed of your visit and so was not expecting you."
Maglor waved away the ellon's apology. "No one is expecting me, Morcion, yet here I am. Is my grandfather at his forge?"
"He was when last I saw him."
"And my mother?"
Morcion shook his head. "I have not seen her today. You had best ask your grandfather."
"I shall. Please see to our horses. They could use a good meal."
"Of course." Morcion took the reins from Elemmírë and bowed to both ellon before leading their horses to the stable.
Maglor followed Morcion with his eyes until the ellon and horses disappeared. "That wasn't awkward."
Elemmírë chuckled. "It wasn't too bad."
Maglor was surprised to find he agreed. Without a word he headed off in the direction of Mahtan's smithy. It stood on the south side of the compound beside the river. It was a short walk and they met no one else along the way. Maglor was grateful for it but his luck would not last long. Upon entering the forge they found Mahtan and his latest apprentices hard at work. An ellon with green eyes and sandy hair confined in a leather cap was the first to spot the visitors. The smith was unfamiliar to Maglor, but the reverse could not be said of him. Upon recognizing who it was standing in the doorway, the iron the smith had been hammering slipped from his fingers. It clanged loudly upon hitting the floor, drawing the others' attention.
Mahtan's gaze moved from his work to his student and from his student to the door. "Maglor. Elemmírë." Surprise was evident in Mahtan's tone, and instead of greeting his grandson more courteously, his attention returned immediately to the student who dropped his work. Mahtan moved to the ellon's side and touched him lightly, cautiously, on the shoulder. The contact startled his apprentice and he jerked away. His gaze flew from Maglor to Mahtan then back and forth again. Mahtan reached out once more and this time the ellon accepted the master's hand on his shoulder. "Lessons are over for the day, Castien, for everyone. I will see you all on the morrow."
Three ellyn removed their aprons and gloves and fled the smithy with haste. They nodded to Elemmírë as they departed but did not acknowledge Maglor at all. Mahtan's expression morphed into one of concern as soon as the door closed behind them and for the first time Maglor regretted not warning his grandfather of his coming.
"I apologize. I should have written."
"You should have, but it would not have made this moment any easier."
"Your apprentice. Will he be alright? Is there anything…" Maglor did not bother to finish the question. He knew the answer. There was nothing he could do to fix his mistake or lessen the shock of meeting a monster in the flesh.
Mahtan removed his gloves and apron. "Castien was a child when you attacked Alqualondë. His brothers and father were slain."
Maglor choked on his grandfather's words, and Elemmírë, seeing so, spoke for him. "Have they been reborn?"
"Yes," said Mahtan, "they have, but he waited long years to see them again and bore witness to their deaths."
Maglor's thoughts raced and bile rose to the back of his throat. This was not what he needed to hear in preparation for seeing his mother. He swallowed his restless thoughts and the bile back down. Now was not the time to think on Alqualondë. The Teleri could wait. They had to wait. He was not here for them, for those crimes. He was here for his mother.
Mahtan sensed in Maglor's grave expression that a change of subject would be best. He knew why his grandson was here and it was not to discuss his apprentice. "Well then, you finally opened her letter?"
Maglor pulled the bit of parchment out from his pocket, clutching it tightly. "Is she here?"
Mahtan nodded. "She is painting by the river falls. You remember the way."
It was not a question but Maglor nodded anyway.
"Go find her, then. I will entertain Elemmírë in your absence."
Maglor had no doubt about that. They would probably discuss Maglor's over-long journey. It did not matter. His concern lay not behind, but ahead of him.
Mahtan, fully aware of his grandson's hesitation, laid a hand upon his shoulder and turned him toward the door. "You have come this far, child. Only a few steps more and the agony of 'what will be' will have ended." He pushed his grandson forward, out the door, and after a few steps on his own Mahtan called out behind him. "But don't expect her to call you Maglor."
Maglor followed the well traveled path through the gardens before veering off into the wood. The falls were her special place. They formed a pool in which one could swim. His mother first brought him there when he was a child. Maglor, and only Maglor knew the spot. Neither his father nor brothers had ever been invited, but Maglor accompanied his mother many times and played his harp for her whilst his father and brothers worked the forge with Mahtan.
