Broken Things by Elleth

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

Maglor dreamt of a voice out of the dark that night. His dreams often lacked light, and they held more sounds than images, but it was rare that anybody spoke to him directly.

"You have gone great lengths to shut yourself away within yourself, have you not, minstrel?" the voice asked. Maglor said nothing in return.

"You have, and you are aware of it. A solitude of five hundred years and the world falling into disrepair around you, how else could you bear it but by drifting?"

Maglor shook his head and willed himself to wake. The dream clawed at him, held him close, and the voice continued, soft and convincing, "There is more to the world than drifting upon its currents without reflection. There is much to sing of, and you could accomplish many purposes, but you have grown passive, desolate, billowing on the waves, and your music has become repetitive and unfeeling. You let your grief smother you, and if you continue it, you shall come to a bad end."

The words struck true, and as though the voice had evoked the feeling, Maglor felt himself foundering in the rushing of the sea. The waves crashed in the darkness above him, but a light beckoned far below.

He awoke drenched in sweat, and with uncertain fingers fumbled for his fire kit.

After the fourth try, Maglor finally caught some sparks in a pile of tinder, and blew on it to kindle them further. He was lucky; the firewood he had gathered had dried well, lit up swiftly, and crackled and popped while it burned.

In an attempt to relax and shake the voice from his dream, he poured a bowl of the milk he had stolen in the herdlands further from the river's estuary. Some herdsman might wonder where his skin-bag had gotten to, but they at least had plenty and in fresh supply, while his was near going sour - and still better than nothing at all - after carrying it for a day in the summer heat of the this rocky southern land. The night, with its sky clear and high, was much cooler, and the stars hung like sharp-edged splinters of metal on the firmament.

He sighed, leaned against the boulder that marked the edge of his camp, and closed his eyes. After such an awakening, sleep would forsake him for the rest of the night, he knew, but he could at least try and rest to stave off the worst of the fatigue that would undoubtedly beset him come morning.

The underbrush cracked somewhere behind him. Without opening his eyes, Maglor focused his attention - something large and four-legged that moved cautiously, but surely with making so much noise posed no threat - any predator out to hunt would either seek to approach stealthily or begin hounding him into exhaustion, not linger to watch. But when the presence persisted, with a growing feeling that jabbed like hot needles at the back of his skull, Maglor turned to look.

The creature was swift to vanish back into shadows, but he caught a glimmer of firelit red mirrored in the creature's eyes before it could withdraw completely. A wolf, Maglor thought, a large one, and a cautious beast at that, but with no intent to prey on him - rather it seemed to seek the warmth of the fire, or perhaps it had been drawn by the smell of the milk, unlike the vicious beasts of the North that used to invade Lothlann and devastate his horse herds.

Danger or not, he reached for the bag and poured the remaining milk in his bowl to place it near the bushes. A beast with a full belly, even if it was milk only, would be less liable to change its mind when it came to attacking, and he had seen no signs anywhere that would indicate a pack in the area: This, surely, was an outcast like himself, and perhaps the beast would be glad for some sympathy.

The leaves rustled occasionally when the creature moved, but perhaps the wolf had settled down to rest as well, and eventually the silence of the night resumed. Maglor tugged his cloak around himself when he felt his eyelids begin to droop after all.

When he woke the bowl was empty, and the wolf gone. Tracks the size of Maglor's hand led around the camp, careful not to stray too near the now-extinct fire, and eventually meandered eastward in an inland direction.

The voice in his dream had warned him against drifting without a purpose, Maglor thought, and wherever it had come from, perhaps he would do well to heed it. Gathering up his bags, he began to follow the trail. Where he went mattered little, and he could always return down along the river to the estuary and the sea.

The wolf could not have been far from the clearing Maglor made camp in the evening, and announced itself with a hoarse bark from the shadows. Almost invisible, except for the glimmer of red eyes in the dark every now and then, it continued to follow over the next days and evenings as well, sometimes creeping closer when Maglor sang, though always staying well outside the firelight. Maglor continued leaving the remains of any food he could find for him - for he had come to think of the wolf as a him; certainly the eyes he saw held more than animal intelligence.

A Maia, then, of some sort, he thought, and after the first impulse to flee had abated, a bitter humor that he shared the spoils of his petty crimes with one of them arose - for it had simply become easier to take what was needed than to scavenge fruitlessly, or even to render songs in exchange for hospitality. He tossed another handful of scraps toward the bushes, remains of a fat coney plucked from a farmer's enclosure under the cover of dark. The fragile bones cracked like twigs between the wolf's teeth, but even that had a sort of music, and Maglor wound it into his song that night, giving new life to the sounds of battle.

