Chapter Text
It began - as everything did long ago, before the sun and the moon and the stars - with a song.
It drifted through the trees, faint and distant, a song of sorrow, heartbreak and mourning too deep and sincere to have been meant for an audience. It was not sung to be heard or shared, only because the singer's heart was full to overflowing, and his sorrow had no other place to go.
But the song was heard by a most unexpected creature.
Deep into the wood, a Hobbit stopped in his tracks. He carried a large rucksack on his back, his clothes were fit for a gentle hobbit but sturdy enough for travelling. His curly hair was white as snow, deep wrinkles marked the skin on his face and his hands. As he stopped, he leaned heavily on a sturdy walking stick, and his eyes, still sharp and usually so merry, suddenly filled with tears.
Samwise Gamgee, nowadays also known as Gardner, was still a simple Hobbit at heart. He had lived a long life and he had known loss and sorrow - the latest quite recently, its sting still sharp and deep - and his heart resonated in sympathy with the song.
It was, part of his mind noted, quite like the stories he used to listen to as a fauntling: mysterious voices in the woods enchanting unwary travellers… How such stories used to scare him!
He was no scholar like Mister Bilbo or Master Frodo, but the song reminded him of those he heard in the halls of Rivendell, so many years ago. Named the Last Homely House, nothing that felt like Rivendell could be frightening.
Sam hesitated. For all his reassurances to his dear Elanor, he had no appointments to keep. He set out on hope, and nothing more. Certainly the best course of action would have been to continue to the Grey Havens without delay.
Yet Sam remained still, and listened. No magic held him there, no enchantment bound his feet, only the echoing sorrow he felt.
Seven terms as Mayor of Michel Delving had finely tuned his ability to make decisions.
Deep in the woods, Samwise the Gardener chose: he turned around, and began following the song.
For days he walked, following that voice, until he reached the sea. There, upon the wild shore, walked a lone Elf.
His hair was dark, his clothes the finest Sam had ever seen, though much faded, and cobbled together without much care - perhaps because of his hands, which still bore great scars. There was something in his countenance that reminded Sam of the Lady Galadriel.
Who he was, Sam could not begin to guess. A great Lord for sure, perhaps even a Prince of a lost Era.
Lost… like him.
None searched for him, none called his name, none awaited him. Not on this shore.
Some would have, perhaps, called it justice.
Sam did not quite understand all the words in his song, but he understood enough: fell deeds were done, by the very Elf who wandered and sang before his eyes.
The kind of deeds that were too big for a simple Hobbit.
Sam could have turned back the way he came, and made for the Grey Havens. He had enough food in his rucksack to last him all the way to Michel Delving, bless dear Elanor.
No one would have blamed for leaving this lonely Elf to the fate he chose.
It was Fair Folk's business, grand folk's business, what call did he have to meddle?
Hadn't he learned what comes from meddling?
When he was young, before he left with Master Frodo, he might very well have done so.
None of his business.
Ah, the certainties of youth!
Sam was not young any more. He strove to be just and fair - other Hobbits certainly seemed to think so, or they wouldn't have elected him Mayor seven times in a row - but with the years, he had come to appreciate the gift of mercy.
Horrible deeds, bloody deeds, the lonely Elf sang, yet Sam could not deem him evil.
Evil, Sam knew, cared nothing for causing sorrow, rather revelled in it. Evil knew nothing of pain and repentance.
Mercy must always be a gift.
Sam settled down and patiently waited, going over what he remembered of Mister Bilbo's lessons until the song was finished.
Eventually, only the lapping waves remained. The Elf stood still, silent, staring out at the endless sea with heart-wrenching longing.
Soon he would begin to sing again. It would have been the height of incivility to interrupt such an artist.
Well, nothing to it, then. Sam took a deep breath and, as he stepped out from the undergrowth, he bellowed, “Excuse me, young man!”
II.
The sound of a voice arrested him in place - a voice! Here?
By the time the words sunk in, it was too late: his arm had been seized in a surprisingly strong grip, and Maglor son of Fëanor, last Prince of the Noldor, was overwhelmed by a flooding torrent of words.
