His spirit hovered the place of his fall. He was anchored there, in Gondolin.
A ruined city, ashes floating in the wind, mixed with the white snow. A king without a crown, a ghost city to rule by himself. Alone. Now he had what Morgoth promised him. Part of it at least. He hated it.
He heard a voice, soft and low. It was everywhere, in the stones, in the earth, in the water. It echoed in the empty halls. Everyday he heard it. It pulled at him. He felt his bond weaken. He wanted to refuse. He was stubborn, yes. But he was immensely tired of the cold, the solitude. He longed for a corporeal body, though he couldn't admit it to himself. Denying his desire seemed to lessen the pain.
If only!
He yearned for the touch of snow on skin, for the taste of berries, for the warmth of an embrace. Anything. Only that uncanny voice kept him company, but it was incorporeal too, he understood it in his mind, more than hear it. It didn't reach his (non-existent) ears.
Leave me here. Leave me alone. Leave. Not even screaming could hurt his throat.
"No. I'm waiting for you."
Why?
"Your place is here."
No.
"Don't you want to heal? To feel again? To live, breathe, dream?"
There's nothing for me there.
"There's hope. Love. Forgiveness."
I don't deserve those.
"No one has enough knowledge to say that. Perhaps you don't deserve them, perhaps you do. I give you only the choice."
Is it now or never?
"No. My doors are always open. Death is my domain, child of Eru. Mine and His alone. Melkor has no power here."
And Maeglin finally believed it. Nothing chained him to Beleriand anymore. Morgoth was vanquished.
When Beleriand sank, Maeglin's spirit fled to Mandos.
In the Halls he learned how to defeat his bonds. He was free, he was healing. It took time. Ages.
His father wasn't there. He had chosen differently. He never saw his mother.
Eventually he saw the light of Valinor. And he wept, for it was beautiful and bright.
Tirion was as white as Gondolin, only sweeter – its light didn't hurt his eyes. He didn't walk its streets though. Not yet. Neither him, nor its inhabitants were ready to meet.
The forests were much like how his childhood home had been. Strange spells filled the air, the vegetation was thick and luscious but softer. There was no lurking malevolence, no decay, no darkness.
In Aman he saw the Great Sea for the first time.
A strange Elda accompanied him in his travel. He introduced himself only as his mother's cousin, but Lómion barely remembered the detail.
Lómion – for now he consciously chose his mother name – had startled at first. The unexpected presence was golden, almost too much. Incorruptible.
He had expected sternness and reprimand. And the Elda might have been stern – Lómion could perceive a boundless strength beneath the calm exterior.
Here is a Lord and King, he thought, though no garment or manner betrayed the stranger's status. No, it was something intangible, in his very fëa.
The Elda's gaze was soft, softer than anything he had ever seen. Looking into his eyes, Lómion felt only understanding and love and, he realised, those were the sources of the stranger's strength.
He was a pleasant companion. He seemed to perceive when Lómion preferred silence or conversation. He explained to him many of the wonders they saw along the road and Lómion marvelled at his knowledge. His laugh was ready and his manners humble.
He sang often – senseless things, the flight of a butterfly or of birds, the run of a horse and the tumbling of water on stone. At night he would sing to the stars, always honouring Varda Elentari. Lómion listened intently to his voice, drinking in his grace and beauty.
"You don't like to sing, my friend?" the Elda asked him one morning.
"Why do you say that?"
The stranger smiled: "Why, I never hear you sing!"
It was such an innocent question, the reasoning like that of a child. Lómion should have questioned the Elda's intelligence but instead he found himself smiling in return. He thought about the question for a while, then said: "I don't know many songs and those I know are not suited for a place like this"
"Mmh", the Elda seemed to mull what Lómion said, "I have a solution to that! I can teach you some songs, if you want!"
"I…thank you. You are kind", he hesitated, "friend?"
The Elda smiled brightly and the world seemed a warmer place.
One day the stranger sang a different song. The water was not the sweet and lively entity of the brooks anymore. There were no rushing leaves and no smell of flowers. Lómion heard a slow, heavy roar – he imagined something proud and great. If the creeks were like small birds, this entity was like an eagle suspended in the sky.
The breeze carried an unknown scent, both sweet and sharp. And the air was ever tense, as if a hidden force might suddenly disrupt the apparent calm.
Lómion opened his eyes when the new song ended and looked at his companion as a child would look at his mother in puzzlement. The Elda laughed – a merry laugh that infected Lómion too.
"We shall see the Great See soon", was all the stranger said.
His songs turned then all to the sea. They were happy tunes but Lómion perceived some kind of undercurrent sadness. And truth be told, the eyes of the Elda revealed his mood all too clearly. He yearns for something gone. But what might that be?
At last, they reached it. The sky was blue and the sand was warm under their feet. On the horizon there were enormous white clouds. The rays of the sun shone through them, creating a glimmering play on the surface of the water.
Lómion's eyes widened so much they almost hurt. The Sea was immense and it moved as if it were a single body.
"Is it alive?" he asked without thinking.
"Yes, it is." was the surprising answer.
"How?"
The Elda smiled. "Ossë likes to play with the winds of Manwë. And Ulmo is never idle."
Lómion frowned and protested: "But it's water!"
"Yes"
"An impressive amount of water!"
"Indeed."
"So why does it move?"
"Why shouldn't it?" – the Elda seems amused.
Lómion kept silent and stared at the sea. A gentle touch on his elbow shook him from his thoughts.
"Come! Let us get near the water! Do you know how to swim?"
"Swim? Yes. But is it safe to swim there?"
"That depends on how far you go. But I believe it is better only to dip our feet in the water for the first time, isn't it?"
"…yes, that is better!"
The water was strange. Lómion felt it pulling and pushing at his feet. Now it was a caress, now a gentle slap. It also smelled, for lack of better words. His skin tingled; he dipped a finger in the water and then tasted it. "It's bitter and salty!" he grimaced.
"It is! It doesn't make for a refreshing drink", the Elda seemed to pout at the thought.
Lómion laughed, long and happily for the first time since his return: "Of course not!"
He looked around, took some steps forward, feeling the sand almost sticky under his feet.
He had much to do to rebuild a life here. But he would not think of that, not this day.
He let go of his thoughts, of his fears. In that moment he was happy to simply be, to feel, to breathe.
When I started with the first chapter I thought it would turn out to be a collection of disconnected episodes. And they are, more or less. Only, I discovered that Maeglin is a wonderful character to play with and I can't abandon him like this, without giving him some sort of closure.
I want to thank all those who have commented, thank you so much for you insight!
Enjoy! :D