More about Maglor by Himring

Maglor Tunes a Guitar

In Umbar, Maglor tunes a guitar in the Feanorian manner.

(No, not what you think: nobody dies!)

B2MeMPrompt: Durin's Day (Seasons of Middle-earth: Autumn)

Rating: Teens (warning: moderate violence, but very much non-graphic)

Read Maglor Tunes a Guitar

‘You have a bit of a problem, my friend.’
Palamid froze. He had known he was taking a risk, daring to play in this corner of the market square, but he had thought he knew all Snub Nose’s thugs and had been keeping his eyes peeled. The foreign vagabond had not seemed dangerous—but how could he have overlooked that those rags were suspiciously, almost unnaturally clean? He knew from experience how difficult it was to get access to a sufficient supply of water round here if you were poor.
The stranger stretched out his hand towards Palamid’s guitar.
‘Give it to me.’
Oh no. This was worse than he had feared. Palamid’s guts contracted as the stranger’s fingers closed around the guitar’s neck.
‘Please,’ he said, tears in his eyes. ‘Not the guitar. Please don’t break my guitar! I promise I will go away and never try to play here again! I really do.’
The stranger blinked.
‘I’m not planning to break it,’ he said, in a soothing tone of voice. ‘I’m going to make it sound better.’
He gave the guitar a little tug. Helplessly, Palamid let go and watched, in mingled hope and disbelief, as the stranger actually began to tune it! He took his time about it, too—twiddling a peg, plucking a string, giving the peg another little turn…
‘It’s old and has seen much use,’ the stranger said, without raising his eyes from his task. ‘But a decent instrument nonetheless. It deserves care.’
 As Palamid watched in fascination, he realized there was something not quite right about the movements of the stranger’s right hand, but he couldn’t get a clear view of his palm. Anyway, the stranger was done now. He swept his hand across the strings. It was a simple chord, but the notes rang astonishingly clear and true. The stranger was right; Palamid’s poor old guitar had never sounded so good.
‘Hey you! Whaddja think yer doing?!’
Palamid had been so preoccupied with the odd ways of this pale foreigner that he had completely forgotten to look out for Snub Nose’s thugs. This one, Cauliflower Ear, was way, way too close, practically breathing down the stranger’s neck. Palamid gave a strangled cry and flattened himself against the wall behind him.
It happened so fast that he couldn’t see what the stranger did. Suddenly, Cauliflower Ear was in the gutter, not dead, judging by the groans, but possibly wishing he were, right now. The stranger, it seemed, wasn’t even out of breath. The guitar, to Palamid’s great relief, was intact.
‘We seem to be attracting the wrong kind of attention,’ said the stranger to him. ‘Let’s go.’
He walked off, still carrying the guitar. Palamid hurried after him.
‘Where are we going?’ he dared to ask, when they were far enough away from Cauliflower Ear.
‘To a music shop, of course’, the stranger answered.

***

By that evening, Palamid was the proud possessor of a pitch pipe.
The words of the stranger still rang in his ears: ‘No use deluding yourself you’ve got perfect pitch if you don’t. Even some of the best musicians don’t. So use that pipe!’
It would take time to work it out, thought Palamid, gazing at the pipe again, then putting it away.
The stranger had just swept out of his life again as suddenly as he had appeared, striding away as the sun began to set, vanishing into the gathering dusk. Although he had bought a substantial supper for both of them before he left, there was an odd hollow feeling to Palamid’s stomach. He looked up. It was late autumn. A thin new moon was riding high in the sky.

---

Chapter End Notes

This was basically a comment fic that ran away with me a little. The ultimate inspiration was Tehta's lovely little piece, The Snake, now posted on AO3 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/705754/chapters/2712421 (and a discussion on her LJ). 

At first, I was feeling a bit uneasy about my use of the B2MeM prompt, but that final para has been growing on me.

Also, not really written for the Arda Underground Challenge, but I was thinking as I wrote that Snub Nose and Cauliflower Ear might be as close as I ever get to the subject!