“Do you happen to know where we are? I am afraid I have lost my way. Quite understandable, really, it has been a long time since I last travelled, and my people are not noted for their sense of direction, I am afraid, but after all, it is hardly needed in the Shire! No sir, it’s quite impossible to get lost in the Shire, especially for those of us who have been born and raised there. Even if such a thing should happen, it would not be long before one stumbled on a familiar landmark, or found somebody to ask for assistance! Quite populous place, it is, most unlike these woods! Why, it was most fortunate to meet you! Not many Elves left now, no, not many at all, but with the way they have been leaving these shores to cross the sea, you’d think the path to the Grey Havens would be better marked! Upon my word, such a hard place to find! That’s where I was going, to the Grey Havens - Mithlond, I should say, but I fear I have been hopelessly turned around somewhere along the way, though at least I seem to have reached the sea, except of course I can see no port so perhaps that's not a good thing after all. Elanor, that's my firstborn daughter, she lives at Undertowers with her Fastred and their little ones, that's on the Tower Hills, or rather underneath them, and I was just there for a last visit, and I thought, it's not so far from the Tower Hills to the Grey Havens. My dear Elanor, as I was saying, thought I should wait for a group of Elves to pass by and ask to join them, but that has become such a rare occurrence, it felt more of a gamble then setting out on my own, I simply couldn't wait any longer, not with winter creeping in. Not that I know much about boats, or ships, oh no, not I, but I heard it said that sailing is quite impossible in winter, though of course Elves being masters of their crafts perhaps think nothing of it. It seemed such a short journey, especially considering my first one, and it really is imperative that I reach the Grey Havens as soon as possible. Serve me right, I suppose, and what dear Elanor would have said if she could have seen me in the past days I really don't know. Believe me, I was beginning to despair, and then I heard the saddest, most beautiful song and I told myself, now Sam, that's Elvish music and no mistake, for what other folk on Middle Earth could produce such marvel? And where there's Elvish music, there must be Elves - stands to reason! - and where there are Elves, why, they are bound to know how to get there. So I followed your song and let me tell you, you were a welcome sight, yes, most welcome, even if my poor eyes are no longer as good as they used to be. Now, good sir, if you could kindly show me the way to the Grey Havens, pardon, Mithlond, I would be most obliged to you.”
The entire speech was presented in a single breath, in a mix of Quenya, Sindarin and New Languages that should not have allowed for such delivery, and yet.
Worst of all, Maglor had understood too much to pretend ignorance, even if the unaccustomed presence of another living being and the rapid speech were enough to make his head spin.
Maglor stared, open-mouthed, at the creature still clinging to his arm. He had never seen such a being: too short and not hairy enough for a dwarf - not in the right places, at least - much too short for a Man, even though he carried the same unmistakable signs of Time and Eld.
A mortal being, then, but what of what kind? And why would he wish to go to Mithlond, of all places?
So was Maglor the Minstrel, Maglor the Poet, rendered utterly speechless.
“I am older than you!” He spluttered at last, most inelegantly, and winced to hear Amras' words spoken in his voice.
The creature peered up at him. “Why, you are an Elf, of course you must be! But none would believe it if they saw us together, now, would they? Unless we meet more Elves on the way to Mithlond, as unlikely as it seems! Speaking of which, which way is it? Should I head North, or South?”
The creature looked up at him with guileless, hopeful eyes. (How long had it been since somebody had looked at him in such a way? Oh, but it hurt, it burned and smarted and singed all the way down to his battered, mangled soul)
“Wha….what are you?” He muttered, as though he had never had a single lesson in manners in his long life.
“Didn't I say? My name is Samwise Gardner, at your service.” Somehow, he managed to bow without relinquishing Maglor's arm. “I am what my own folks call a Hobbit, though other people name us Halflings. And who do I have the honour of addressing?”
Maglor shrugged. It seemingly had no effect on Samwise Gardner, nor on the grip he had on his arm. Odd, that.
Maglor's days as a warrior were long past - he held no weapons now, not even a small blade. His sword was long since abandoned and lost.