"Come," the now-familiar voice in the dark said to Maglor in his next dream, soft and pleasing, a timbre that made Maglor shiver. It said, "I will show you my own land, and I can give purpose to your talents." Out of the dream-dark, images and sceneries arose, always eastward in the shadow of the mountains. Maglor continued to follow throughout the dream, and the next morning he sought a path inland from the great river. The cries of the gulls faded away into the distance behind him when the wolf's tracks lead up a small footpath that wound up into the mountains. And here the wolf revealed himself for the first time, casually strolling out of the underbrush as though nothing worldly could trouble him.

He stood hip-high and black as the Void itself, with two bright-burning eyes like fiery stars, and strode ahead of Maglor on long legs with paws that barely seemed to touch the ground.

The beginnings of the wolf's land, for now Maglor was certain that what he had heard had been the wolf's voice, were more ruinous than he had expected. The slopes of the mountains were fair enough, with climbing forests and rich in game, but those gave way to bare, black rock, porous and sharp-edged underfoot. The slag fields, dotted sparsely with tufted grass and brambles, shredded the soles of his boots, and cut him painfully, and the rivulet amid the rocks that Maglor found to rest at was no friendlier. The handfuls of water he drank were tepid, bitter with the taste of rotten eggs and dimly remembered fireworks from his youth. It gagged him, and stung his feet when he bathed them.

"Leave it," said the wolf. He stepped closer and nudged Maglor's shoulder. "There is clearer water in my home."

When Maglor looked up, the wolf was no longer a wolf, and his heart began racing. He spoke with the voice from Maglor's dream given reality.

In the wolf's place, with no sign that it would ever have been otherwise, stood a man clad in a shift of black silk - tall, long-limbed and slender, his legs and arms all shapely muscle, with skin fair enough for a hint of blue veins to shine through as though he were caught in some net from the inside, and the same eyes, though now lit a bright grey with the same kindly expression of cunning that Maglor had seen in the wolf-form. The sun behind his head crowned him in flames, with light spilling down his hair like nothing in this world, not even the painful memories of the glory days of the Blessed Realm, or the terrible splendour of Eönwë's wrath when he and his brother had finally taken back what had seemed theirs.

The Maia extended a hand. Maglor lowered his head.

There were so many questions his tongue felt thick and clumsy in his mouth when he sought for something to say; words slipped his mind's grasp and vanished when he tried to prise them out, even if only to proclaim his astonishment.

"Am I being asked to do penance?" he asked at last. The wolf, who was no longer a wolf, laughed softly.

"Have you not yet understood that I am your friend, or will be if you permit it? Any punishment upon you is one you imposed yourself. It has been my task of old to order the world, and it in ordering it to try to end the plight of its children - and that is where I would seek your aid. You have suffered alone for nearly five centuries, Kanafinwë Makalaurë. There is no need for solitude any longer, and I, too, desire companionship. You have been unfailingly kind to me since I found you."

"Self-interest. It was a choice between feeding you and being fed on." Maglor rocked away from the offered hand at last.

His companion laughed again. "So you, too, love being in the world, and do not wish to leave it for the halls of Mandos? I can understand that; for it would deliver you to the mercy of the Valar, and we both know well that they can be pitiless."

Maglor's eyes narrowed. "To speak so --- you must be an Exile as well. With whom lies your allegiance?" Even when Maglor climbed to his feet, the wolf stood a head taller; taller even than Maedhros had stood, Maglor thought. He was no longer certain, and shut the thought away again before it became painful.

The Maia watched him. "No one," he answered eventually, when Maglor had lifted his eyes again. "It lay with Aulë in the days that I dwelt among the Valar, but some among the Ainur always desired greater freedom, to explore the world without the Pelóri - Melyanna whom I know you know of was one such, another was called Síriseldë who now dwells far from here in the willow-vales of the northern lands, and I am another."

"And so was Morgoth," Maglor said, his eyes now close upon the wolf's face. A ripple crossed it, his skin creased in the corners of his lips before it smoothed again, and something tightly controlled slipped into place.

"He is no longer counted among the Ainur. He was cast into the Outer Dark and will not return until the Great End. I fought the same wars that you did, Fëanorion, for I, too, walked in Beleriand. The power that spread from Angband did not pass me by unnoticed. Anybody with a love of the world would have felt it spread. I know that you did."