Forging Gold

Maglor and three of his brothers on a day towards the end of the Fell Winter (First Age).

Prompt (B2MeM 2014: Winter): Use the following song to inspire your writing or artwork: "Crystal Forest" by Nox Arcana

Rating: General

The title alludes to the alleged meaning of Maglor’s mother name (Quenya Makalaure).  Maglor’s father name Kanafinwe is also mentioned, as is the shortened form Kano.

Read Forging Gold

Nargothrond had fallen, never to rise again, and no change of the world’s weather would bring back last year’s dead but, in the east, in the valley of Gelion, the grip of fell winter that seemed to hold Beleriand in its claws as tightly as a dragon’s at long last began to ease a little. The long-impenetrable cover of greyish cloud broke and there came brief days of pale sunshine and, at length, if only at the height of noon, thaw.  The eaves of the forest that had been covered deep in snow began to drip, but halfway through the afternoon the temperature dropped sharply again and all the moisture froze so that ice coated the branches and, in some places, whole series of icicles formed and grew as each tentative thaw was again overtaken by frost.
And then, one day, the Feanorians emerged from the shadows of the trees and found that the sunlight had intensified. Ice and snow and cold water all gleamed in a brilliant white light. The reflections along the river bank were almost blinding.
Maglor blinked and blinked again. Gazing at a sparkling drop of water that had formed on the end of a twig a couple of inches from his nose and seemed about to detach itself and fall, he said quietly to himself: ‘It’s almost like Valinor.’
‘What is?’ asked Amras, puzzled.
Maglor was a little taken aback. He had not realized he had spoken aloud. Recovering himself, he said: ‘All that gleam and sparkle—that is what I mean. But do you suppose that is really how it was? Crystal forests, towers of ivory, beaches covered with pearls and diamonds? Or is that just how we remember it?’
‘I don’t know’, said Amras uncomfortably. ‘But that’s how I remember it, too.’
‘Who cares?!’ said Amrod violently, beside him, and they both jumped. ‘Who cares about Valinor and what it was like? What does Valinor care about us?!’
Maglor lowered his head, ashamed. He should not have mentioned Valinor, especially now, under these circumstances. His brothers were half-starved, their fingers frost-bitten. By Valinorean standards, they were almost in rags. And the scene before them might be beautiful, but it was a cold cruel beauty—as unlike the comforts of Tirion as could be—and would feed no hungry bellies. Maybe today’s sunshine was a harbinger of spring, but spring was clearly still some way off and there was no little hardship to be expected before it finally arrived.
‘Who cares about Valinor, indeed’, said Maedhros, from behind his shoulder. ‘Look again! Look at the sunshine and the gleam and the sparkle, Kanafinwe Makalaure! We will need you to remember them for us tonight, when it grows dark, tonight and on other nights—for it is you who forge all our gold now, you are the one remaining jewel-smith among the Sons of Feanor and all the precious metal we still own is your song. Look closely, Kano! For, see, already the sun is going in…’
As he spoke, a thin veil of cloud was drifting across the face of the sun.

***

Wandering in the foothills of the Ered Luin towards the end of yet another fell winter, in another age, Maglor saw the clouds tear open above Mount Rerir and the sun gleam on its snow-covered slopes, although nothing, nothing now remained of the beauties of the land of Thargelion that had once lain at its foot.
‘I’m looking, Nelyo’, he muttered, hoarsely. ‘I’m looking! But…’

---

Chapter End Notes

At the foot of Mount Rerir, in the area called Thargelion, after the River Gelion, lay the most beautiful place within the territory of the Sons of Feanor, Lake Helevorn. It was destroyed in the war and later most of the rest of Beleriand as well, but there is some speculation that Mount Rerir itself survived into the Third Age, although reduced in size.
There are two "Fell Winters" in Tolkien's chronologies: in the First Age: 495/496, after the dragon Glaurung destroyed Nargothrond, and in the Third Age: 2911/12, when the Shire was attacked by white wolves.
Beside "Forging Gold", there is an alternative but similar gloss to the Quenya name Makalaure: “Gold-cleaver”. 