Still, his arm had not withered: surely he could have shaken off that inopportune Hobbit (but he looked so old, and frail…), sent him running back into the trees with a few cutting words.
Yet Maglor found that icy pride of a Noldor Prince escaped him, slipping through his fingers like sand.
Had he been found by any other being, even the most benighted of Men, Maglor would have felt its absence most keenly, and felt as though he had been dropped armourless in the middle of a battle.
The Hobbit, though, evoked no such feelings of shame and anger.
Once, Maglor would have felt most curious - a race he did not know, right there in Middle Earth! He would have asked most earnestly for any piece of knowledge Master Gamgee could give him of his people, their history, their songs and legends…
But those days, too, were long past.
(His heart was burnt to ashes, but his mind, alas, still remembered, and noted the loss, and mourned it.)
The name Mithlond curdled sourly on his tongue, and yet… How could he ignore such a simple plea, from such a harmless innocent?
He had never heard of Hobbits before, he could feel no taint of darkness in the one who stood next to him, therefore he held no enmity towards them and him.
Maglor had been reputed the gentlest soul among the sons of Fëanor, once.
It had been a long time since he had last been kind.
So, Mithlond. He was already much too close to it then he liked, but he did not have to go all the way there. He just had to set this Hobbit on the right path, then he could return to his solitary contemplations.
“This way, Master Gardner,” he said, turning away from the sea and guiding the elderly Hobbit towards the forest.
He did not notice the satisfied smile that flashed upon the old Hobbit's face.
.
The first problem with Maglor’s plan was that there was no path to Mithlond. Not any longer.
It unnerved more than he wanted to admit, even if only to himself.
In truth, it had been an Age since he last had seen the walls of Mithlond - perhaps two. He had known that the time of Elves was running out, but… To know it and to see it were different matters entirely.
The Hobbits’ words about Elves rarely venturing to Mithlond echoed uncomfortably in his mind.
Was he not only the last Fëanorian left, was he… Dare he say it? He dared not. It was too frightening to even think.
The second problem with Maglor’s plan was that Master Gardner had severely understated his race’s lack of direction.
How this Hobbit, nearly blind and half deaf as he was, managed to find him was anyone's guess. He was perilously close to calling it an intervention of the Valar, if that had not been a clear impossibility.
[“South, you said?”
“I said North, and you are going East!”
“I think I recognise that tree….”
“No you don't, it's identical to all the others!”
“Well, if you say so, winyamo …”
Disbelieving, offended silence followed for several steps, until Maglor recovered his voice. “I am not a youngster ! I have not been a youngster in thousands or years! I am older than your whole race!”
“Well, I have to call you something, don't I?” The Hobbit, whose perilousness Maglor was rapidly revising, replied placidly as he patted Maglor's hand. “Don't worry, no one is around to hear us. Your dignity is quite safe.”
Maglor did not know whether to laugh madly at that statement, or reply that he had no such thing left.
He was saved by such indecision by the Hobbit tripping over a root. “Careful there, oldster .”
The word, alas, elicited only an amused chuckle. Maglor, to his great surprise, found himself not displeased, even if he had first intended it as an angry mockery.
How long had it been since he caused another person to laugh in genuine mirth?]
Eventually, Maglor concluded it would not be as easy as to lead him to a path. Even if there had been a path, at this point Maglor no longer trusted the Hobbit to follow it: like as not he would trip over his own feet, or take a wrong turn and end up who knew where.
As much as the thought of Mithlond rankled, he had accepted responsibility for this Hobbit: he could not abandon him now.
“There is no other way,” Maglor sighed. “I shall have to accompany you all the way to Mithlond. But only until we reach the gate! I have no intention of setting foot into the city.”
Across the fire, the Hobbit smiled broadly, and thanked him profusely.
What followed was the slowest journey Maglor had ever undertaken: the old Hobbit…
[ “Sam, please. Samwise, if you must.”
“Will you stop calling me winyamo ?”
“Will you give me a name to call you?”
“....”