He seemed to check himself, and suddenly strode ahead, still with the light, feathery movement of his wolfish gait. Makalaurë picked up his bundle and turned the tattered possessions over in his hands. The wolf's behaviour was hard to understand, and the man himself harder still. Even the oldest tales of Cuiviénen warned of the jaws of ordinary wolves - but many had entered into the Enemy's service later, rising to guile, cunning, and a lust for blood. For a Maia of self-proclaimed freedom to take wolf form seemed strange, despite all his claims, and Maglor could not help feeling that much lay hidden below them yet.

A cold, damp feeling coiled in his stomach like a snake; undoubtedly a warning. It would be easy to turn and walk away. He could make his way back to the shore, and continue barking his laments into the ungrateful winds from the west that would throw them back into his face. He was tired already, and whatever fate might await him if he went with the wolf perhaps would at least grant him the chance to rest rather than cling to the meagre impossible hope that his Silmaril might someday resurface. In the worst of cases, would an end at the wolf's hands rather than a slow fading-away into nothingness be preferable?

Yes.

And for all Maglor's misgivings, the Maia at the least seemed to cling to the nobility of his former master in showing him unexpected kindness.

Maglor slung his bundle over his shoulder, and stepped back into his ruined boots. Then he worked the last stretch up the slope, paused upon the crest of the mountain, and looked down into the wolf's land.

Below him lay a vast plain of short grass and stunted trees; away to the south, far beyond the two arms that enclosed the plateau below him, fields and water shimmered - a great lake or inland sea, and Maglor could see movement on its shores, though even with his elven sight he could not make out whether the creatures were people or animals. Closer than that loomed a snow-capped peak, rising singly from the plateau. Great swathes of the land were black and grey, as though burned or covered in a thick layer of ash that would smother all life beneath it. A sudden wild grief seized Maglor, his heart inexplicably pounding ---- Ard-galen reduced to ash swam into sharp focus before his inner eye, Glaurung's trail of ruin through Lothlann ---

A hand, light and warm in touch, came to rest on his shoulder. "You look as though the ghosts of your past caught up with you," the Maia said, not unkindly. "Come, before you faint here on the spot."

"Your lands reminded me of the --- the Sudden Flame."

The Maia seemed unmoved, studying Maglor with inscrutable eyes. "The mountain you can see on the plain ahead is a volcano. It stirs at times and covers the land in ash. I use it as my forge. The folk of the land would call it Orodruin in Sindarin, but it is no danger to any but those fools who settle too close."

"Speaking of names," Maglor said, grasping for another topic, "I have not yet asked your name, while you seem to know much of me."

"I am called Artano." The Maia smiled. His teeth blinked white in between red lips, wolfish and longer than they should be. Maglor suppressed a sudden shudder.

"And as for you, Maglor, your songs and dreams told me all I needed. Few can boast a history like yours these days, and none else could weave it into the words you give it. Even faded and stifled, your music is fairer than that of most - and there is none else with such a mark upon themselves." The Maia unfurled the fingers of Maglor's clenched right hand, where the center of his palm, rough with scars and fresher scabs, bore testimony to the Silmaril's fire.

"It is my family's legacy, the last I have left." Maglor pulled his hand away.

"But my interest in you has nothing to do with your remarkable family. Let me show you what I seek."

Artano's warm fingers grasped Maglor's jaw, tilted his head up and looked him in the eye. "I told you that there was a purpose for you here, and I did not deceive you. Middle-earth could grow fair again if you and I were to unite our talents. We could shape a legacy out of these lands that would turn the tides of time, remove the stench of death upon it, and undo what ruin was wrought in the foolish wars you Children waged."

Maglor held himself still and tense, and willed himself to breathe. The muscles in his jaw clenched; he bit down upon the inside of his cheek and tasted blood, metallic on his tongue.

"Who are you?" he asked. "These are not the words of one who would have the world be the world. Death and grief are woven into its very fabric, and to wish to gainsay it..."

"... is folly?" Artano leaned closer, and his hot breath brushed Maglor's cheek. Closer still, and nothing but a hair's breadth between their lips remained.

"Are you a follower of Nienna, then?" As Artano spoke his lips touched Maglor's, and a hand in his hair held Maglor's head in place. He yanked himself away bodily, but Artano was quick to seize him once more, this time on the back of his neck, and forced him back around with impossible strength.

"Unlearn your follies."