Like the Voice of an Old Friend

Maglor, son of Feanor, encounters the Aldudenie, the famous lament for the Two Trees composed by the Vanya Elemmire.

But what does it mean to him?

Rating: Teens (PG for arguably Mature Themes)

Written for the LOTR Community Challenge May 2014

Theme: character study

Elements: the character spends time with an old friend

Read Like the Voice of an Old Friend

The records claim that all the Eldar knew the Aldudenie, the lament that Elemmire of the Vanyar composed on the subject of the destruction of the Two Trees--all the Eldar, even those who had never set foot in Valinor, even those who had never seen the light of the Trees!
Yet it was not so, at first. Although the germ of the Aldudenie was planted in Elemmire's heart at the moment of the Darkening, before he even knew that the blind fear that descended on him was caused by the fatal wounding of the Trees and although words and notes kept churning in his head as, with the rest, he rushed back and forth in the terror of unnatural Night—stumbling down the rocky, dangerous slopes of Taniquetil, through the suddenly unfamiliar streets of Valimar, onwards to desolate Ezellohar and back again—despite all this, the Aldudenie was not composed on the spur of the moment. It was barely taking shape in Elemmire’s head when Nolofinwe and those who had come with him decided to return to Tirion and when silence fell between the Vanyarin elves and the Noldor, black and enduring as the enveloping darkness. And later when the greater part of the Noldor departed for Middle-earth— beginning their descent of the Calacirya in great haste and without farewell to Vala or Vanya—the earliest version of the Aldudenie had only just begun to be sung in the nooks and alleyways of Valmar as the Vanyar huddled by the light of a torch in the gloom.
It was hundreds of years of the Sun later—during the War of Wrath—that the Aldudenie was brought to Middle-earth. The elven army led by Eonwe, Ingwion and Finarfin brought Elemmire’s song with them, although to do so was hardly their intention. The aims of that army when they left Valinor were straightforward and their concern with Middle-earth was very limited: they wished to defeat Morgoth for good and collect any of their errant kin that might prove redeemable and return them safely home to Valinor. That was all. But, straightforward though those aims were, they were not as straightforward to carry out. Morgoth took a long time to defeat. The entanglement of elves and Men in Middle-earth was more complex than the Vanyar and Noldor of Valinor had guessed. And so, during their protracted campaign, sitting at evening by their campfires, they sang the Aldudenie. They sang it to remind themselves what they stood for, to ward off doubt and fear. What Morgoth had started, by attacking the Trees, they were going to finish, they reassured each other. Oh, Telperion, silver more true than any ore of the earth's core, dearer and closer to us than starlight! Oh, Laurelin!
They sang the Aldudenie mostly among themselves, for their own sake, but not in secret, and others heard. And although the land of Beleriand had been dying for a long time, as the wind from the north carried its corruption far south and Angband’s poison leaked into the rivers, and although it continued to die, yard by yard, inch by inch, as it was gradually wrested from the grasp of Morgoth—despite that, knowledge of the Aldudenie spread throughout the land. Where news and goods were still exchanged among the scattered and divided peoples of Beleriand, the Aldudenie, too, passed from mouth to mouth, until it came to the ears of Maglor, son of Feanor.