“Well, there’s your answer then, winyamo .” ]
…the old Hobbit tired easily, and required rest often in addition to a full night of sleep. In truth, Maglor had spent too much time on his own, and before that mostly among his own kind: he had forgotten how different mortals were.
That was hardly the Hobbit’s fault, and Maglor had no desire to see him ill or injured, therefore he was most careful and attentive, often proposing they stop before the Hobbit had a chance to ask.
At every stop, the Hobbit insisted on trying to share his food with Maglor.
[“I am a grandfather many times over and a Hobbit, too.” He said, as though that explained everything. “It is a law of Nature that grandparents must feed all young people in their vicinity.”
Maglor tried to remember his own grandfathers - Mahtan the great smith and Finwë, High King of the Noldor. Neither had ever been particularly interested in his or his brothers’ eating habits, although Mathan had been most excited to provide them with small hammers. It was probably a Hobbit characteristic: they seemed to care for their food much more than Elves did.
“You had children, then, beside Mistress Elanor?”
“Oh, yes! My Rosie and I were blessed with thirteen children.”
It was a good thing indeed that Maglor had refused to eat or drink: choking on air, while undignified, was at least survivable.
Thirteen! His own family was considered unusually large - his father had been quite proud of it, and this simple Hobbit had managed almost twice as many children!
Maglor wondered how his father would have reacted, had he known.]
Really, in spite of his insistence on that outrageous moniker, Master Gardner was not a terrible travelling companion - although Maglor might have been influenced by several centuries of solitude.
He found himself learning many facts concerning Hobbits in general and Master Gardner, and his life and family in particular.
It was… Not unpleasant.
So they walked, through forest and plain, for days and days, and Mithlond grew nearer and nearer.
Maglor found he was loath to part ways with Master Gardner. While the Hobbit slept, he kept watch and wondered how far he could risk going. At first he had planned to take his leave of Master Gardner as soon as the walls of Mithlond were in sight, then he considered it would be best to accompany him closer to the city - halfway down the path, at least, for by then there had to be a path of some sort.
But even that seemed insufficient, and Maglor thought he could see Master Gardner to the gates - surely it would have been much safer to reach the gates, and let the guards there take charge of Master Gardner's safety.
But then Maglor's thoughts took another turn. He was not entirely sure how much time had passed, but perhaps…. Perhaps all surviving Noldor had already sailed across the sea. Perhaps there was none left in the city to recognise him, and he would be allowed to escort Master Gardner past the gates.
At that point, certain of his safety, he would most definitely bid Master Gardner farewell. It was the least he could do, really.
So Maglor, son of Fëanor, continued on the shared journey, half-listening to Master Gardner's chatter and keeping careful watch for the first sign of the walls of Mithlond.
He was so busy looking for them, they were quite halfway through the city - or rather, what was left of it - before he realised where they were.
Maglor abruptly stopped, and instinctively stepped in front of Master Gardner.
This was impossible. Where were the walls he had glimpsed, the gleaming roofs? Where were the fires and the forges, the houses and the shops?
All around him there were nothing but ruins half covered in moss and dead leaves. Of some, he could still guess the shape or function; others had decayed beyond all recognition.
His knees buckled. When did such destruction happen? How? Master Gardner said that the last servant of Morgoth was defeated, and the line of Kings restored to its proper place guaranteed peace in all the land.
But everywhere he looked, he could see no trace of Orcs or other monsters - no trace of an attack at all, and those signs he knew all too well.
Time had come and conquered. Nothing but relentless, unyielding, merciless Time. The only enemy that could never be defeated.
Maglor's knees buckled. His breath caught in his throat. Dark spots danced before his eyes, growing larger and larger until they threatened to obliterate all things.
A rough hand softly brushed his own. A compassionate voice spoke to him. “What’s wrong? Are you ill, winyamo ?”
Irritation arose like a furious wind, repelling the encroaching darkness. “I am well,” he replied, hoping Master Gardner would not notice how his voice trembled. “And I am no youngster. Only…” He closed his eyes. “The city is no longer as I remembered.”