And then Artano kissed him, if kissing it could be called, pressing down his lips ungently, forcing entrance with his tongue, passing over Maglor's wounded cheek, lapping up the blood despite Maglor's despairing struggle to break the hold. Disgust at the unbidden intrusion choked him, and he pushed at Artano's chest, but found him rooted to the spot like something of the earth itself.

Artano withdrew at last, his lips smeared red, and smiling.

"See, I was not lying. The stuff of the world is pliable, and with powers such as yours and mine, it will become wax in our hands. Did I not just heal your hurts?"

It was true, Maglor realized with a sinking feeling. Standing and breathing hard, as he touched the inside of his cheek with his tongue. The bite mark was gone and the taste of blood had vanished, replaced by something not unlike the taste of cool, clear water that rose to his head and left an intoxicating lightness.

He should be running, as far and as fast as his feet would carry him. Instead, he offered the scarred palm of his hand.

"Heal this," he said.

Artano took Maglor's hand in his, running his warm fingers over Maglor's digits and the ruined tissue. Maglor held very still, and bit back the impulse to cry out at the touch. The scar hurt only rarely these days, but Artano's touch had kindled it to new flame. The Maia seemed not to notice, or not to care.

"Your mother named you well - the fingers that could cleave in twain not the sound of harping, but make it so golden that it would break hearts. I would hear you play for me one day."

"I have no harp," Maglor snapped through the pain. "It shattered many years ago, and my hand --- playing became difficult. I took to singing, and only that."

"You shall soon play again. I will see to it."

With those words, Artano closed his eyes and lifted Maglor's hand to his mouth. Much gentler than before, with more deliberation, he passed his lips over it, but at this more intimate touch, the pain flared up as though Maglor had clenched his fingers around the Silmaril a second time. The heady feeling vanished in a flash of clarity, a burst of sun through shadowing clouds.

Terror clenched Maglor's gut. He tore his hand away, nails scratching over the Maia's cheek, making him clutch his face and stumble forward, lunging. His eyes flared, wreathed in fire, and they dug into Maglor's for just a moment.

"I know you! I know you for who you are!" Maglor cried, stumbling among the rocks to evade his would-be captor. "I should have seen earlier --- Gorthaur the Cruel, Lord of Werewolves, Thauron, Sauron the lieutenant of Morgoth!"

Some spell upon him broke, as though naming those names revealed the Maia before him with all fair glamour stripped away, his face a hideous grimace, flush with wrath, and Maglor could not, in retrospect recall if that had evoked the burst of power from his lips, a word of Command, "STAY!" that let the Maia pause, but it was surprise rather than real effect. "Findaráto," thought Maglor, "Findaráto, give me strength, for now we share a fate," and then he began to sing.

He had studied decades to master Songs of Power, gone sleepless until he had thought himself half-mad to unlock their understanding, and had learned the art of shifting shapes together with his cousin - but those had been carefully crafted works of art, idle fancies that might belong to the performances of Tirion, deceptions to please the eyes and smooth the gaps between truth and reality --- they would not, never suffice here. Not even the battle-songs he had devised to uplift the hearts of men and wake terror in the enemy would be enough to save him now. Not against Sauron.

Fear gave his song wings, but terror made his words falter, his tongue knot, and he sang wordlessly instead as he had been taught, reaching within himself - his teacher had long ago sung down the stars, she had --- light. The day was failing. He needed light and sang it up, bright enough to blind, the figure before him dimming into shadow, a silhouette tall and crowned and terrible, reaching out a hand --- he ducked away, and his tongue was loosed.

"Varda, Manwë, heed my plight, I have need of you!"

Nothing.

The stars burst, the shadow crested like waves above his head, blood running red from all the wars, the just and unjust, the oath broken, the curse upheld by the pitiless Valar. He faltered. Images hurtled outward, all ripped from his chest and cast over him like a net, all his sins made form to drown him, and through them red-lit eyes stabbing at the vestiges of his mind. With a last effort he drew his thoughts into himself, drew his mind shut.

Sauron's hand seized him, and cast him away. Reeling, Maglor fell onto the rocks, and ashes gusted up around him like a shroud. His head clashed onto the ground, and clinging barely to a dizzy, spinning, weakening consciousness, he felt himself lifted up, and the wolf's, the Maia's, Sauron's song wreathe like chains and shackles around his limbs.

Then it ended, and darkness took him.

* * *

He dreamt, or thought he dreamt, of his brothers, all six assembled as shadows in a great, dark hall where many other shadows moved. Tapestries adorned the walls.