The Sons of Feanor had not yet exchanged a word with the arrivals from Valinor nor set foot in their camp. Nevertheless news of the Aldudenie came to Maglor--and for a while it seemed to come at him from every direction at once. How was it possible, he wondered irritably, that an exiled kinslayer lurking in the woods could be beset by people who insisted on singing mangled versions of the Aldudenie at him? With difficulty, he controlled the impatient twitching of his fingers. It would not do to offend anyone who was still willing to trade with the Sons of Feanor. But when the traders left, the music went round and round in his head. He had not heard the Aldudenie performed correctly yet, but he knew well how it ought to sound.
Elemmire himself had not been a friend. Their opinions on a whole range of subjects had just been too different for that to happen, although they had, for a while, agreed to disagree and respected each other—until Maglor’s decision to follow his father into exile had met with Elemmire’s utter incomprehension. Maglor was not surprised that Elemmire himself had apparently remained behind in Valinor with Ingwe and had not come to do battle with Morgoth in Middle-earth even now.
But Elemmire’s music! It was his music that called to Maglor with all the insistence of an old childhood friend. Growing up in Tirion, he had learned to play every piece by Elemmire as soon as it came out. That had not gone down well with his father, who would have preferred it if Maglor had not singled out a Vanyarin composer for his admiration, but Feanor’s disapproval had not fazed Maglor in the least.
Maglor had once known Elemmire’s style like the back of his hand, almost as well as his own. And in Beleriand he had still played his music occasionally, especially when he chance to meet up with Ecthelion, who had shared an interest. But Ecthelion was dead, like so many others, and little by little Elemmire’s music had come to seem irrelevant, as the past receded and the dawn of each day tasted of defeat.
And now here it was, the Aldudenie: utterly Vanyarin and Valinorean, perfect of its kind. Oh, Laurelin the lost, the sun is only a faint memory of you! Oh, Telperion! It was clearly Elemmire’s masterpiece and Maglor could tell exactly how it ought to be played but…  There was so much it was bound up with, so much that he had almost forgotten. He was not sure he was ready to take on Elemmire’s view of the Darkening—those events that had meant something so fundamentally different to him and to his people than they did to Elemmire. Once, empathy through music had come easy to Maglor. Now, with every conviction crumbling, he was not sure he could afford it any longer.
Maglor, usually of so equable a temper—except, always, where music was concerned—stalked around the Feanorian camp like an angry bear in a cloud of buzzing bees. Elrond and Elros, who had imagined they knew their foster-father in all his moods, watched him with considerable alarm, not knowing how to react and what to do. In the end, it was Maedhros who went and stood in front of Maglor as he continued to wander distractedly about the campsite. Maglor almost ran straight into his brother before he noticed him—something so unheard of that it shocked him to a standstill.
‘You need to play it, Kano,’ said Maedhros.
‘Do you know what it will do to me,’ said Maglor wildly. ‘Do you?’
‘I can see what it will do to you, if you don’t’, said Maedhros.
Maglor stared at him for a moment.
‘Not here,’ he said then, more calmly.
‘All right,’ said Maedhros. ‘Fetch your harp and we’ll go.’
They stayed away for days. Elros had almost persuaded Celvandil to send a search party for them by the time they returned. Maglor’s face was grey with exhaustion. Maedhros’s face was completely expressionless, but something told Elrond he had not eaten in all that time and he set about heating a bowl of broth for them both. Maedhros and Maglor sat by the fire, nursing the hot soup, not talking.
But early the next morning—‘Lessons’, said Maglor to Elrond and Elros. ‘Here’s what you need to learn.’
And he began to teach them the Aldudenie.