As he drew nearer the spot he could hear the water, it's steady, meditative roar. He emerged from the wood on the very spot locked in his memory. The sun shone down between the trees and at the pool's edge birds and butterflies paused to drink their fill. There was no hate in this place, no history of wars or blood or violence – only beauty and peace. It was unfathomable that he could have traded all this – and his mother's love – in the slim hope of winning his father's.
Nerdanel was seated on a stool before a canvass perched on an easel she'd decorated herself. It was as much a work of art as the painting – a panorama of the falls and trees. How many times in how many ways his mother had painted this place Maglor could not begin to guess. He had asked her once, why she kept coming back to paint here. She'd told him that no moment in time was ever the same and there was something new to capture every time she brought her paints. He had thought her silly, then, but he was wiser now.
He watched her work for a while in silence for he had come upon her with the silent feet of a warrior from Middle-earth. She had not heard him. He was certain, in fact, that he could reach her side without making her aware of him. He could slip away, too, unseen if he wished without her glimpsing him. A part of him thought it might be better that way, but the child in him longed for his mother's embrace.
He watched her mix the paints and apply them with a talent that spoke of long practice. She was not a natural painter. Sculpture was more properly her art, but she had often impressed upon her children that it was a benefit to be well-rounded. She painted for pleasure, not for praise, though she had garnered much for her efforts. It was soothing to watch her at her art. Maglor knew the joy she felt in these moments of creation. He did not wish his presence to take that joy away.
He struggled with how to approach her, what to do or say to reveal his presence, but a moment later his struggle ceased to matter. Nerdanel turned to wash a brush in the basin set to her left. Turning, she caught sight of Maglor standing amidst the trees. She froze, the brush held inches from the basin's rim. Her eyes grew wide and she blinked once, twice. A hand rose and with her forearm she brushed the loose tendrils of her thick red hair back from her eyes. She spoke only one word, breathless.
"Makalaurë."
Maglor met his mother's gaze for the first time in seven thousand years and found it too much to bear. He dropped his gaze to the forest floor where a butterfly drank from a small flowering herb. He watched the lovely creature for who knows how long, wishing that he, too, could grow wings and fly away. No sooner had the thought of flight formed in his mind then he felt his mother's hand on his arm. He did not have the strength to turn his gaze and look her in the eye but he needed none.
She stepped into his line of vision, blocking the ground and the butterfly with her upturned face. Maglor had not remembered being so much taller than his mother. Nerdanel had always been a great, imposing elleth in his mind. Reality was she stood a head shorter. There were tears cascading down her cheeks and a smile on her lips and in her eyes. Paint splattered hands reached upward but paused an inch from his face. She laughed at her hands and began to pull them away but before she could Maglor took them in his. They were small and coarse from the splotches of paint clinging to her skin and so wonderfully familiar he sobbed. She drew her hands from his and wrapped her thin, graceful arms around his chest. She laid her head against him and wept seven thousand years worth of tears.
Maglor's tears fell too, slowly at first, so shocked he was at the amount of love his mother still held for him. He cried harder once the shame and guilt set in. Looking back, he could not now fathom abandoning her in favor of Fëanor. He held her for a long time and she, him, until the tears subsided and their breathing was again calm and steady.
Nerdanel drew back first but she took Maglor's hand in hers as she did so and drew him to the large mallorn tree where once they had sat and talked of unimportant things. She seated herself and pulled him down beside her. She wrapped her arm around his and rested her head against his shoulder as they both leaned back against the tree.
On the long journey from Tirion Maglor had spent much time considering what he would say to his mother when he saw her again. He wrote speeches, rehearsed them in his head. Like his father, Maglor had always been accorded eloquent. But now words abandoned him – the explanations, the apologies – they were gone.
Nerdanel stroked his arm, a silent gesture of comfort, but remained silent. Her patience was legendary, greater even than Maglor's. That was Nerdanel – kind, patient, understanding. The irrational, childish part of Maglor's mind had so feared she would turn him away when he came to her, but the rational side knew better. That side had feared this reunion even more, feared to face her, to see the disappointment in her eyes, but her eyes had held only love.