"We called you here because he called upon us," said a voice. The darkness deepened when she spoke, but there was the far glitter of stars.

"It is as we long feared," answered another, low and grieved, but beautiful. She was weeping, thick with tears. "Makalaurë is lost, but we expected nothing so terrible. I mourn that he has fallen prey to evil."

"And who is to blame for that?" one of his brothers asked, a smaller voice, like a child's in comparison to the others - snide, belligerent, laced with anger, knowing well that words could hold great power, though he had never unlocked them in song. Curufin.

"None but the Deceiver," said the weeping voice.

"He is your kind, as Morgoth was --- and yet you keep us here, fettered without body, as Sauron would keep our brother's body fettered, and you call it just!"

"Curvo, peace," said another of his brothers. We are guests in these halls; hold yourself lucky that you can speak as you do! You do not know what it is like to lie captive in the Enemy's power. I do."

"You take their side! Well then, I shall reject the Valar and what you would call hospitality, Maitimo! Our brother lies captive; what else would you have me do but wish to aid him? For all that passed between us, blood is not so easily forgotten, and there will be no Findekáno to go forth in our stead. Let me go free and I will seek him!"

Another voice arose like a rush of wind. The tapestries stirred, and the shadows dispersed. "Your wish is granted, Curufinwë Atarinkë. You may reconsider your words when all is done, but there is nothing more to learn here for you, and there is no healing for your spirit within these walls as you refuse to permit it. For your lack of faith I cast you forth to try to earn redemption if you can! Expect no friendship on your road, Son of Fëanáro, and no lack of bitterness from those you meet that know your name and tale. Seek your brother if you will, but do not expect victory. If you achieve it after all, then you will find it dearly bought, though the cost is not mine to set, for Námo has not spoken of what shall Be."

* * *

A hard edge tipped against his lips. Cool, sweet water trickled into his parched mouth and washed down the taste of ashes. Maglor drank gratefully and without opening his eyes - his body pulled at him like a painful, leaden weight - his throat rough, his head filled with a dull, throbbing ache, his arms numb from the heavy bonds that forced them above his head. The ground beneath him was soft, springy, comfortable, and rather than awake again to whatever reality held in store, Maglor tried to let himself fall once more.

The cup was withdrawn. A warm hand caressed his cheek, and then slapped him hard, a sudden stinging blow across the face. Any thought of sleep vanished, and he cracked his eyes open to find himself staring at his captor, seated on the side of the bed.

"Finally," Sauron said in a tight-lipped tone that brooked no argument. "You have been resting enough to recover from the blow I dealt you, but then it was your own fault. You left me no choice."

His voice grew softer, grew remorseful. Maglor's eyes narrowed, and he relished in the angry energy that began coursing through him. His mind sharpened, as though emerging out of a fog, and he began to look around finding a bright, circular room. The large window that allowed the light in showed nothing but the sky.

Sauron continued: "I regret it had to come to our duel - all that could have been avoided if you had been cooperative from the beginning. I spoke to you of healing, and when you would not heed me, I had to show you what darkness you hold within you. Do you believe me now?"

"I needed no showing," Maglor spat. "I have been living with it, I am the one who has been singing of all that I saw and lived through, and holding me in fetters now - is that the healing you proposed? Or is this the price I have to pay?"

Sauron rose and began pacing the space before the bed.

"It is not without price, but it was none that you seemed unwilling to render when I first proposed it. My objective is indeed to heal and improve the world. You lived among mortals for a while during your wanderings, and as one who has known Tirion of old, who walked in the glory of the Blessed Realm, how can you justify letting these people dwell in poverty and squalor?"

"They lived well enough!"

"They came to me, still come to me, crying to aid them - the short life of men, a sick child, droughts, flood, diseases, and a myriad other ills. I aid them where I can, and you, too, could help them. Songs of Power may effect many more things than you know, and I will gladly share my knowledge, should you decide to help me. And did I not truly relieve you of one of your hurts? Against the scarring left by the Silmaril not even my power avails, and I see now how that proved my downfall as much as it spelled Carcharoth's. But the Silmaril has nothing to do with the life of the people."

Maglor was silent. The words ran convincing and sweet like honey, but he could not forget - the intrusions that Sauron had forced upon him, nor the shackles that - though they fitted his wrists comfortably - held him captive even now. He recalled well enough the conversations he and Maedhros had witnessed when they crossed the camp of Eönwe under cover of dark; everyone had been abuzz that night - though Morgoth lay captive and Sauron - Mairon - was believed to have the potential for recovery after he had been freed of his servitude, he had escaped his judgement, and though Beleriand was broken, he had hidden himself away and could not be found again.