---

Chapter End Notes

As far as I remember, I had already written of Elemmire as a male before I came across comments pointing out that, with that name form, this Vanya poet or composer might equally be female, as many have now written her.

 

Silmaril

A little reflection on two central symbols in Tolkien's work, the Silmaril and the Ring.

Drabble written for the Homophone Challenge at Tolkien Weekly on LiveJournal (100 words according to MS Word)

Prompt: threw/through

Rating: Teens (PG)

Read Silmaril

He lifted his hand and threw. The impossible jewel went flying through the salty air, shining once more in all its facets: peace, love, honour, art.

The joy of belonging, the joy of making. Exhilaration of daring, quiet satisfaction of faith. They went flying through the sea air, jewel-like. Home. Exile. Hope. Despair. Promises. Broken promises. Death. So much death.

The light hit the surface of the water and sank.

 

He lifted his hand and threw… Being already almost lost, he did not. He stepped back from the chasm, put the ring on his finger and said: It is mine.

---

Chapter End Notes

The last paragraph is set in the Sammath Naur--so the reference of "he" has changed and could mean either Frodo or Isildur.

I felt it was interesting to compare what these two central symbols, the Silmaril and the One Ring, stand for and their respective effect on the characters of the story. It's obviously not a comparison you'd want to take too far--one commenter pointed out that in some ways the Elven Rings were more similar to the Silmaril.

Half-Elven (Maglor & Gilmith I)

In his wanderings, Maglor encounters a half-elven child.
Inevitably, this evokes memories of two other half-elven children.

Written as a gift for Independence1776 for Fandom Stocking 2014

Rating: General audiences.

Read Half-Elven (Maglor & Gilmith I)

• For Independence1776.

With my best wishes as a Christmas gift for Independence1776.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

In that year Maglor came to the bay of Belfalas and, wandering along the shore, for the first time he heard the voice of Amroth echoing among the sound of the wind and the waves. He stopped to try and fathom what this might mean. But all too soon he concluded that the voice that called from the sea was beyond help. Yet he found a strange companionship in it and for a while he lingered there, interweaving his own lament with Amroth's.

Lingering thus, he became aware of someone come seeking among the dunes, a stranger who was not the mere echo of a voice, but alive. This seeker seemed young and perhaps lost and so, after a little hesitation, he built a fire of driftwood and allowed her to find him.

The girl approached his fire warily, but with an air of resolution, and, with a quick pang, he saw that she was half-elven and it seemed she had blood of the Teleri in her.

'Where is my mother?' she asked him, without preamble.

For a moment, he could not speak--for, although in his head he knew better, in his heart he could not but feel it was the whereabouts of Elwing that were being demanded of him, in swift, fierce reproach. But this child, although distressed, was not accusing him.

'I do not know where your mother is, young one,' he replied, finally.

'But she is an elf, like you!' said the girl. 'Surely you must know where she is!'

'I fear I am a wanderer, young one. I would not know the elves of this region. But this I can tell you: she has not passed by here. I have seen nobody who could be your mother, not since I arrived. When did you last see her?'

'She left two years ago,' said the girl heavily, sitting down suddenly with a small bump. Maglor saw how weary she was, as much with long-held-in grief as with today's stumbling among the dunes. 'I woke up one morning and she was gone.'

Ah, this was a harder case than he had expected--not merely a child astray whose mother could be tracked down in an afternoon or at most a day or two. This was a mother who had gone truly missing and, it seemed, of her own accord.

'Two years ago?' he repeated. And because he could not at once think what to say to that, he started rummaging in his pack to see whether he had anything to offer her, but all he had was a small pack of cram. Yet she must have been famished, for she accepted and chewed valiantly.

There was a short silence.

'Master elf, did my mother leave because I'm not elven enough?' the girl asked abruptly.

'No!' said Maglor, shocked and with complete conviction. That had never been a reason why he would have dreamed of leaving Elrond and Elros. Not that his own reasons had necessarily been better ones...

The girl looked not entirely convinced, but a little comforted.

'Maybe the sea called her,' said Maglor, rather helplessly, 'and she could not resist. Maybe she had to go to Valinor.'

'Valinor? Where is Valinor? Are you going there, too?'

'Not I.'

Then why would my mother have to, the expression on the girl's face asked, but she did not say it.

Girl, Maglor thought, I have no answers. How can I explain about your mother, whom I've never seen, when I can't even explain myself to myself, how I could have left?

'What is your name, young one?' Maglor asked. 'And your mother's?

'I am Gilmith,' said the girl. 'My mother is Mithrellas.'

'And your father?' Maglor asked cautiously.

'Imrazor,' said Gilmith, with a vague handwave in an easterly direction along the shore.

So she was not an orphan, as he had feared! And indeed she seemed a child well-tended, adequately fed, despite her hunger, and dressed with care, although her clothes had clearly been slept in.

'Gilmith, will not your father worry where you are?'