"Do you remember the first time I performed my harp before an audience? It was a small crowd, just a few students, our teacher, parents. I was so afraid I would disappoint you. My hands were shaking."
"I remember."
"You told me I could never disappoint you." Maglor closed his eyes, struggling to keep his tears from falling once more. "I never meant to prove you wrong."
Nerdanel stroked the back of Maglor's hand. It was all the comfort she could give him. There was nothing she could do or say to ease his pain.
"I wanted him to love me," he continued, "like he loved Maedhros and Curufin. And for a time, I thought he did. I should not have chosen the promise of his love over the surety of yours. It means nothing, I know, but I'm sorry."
Maglor fell silent again. He watched his mother nervously to gauge her response. The corners of her mouth turned down and she sighed. For the first time Maglor could see age in his mother's immortal face, age – and weariness.
"Your father will never be released from Mandos – nor any of your brothers."
It was not the direction Maglor expected their conversation to take, had he the courage to guess where it might lead. His father and brothers. Maglor had often pondered their rebirths, but had not considered the possibility they would be held formless forever. "Have the Valar told you this?"
Nerdanel shook her head, drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "No one has told me anything, but I know. Their crimes are too great."
"No greater than mine."
She sighed again. "Maybe so. But you are alive and they are houseless spirits. Fëanor will never repent his rebellion and the others…even if they do... it may not be enough."
And it's all my fault. The weight of that burden bore down on Maglor more heavily now than ever before. "There were so many times… so many times I could have stopped them. If I had only tried harder." His father might have been beyond reach, perhaps he could have reached his brothers – Maedhros and the Ambarussa at least.
Nerdanel understood well the thoughts tormenting her son. She struggled long with her own guilt, believing she could have stopped Fëanor from rousing their people and fleeing Valinor if only she had tried harder. Yes, Nerdanel understood her son's thoughts quite well. "I do not pretend to know the will of the Valar or Ilúvatar's plan for us all, but the Music was written long ago and each of us has our part to play out. There might have been moments when you could have changed a note, a chord or two, but the music was too strong. It swept us all away. And I have come to think, perhaps, that this was the part you were meant to play."
Maglor did not quite understand his mother's meaning. "Of what part do you speak?"
Nerdanel considered her son for a moment. She did not know if he was ready to hear her thoughts. It had taken him so long to come to her, she did not wish to drive him away now. But the questioning in his eyes made the decision for her, he was hungry to find his purpose, if he had one at all. "You, alone, among your brothers, were made strong enough to bear the people's anger with humility. You suffer for your father's sins, for your brothers' – as well as your own – so that they, too, may one day be forgiven."
"We do not deserve forgiveness."
"Maybe not. But others need it. The natural state of the Eldar is to be at peace. There are elves alive today who will never know peace again until they have allowed themselves to forgive you. So they can move on."
Nerdanel's words reminded Maglor once more of the Judgment handed down to him by the Valar. "That is what Namo said to me on Taniquetil."
"Namo is wise."
"So is my mother."
Nerdanel smiled at him, her eyes full of love and in them Maglor saw hope that the world might one day be put right – or as right as it could ever be made again. One problem remained. It was the same problem he faced when he first left Manwë's halls. "I do not know how to begin."
"You have begun already," Nerdanel said. "You came here, unsure if I would forgive you or turn you away. You told me you were sorry."
Maglor listened, but remained doubtful of his mother's assertion. "I'm sorry is such a pitiful phrase. It changes nothing."
"For some, it may not, for others, it could change everything. Regardless, they need to hear it. It matters not if they are ready to forgive you. Some have forgiven you already, for others it might take an age, but they need to know you repent, that you feel remorse, guilt, shame for what you have done. They need to hear it from your lips."
"I know," said Maglor – and he did. "But what shall I say to them?"
"The answer is inside you, my son, and one day, when you are ready, you will find the words."
Maglor wasn't so sure, but his mother's faith in him was a comfort to his soul. You will find the words. Long ago she had assured him of this before he wrote his first ballad. She had been right then, and as they sat together hand in hand, a small part of him dared to hope she would be right again.