“Ah, I see.” Master Gardner patted his hand, and carefully moved it to rest on his own arm. “Nasty feeling, that. Very nasty. At my age…well, I understand it quite well, believe me, even if I am but a simple Hobbit. When I returned from my long journey with Master Frodo…”
Gently, gently, he pulled Maglor forward, all the while continuing his soothing, understanding chatter, which was a balm and an anchor to Maglor’s troubled mind.
As they progressed towards the harbour, the city showed more of its ancient form and splendour: there, buildings and storehouses still stood, the ravages of Time still minimal.
It only increased the eeriness of the place: it was as though it was patiently waiting for its inhabitants to return.
The harbour, too, was empty: it still bore traces of the bustling place it had once been, but no ship lay at anchor, waiting.
Seagulls were now the masters of Mithlond. Birds would build their nests among its broken stones, small creatures of the fields would shelter under its collapsing roofs, grass and trees would grow until they covered all.
Maglor looked around one last time, and sighed. “Well, Master Gardner, you have now reached Mithlond. Where shall you go next?”
Master Gardner patted his hand one last time and released his arm. “As Bearers of the Ring, Mister Bilbo and Master Frodo were allowed to sail to the Undying Lands. I carried it, too, albeit only for a very short time, but perhaps it shall be enough.” He smiled. “I too shall make the journey across the sea. I hope, when I reach the Undying Lands, that I won’t be turned back.”
Maglor felt his mouth drop open.
.
In hindsight, not asking Master Gardner why exactly he needed to reach Mithlond had been a mistake - the last in a long, long, long list, and not the greatest by far, yet it was the one currently holding Maglor in a bind.
After many years, the walls of the harbour rang with voices - angry, arguing voices.
Maglor tried to point out that there were no ships left.
Oh, all right, there was one small vessel left, tucked under an awning and forgotten, not that it could be called a ship. At best, it was a boat, and it was still much too big for a Hobbit.
How, pray tell, did Master Gardner plan to move it into the water? And how did he hope to raise the sail, or steer it - come to think of it, hadn’t he admitted he knew nothing of boats?
“I shall manage,” was ever Master Gardner’s infuriatingly calm answer. “You agreed to take me to Mithlond, and in Mithlond we are. I thank you most sincerely, you were most kind and patient with this old Hobbit. I shall never forget it! But now our roads must part, for you were very clear you had no desire to attempt the journey yourself.”
“Indeed I do not!” Maglor cried, both hands buried in his long, dark hair. “How do you plan to find your way, now that the world has changed?”
“I told you I shall manage. You really need not worry about me, winyamo . ”
A most ungenteel snort escaped him. “Clearly I do! Have you lost whatever wits you had?”
“Well, my parents did name half-wise…” Master Gardner chuckled.
So they argued, for hours upon hours. No appeal to reason nor practicality, no reminder of his numerous children and grandchildren moved Master Gardner, until at last Maglor suddenly stopped tearing at his hair and marched toward the last remaining boat.
“You stubborn old goat of a Hobbit!” He cried as placed his hands on the wood and began to push it down the boat slide. “If all your race is as stubborn as you, I am most glad I never met them!”
“What are you doing?”
“Isn’t that obvious?” Maglor replied through gritted teeth. “I did not keep you from being devoured by wolves or, or bashing your head open on a root just to see you drown!”
“There is no need…” Master Gardner attempted to protest.
“There is every need!” Maglor roared back as the boat moved forward by another inch.
“I really can’t ask you….”
The boat teetered on the edge like a chick fearful to leave its nest, then, at once, it slid down the incline and slipped gracefully into the water. Maglor quickly caught the long rope dangling from the stern and moored it to the pier. He stood back, rubbing his aching hands. “Good thing you are not, then.”
Samwise peered at him, and sighed. “Ah, well, if you insist…An old Hobbit like me can hardly stop a big, strapping lad like you.”
The matter settled, they agreed to spend one more day in Mithlond: Maglor wanted to make sure the boat would not spring a sudden leak and have a chance to gather water and preserved food from the stores the former inhabitants had kindly left behind for any Elves following, while Samwise insisted Maglor should get a full night's sleep.
They set sail on the morning tide.