Gilmith's mouth had set.

'He's stopped trying to find my mother.'

'You wouldn't want him to think,' said Maglor gently, 'that you'd left him, too.'

Gilmith opened her mouth. But just then a hoarse shout rang out over the dunes.

'Gilmith! Gilmith! Where are you? Gilmith!'

'That's Galador, my brother,' said Gilmith. 'He's looking for me.'

Her face had brightened. Lucky Gilmith, despite everything, to have a brother looking for her. No, he should be happy for her, not envious. After all, they'd had it all, he and his brothers, before they'd lost it...

'Listen, Gilmith,' said Maglor, forcefully, 'never doubt you're a daughter any elf would be proud to have.'

It was only ever a flaw in me, my dear boys, there was none at all in you.

'Now, go, young one, run, your brother sounds anxious and exhausted, you must not keep him waiting...'

Later, when Gilmith and Galador tried to find the strange elven wanderer again, he was gone.

---

Chapter End Notes

For continuation see the second half of the sequence from Gilmith's point of view in the next chapter.

A Distant Shore (Maglor and Gilmith II)

Gilmith, daughter of Mithrellas, walks by the sea and meets someone she remembers from her childhood.

Inspired by Elleth's wonderful photomanip This Far Distant Shore

Written for Elleth for Fandom Stocking 2014

Rating: General

Read A Distant Shore (Maglor and Gilmith II)

They call her elven-fair. Although she buried her husband years ago, she still turns the heads of men--and women. There are also others who call her fey behind her back. But she herself knows better. In the mirror she can see fine lines around her eyes and her mouth. She has felt the weight of age and mortality settle in her bones. But she still walks the dunes occasionally, although she is no longer seeking her mother.

Today the weather is kind, the sky serene. The sea's great voice is deep and calm, breakers slowly rolling in, and as soon as she emerges onto the beach, she hears the music.

She recognizes it at once, of course. She marvels, now, that it could have meant to her only one thing the first time she heard it. How single-minded are the young! Then it mattered only that the singer must surely be elvish. Now she hears the song's sadness and its beauty overwhelms her.

Maybe she was only permitted her encounter as a child because she did not know or care who he was? Maybe now that she is older and wiser, the song and the singer will fade away as soon as she perceives it? She stands still, listening, and the song draws her in.

The song sings of a Valinor that is out of reach. The song sings of a Valinor that no longer exists even on the other side of the sea. The song sings of a Valinor that never existed, even in Valinor...

Gilmith walks along the shore in Elvenhome, the sands strewn with pearls and opals; she walks hand in hand with her mother. They turn towards the Calacirya and see the light of the evening star spilling out of a cleft in the high hills.

Suddenly, the song breaks off. Gilmith almost stumbles forward onto her knees. For a moment, the fine white sand of Belfalas seems grey and gritty. Her throat hurts and her eyes burn. But she cannot tell what grieves her most--the singer's exile, her own mortality, her mother's continued absence...

'Gilmith,' the singer says, behind her.

And she know it was none of those. She had feared that he had gone without speaking to her again.

'You know me!' she whispers.

'Of course I know you, Gilmith, daughter of Mithrellas,' says Maglor.

She dares to turn around.

'I have changed,' she says. 'I am old now.'

He, of course, looks much the same as he did when once, long ago, he attempted to comfort a child desperately, stubbornly seeking her mother.

'You have not changed so very much, to me', he answers. He hesitates. 'I never did learn any news of your mother...'

She brushes that aside, with a little movement of her hand. They hear the sea birds calling. His clothes are weathered in the rain and the wind of Middle-earth, but his face--and the grief in it--are ageless.

'If you know me still, will you tell me again what you told me then?' she asks.

It is a childish request, worthy of the child she once was. But it seems he does not think so...

'You are a daughter any elf would be proud to have,' he repeats, softly.

'But you are not any elf,' she objects, this time.

A shadow of a smile.

'Why then, you are at least a daughter Maglor Feanorion would have been proud to have.'

