DISCLAIMER: The basic plot is mine. The Dragon War is mine. Practically everything else isn't.

Time

Time passes so slowly these days, reflected Maglor. Back in the First Age, when they had been fighting Morgoth, the years had rushed past, Mortals seeming to grow old almost before they had been born.

But that had been long ago. By the end of the Third Age, he had found himself entrenched in Time almost as the Atani were, counting the days. But of course, he had had nothing to count down to, no homecoming. He had had two permanent homes, in all his long years. One lay under the waves, the other was beyond his reach, in Valinor.

And the Fourth Age had dragged on, millennium after millennium. All the realms of the Third Age, the great cities of Men, in Gondor, Harad, and all the rest, had fallen into ruin. Men had forgotten that they lived in the Fourth Age, had started counting the years on a variety of different systems, starting from the deaths of Kings, the rise of nations, whatever they came up with. But Maglor had remembered, still counting the years of the Fourth Age of the Sun, waiting.

And then it had ended, unexpectedly. A new Dark Lord had arisen, a fallen Maia, a dragon of Morgoth, crawling from the caves beneath the Misty Mountains – the Great Barrier, they called them now – like a great black snake. He had stayed out of the Dragon War, but heard that the Men had shown great strength of heart, mind and body, almost worthy of the Eldar of old.

With the fall of the Dragon, the Fourth Age had ended, unmarked by any save the last son of Fëanor. And now, five hundred and thirty years later, Maglor had grown weary of the world. He was the last of his people, the last of the Elves still living in Middle-Earth, but his fëa grew weary of the body it supported. He wanted only to lie down, and let his spirit fade away, as Men did.

But that he could not do. The spirits of Elves could not fade, but must travel to the Halls of Mandos on leaving their bodies. They were summoned, and could not defy –

Maglor froze, as a thought struck him. The whole of the First Age was a consequence of our defying Mandos. It can be done. I could ignore the Summons, he thought. I could stay here, spread my fëa out, become part of this world.

But what of my family? he thought then. He couldn't just leave them with no chance of ever knowing his fate. But then he remembered a tomb he had once seen, a tomb of a Man who had wanted to be remembered. His name and deeds had been inscribed on the wall, with a map of where he lived.

In an instant, Maglor formed a plan. Looking down at his feet, at the soil where once Hobbits had walked, he knew he stood on the spot where his tomb would lie. Turning, he faced the West.

"I am sorry, my kin," he said, his voice brittle from disuse. "I will not return to you. Never again will I come among Elvenkind, never again will I see the shores of Aman. But some day, you will know what I have done, what became of me."

He almost lay down and died right them, but there was much to do before he could go to his rest peacefully. There were places he had to go first, or one place, at least.

He had to prepare the way for those who would take word of him to his family. One last ship would sail into the West, and he had to build it. To do this, he had to travel to a site of power, a site where the touch of the Elves still lingered, even after so long.

He had to go to Lothlórien.

I apologise for this chapter, I really do. I worked on it, but there are a few sections that just will not work properly. But the chapter had to be in there, otherwise a lot of what happens later would make no sense.

And I considered posting the Maglor chapters as a separate story, but decided on alternating instead. I hope it doesn't confuse anyone too much.

Cloaked Eagle