“I am glad you decided to accompany me,” Sam admitted as the coast of Lindon grew more and more distant.
“Likely I will not come all the way.” Maglor replied. “Twas no choice: stubborn as you are, you would have tried to swim all the way once the boat failed to budge!”
Sam laughed, and did not deny it.
He only admitted that he could not swim at all only once they were in the middle of the Great Sea, which was very good for the peace of the birds of Mithlond.
For the peace of mind of Maglor, much less so.
Once he finished shouting, Maglor sat at the tiller, gritting his teeth. Great was the temptation to cast himself into the water and follow the Silmaril to the bottom of the ocean, but… What would be of Sam?
The Lord of the Waters, who had once moved an entire island, who was ever merciful and constant, could easily direct the course of a small boat. Would he?
Perhaps. Perhaps he would not.
Maglor had made no promises, nor sworn any vows, yet Samwise Gardner was in his charge nonetheless. He had accepted this duty back on the shore of Lindon, he would not forsake it now.
He would see it through. At any cost, he would see it through.
If fortune assisted him, Samwise would be proved wrong and the winds and sea would turn against them before they could reach Aman…
Right.
The best he could hope for was that he still remembered Aman well enough to find a beach, or a secluded cove where he could safely leave Samwise, then set sail for Middle Earth without even setting foot on the forsworn shore. Mayhap the King of the Sea would be merciful one more, and allow him to leave.
Onward they sailed, and to Maglor's eyes the way remained painfully clear.
They were rounding Tol Eressëa when fortune decided to demonstrate once more which side was favoured: three Teleri ships spotted them, and moved to intercept them.
Maglor cursed under his breath. One ship he could hope to outrun, perhaps even two, but three? Impossible, even for a small, light craft as theirs.
“Well, they seem more inclined to see us to port than turn us away.” Sam looked back at him, and frowned. “ Winyamo ?”
Maglor's mouth felt as though it had been stuffed with wool. “They won't be happy to see me,” he said. “When they come for me, hide. Make your escape as soon as you can. Don’t look back.”
For long moments, Sam stared at him in silence, then he raised his head to look at the ships surrounding them, and his frown deepened.
They sailed on.
Alqualondë still stood, bright and beautiful once more. It had changed, too, perhaps as much as Mithlond: still gleaming with pearls, yet all buildings and palaces looked different now. Some, Maglor noticed, had been entirely rebuilt even though they had suffered little to no damage on that terrible night.
All signs of Noldor workmanship and architecture had been removed. Even the great stone piers and wharves had been replaced - an enormous endeavour that had required time, effort and raging, pain-filled determination.
“You should hide now.” Maglor said as they came into port, and the ships arranged themselves in a line behind them.
Sam said nothing. He remained seated where he was, his back straight, his head high and his hands resting on his walking stick.
Maglor secured the rope, and stepped out on the pier first, turning to face the approaching Teleri guards. He did not doubt he had been recognised.
The guards came closer, and closer, and closer - their hands outstretched, their eyes as hard as stone…
With unexpected agility, Sam jumped onto the pier, and whacked the closest Teleri on the shins with his walking stick.
“I say!” He bellowed, his voice echoing over the water. “Is this how the Elves of the Undying Lands welcome weary travellers? This the respect you have for elders? Why, I never…”
Maglor blinked. He blinked again. The scene did not change, save in the number of Teleri bent over their shins, or jumping up and down as they cradled a sore foot in their hands, held at bay by an old Hobbit’s walking stick as the Hobbit himself lectured them and harangued them over manners, making good first impressions, and the laws of hospitality…
Maglor wondered whether he had found the courage to fulfil his ancient oath and followed the Silmaril into the depths of the sea. Perhaps it was all a dying dream… But for all his artistry, he did not think he could have imagined somebody like the Hobbit Samwise Gardner. Even his strangest, wildest dream could not have come close to such a scene.
Sam’s unoccupied hand found his arm, and grasped it firmly. “Come, my friend. Let us find Mister Bilbo and Master Frodo.”
By then, Maglor knew better than to argue. Arm in arm, they went.