'There is no "at least" about it,' says Gilmith, firmly.

He is legend. He is also a man who once fumbled cram out his bag and offered it to her when she was sad and hungry.

'Maglor,' she says, taking a risk--but nothing ventured, nothing gained--'will you stay a little while, this time?'

For a moment his eyes look past her, a long way ahead, to journey's end. Then they come back to her, the girl--the woman--on the beach.

'Yes,' he agrees, quietly. 'A little while.'

Silver Girl

While Celeborn is away, Celebrian makes a friend.

Written for Independence1776 for Fandom Stocking 2017.

Her wish list included wandering Maglor stories.

Rating: Teens (for background considerations)

Read Silver Girl

Celeborn was concerned. On his return from Nenuial, Celebrian had greeted her father with her usual shining joy. But this time it seemed as if there was also a small shadow—perhaps even thrown by that shining light itself?

At first she seemed unwilling to talk about it. He questioned her gently, without success, and then tried again, after a couple of months.

‘My friend had left’, she said this time, almost by way of apology more than explanation.

This was the first Celeborn had heard of such a friend, but he did not therefore jump to the conclusion that the friend was imaginary. His daughter had not been born in sheltered circumstances, in Valinor or within the Girdle of Doriath, and he knew she was not much prone to indulging flights of fancy, having seen too many unusual things in reality, some of them dark and best forgotten. Yet Lindon had seemed at peace for quite some time.

‘While you were away, Mother spent much time in council with Elrond, Gil-galad and Cirdan,’ Celebrian, questioned further on the subject of her friend, confessed to her father. ‘I realized quite well the matter was important and urgent, of course—the future of the settlement at Nenuial and all that—but after a while I did get just a little bit bored and lonely and started exploring, a short way north along the coast.

I had asked Galdor to explain to me about the tides, but I had miscalculated the effects of the currents in a particular cove and got them badly wrong. The first I knew of it was when I got a terrible fright, as a black raggedy scarecrow appeared almost right under my nose and started shooing me back inland like a sheepdog herding a stray sheep.

I worked out afterwards that it was because he couldn't shout loud enough for me to hear over the noise of the waves. When he spoke to me, it was in a hoarse whisper and I realized that something must have happened to his throat. He'd been in the Wars, clearly, and there was something wrong with his right hand, too. When I'd got over my fright and realized he had just wanted me safe away from the water, he explained to me that I'd been in real danger out there and began to teach me about the tides along the stretch about the cove, in more detail even than Galdor had. Meanwhile the tide had indeed come in, and very rapidly, and I could see for myself in what danger I'd been.

I don't think my friend expected me to come back to the cove, after that first time we met. Maybe he thought I'd stay safe inside, after that fright. But I was curious, you weren't back yet, and mother was still mostly in council. I thought perhaps he might have more to teach me, so I went back there again. He asked me why I was out on my own and I explained, just a bit.

After that he didn't try to send me away again, and I visited him fairly regularly. He didn't speak all that much, though, after that first lecture on the tides. He preferred to listen. Perhaps his throat hurt, but I don't think that was the only reason. He never gave his name and didn't use mine. He called me silver girl. I sometimes shared my lunch with him—because he didn't seem to be eating quite enough— and gathered shells on the beach to show to him and he always thanked me very politely and admired them—you know, he genuinely did!—but when I found a pearl, he insisted I should keep it...

Then Mother got the message that you were coming back and, as soon as I told him, he said he would have to leave.

I only stayed for you, silver girl, he said. Otherwise I would have moved on already. But you won't be lonely anymore, now. You don't need me.

I told him that having my father back didn't mean I didn't need friends. But it seemed he didn't want to hear that and I saw that he had been speaking the truth, although I hadn't guessed it before, at all: he really had been waiting to move on as soon as I had company again.

So I said goodbye to him. I think it would have hurt him to stay. There was no point in making a fuss about it...’

Celebrian broke off and, climbing onto the couch, flung herself at her father and hugged him tight, as if to make up to him for having been even the tiniest bit sad about his return.

There had been no harp, thought Celeborn, no golden voice, no eight-pointed star, no jewel—no evidence at all.

There were still so many elves abroad in rags, after the sinking of Beleriand, and Men, too. Many had seen better days. Clearly, Celebrian had taken her friend's condition and his wounds in her stride. And maybe Celebrian had the rights of it—she had come across such men already and, although some of them had been kinslayers perhaps, in the past they preferred to forget, most were neither notorious princes nor famous bards.

It grieved him that she had already, in her young life, witnessed more than enough misery. He hugged her back and wondered how he could find a friend of her own age for her, a friend who would remain with her. But they moved about so much!

Then it occurred to him that in truth her story showed that she was more resilient, sturdier, than he had credited her with. She had dealt with the loss of this friend she had made all by herself, apparently forgiven him for leaving, even. It was he, her father, who had been worried, perhaps inevitably. But his daughter had her way of making friends, even if she had her own ideas about who to pick and rarely made the obvious choices. Perhaps he should trust that she would find another friend when she needed one.

Celeborn said nothing to Galadriel at all. Whoever he was, the man had left. And there was no evidence whatsoever to prove his identity. What did he have to tell her, really? And in any case, if his wife did believe it had been Maglor, what could they do?

---

Chapter End Notes

In Himring 'verse Maglor's voice as well as his hand is physically damaged by the Silmaril. Both slowly heal over the ages, his voice a little faster than his hand. As this piece is set in the early Second Age, Maglor's vocal chords are still in a bad state.

The title (Maglor's name for Celebrian) alludes to the first element of her name and the colour of her hair, although canonically it's not certain her hair was  silver.

The Refusers

A short piece featuring wandering Maglor and his reflections on Avari: the idea of them and the reality.

Written for Narya for Fandom Stocking 2018

Read The Refusers

Maglor remembered how they had once imagined Avari. Blinded by the Light, it had been so easy to believe that, having refused the Journey, they had sunk into a featureless darkness. In reality, he had since learned, they had a complex oral tradition covering every aspect of their intricate society: laws and customs, legends and ritual, and everything useful to know.

They were well aware where Maglor was, but to them the lonely wanderer was not only outcast, but taboo. He suspected any contact with him, even if it were only to fire an arrow at him to chase him off, would have required long purification, so they avoided being seen by him altogether, as much as possible. Once or twice, they had acted to save his life, early on when he was at his most helpless and hardly able to fend for himself, perhaps out of pity, perhaps simply because they did not wish him to die on their territory, fearing him dead more than they did alive, and maybe not without reason.

They still left signs for him on the beach, arrangements of pebbles, shells and seaweed, which he had learned to interpret and heed: Do not go this way or Danger here. He, in turn, had become better at spotting the tribespeople, no matter how skilled they were at blending in with their natural background, and voluntarily gave them a wide berth rather than upsetting them by blundering into one of their camps or disrupting a fishing expedition.

Crouching in the dark, after one such near-encounter, wrapped in rags, without fire or food, and with only a small rock to shelter him inadequately from the cold sea wind, he wondered for a moment whether he would have still known how to speak to them, even if it had been allowed and he had been willing to try, and realized it was not they who were the Avari.

It was he who was the true Avar.

---

Chapter End Notes

"The Refusers", in the title, is one of the canonical translations of "Avari", the other being "Unwilling".

Later, in my stories, a more recovered Maglor is seen occasionally helping Avari. He rescues one of them from drowning in the floods at the time of the sinking of Numenor (mentioned in Chapter 1 of Himling Isle). And much later, after traditional Avarin society has to some extent disintegrated under the impact of western industrialization, he temporarily adopts an Avari orphan he finds scavenging on the beach (Magloriana)

I unwittingly quoted the title of Grundy's meta on a related subject: "Blinded by Light". My ideas about Maglor and the Avari are older than that, though, although they had not been written down anywhere before and Grundy's meta reminded me of them.