Maglor said, "And why should I believe you, who skulked in his master's darkess when he should have faced his punishment with honour?"

Sauron stopped pacing. Two long strides brought him to Maglor's side and once more his hand cracked, knuckles stinging, across Maglor's face.

"You, Son of Fëanor, dare chastise me for eluding punishment that would have rendered me passive? You yourself escaped from returning to Valinor. A golden land it may be, but the prison bars that fence it remain, and the jailors guard it jealously - and without pity for the ones that live without it. I do not grudge them their part of the world, but I would see the rest of the lands freed from thralldom - the Elves from their sorrow, the Dwarves, which I hold as brothers, from their futile labours - for do you not remember how it was in Valinor, how easily your craft of music was realized in near-perfection without great effort - and the many plights of the mortals. To claim otherwise would be folly; did I not ask you to unlearn yours?"

"My follies are mine to keep."

Sauron's voice turned imploring."You cannot be a part of this world, and yet not. And I need you, Maglor. I cannot reveal my true power. Five hundred years mean little to the Valar. I cannot fathom whether or not they seek me still, and I hesitate showing my own powers too openly. But your singing - lend me your skill and we can do great good in this world."

"And if I will not, do you intend to let me go free?"

"It would grieve me, to see you fall back into sorrow, and to lose you."

"Speak plainly!" Maglor yanked his hands. His chains rattled against the wall and the steel rings that secured them. The edge of the shackles bit into his wrists.

"I will not lose you! Not even if you prove heartless to my pleas. I have other ways to make you see!" For a moment, in the wide-eyed despair on Sauron's handsome face, the brows knit and nostrils flaring, blood rushing to his cheeks, Maglor could almost believe it genuine - misguided, but genuine - until the impression vanished like the sun behind a cloud, and Sauron forced himself on him.

It was another kiss, as invasive and brutal as the first had been. Maglor struggled, but half-suspended as he was, getting any leverage to throw Sauron from him was impossible, and bucking his hips against the other man availed nothing but the sickening realization that Sauron was growing swiftly aroused by the struggle. But Maglor's distressed sounds, strangely, gave the Maia pause, and though he remained kneeling above Maglor, he ceased his assault and withdrew from the kiss. Maglor, struggling to breathe rather than gag, glared at him.

"I am still not seeking to hurt you, believe me or do not." He laid a hand on Maglor's cheek to hold his head in place, and leaned forward. Maglor, in expectation of another attempt, tensed further, but Sauron merely brushed his lips over his forehead and to his ear, almost gently now, and whispered,

"I would rather have you while you are willing. Not only will that be more pleasurable, I would also hate to have to shackle you to your life as Melkor did with Maedhros. He never suffered such mistreatment, and the causes for his bespelled shackle differed greatly, but I know well enough how the elvish body reacts after it has been abused at odds with its desires - I have seen it done often enough, and I have seen them all flee to safety if they could, even if that meant forsaking the despoiled body. It is a great ill - and building a bond between us so you can see that I mean no evil - having that so tainted would likewise be evil. It is as before, I could avoid this if you but yielded ---"

Maglor jerked back and spat in his face.

"I have no desire to yield to you, and gainsaying that makes you no less evil if you have me anyway --- "

Sauron's face rippled - and as before, when Maglor had unmasked his identity, something fair swiftly slipped back into the place of the snarl. He seized the cup from the table beside the bed. It had been empty a moment ago, but now brimmed with more liquid. Maglor knew better than to hope that it was water again; and he began tossing his head from side to side - only to be immobilized when Sauron's hand seized his jaw and held on with a vice-like grip, forcing his mouth open while keeping his fingers well clear of Maglor's teeth.

Then Sauron upended the cup and though in coughing and choking to spit it out, Maglor spilled much of the drink, he was forced to swallow eventually. It tasted like water, but ran down his throat hot and stinging until the heat pooled in his stomach. Almost immediately, it began to radiate outward, into his blood, and even the friction of his clothing, Sauron's weight, the fingers stroking feather-light over his throat to ease it down became too much to bear, while the effect on his mind was much gentler, a fog slowly rising, sitting luminous while the darkness grew and eclipsed all else but the desire, and his mind opened to Sauron's touch as surely as his body did.

Sauron himself took a deep draught from the cup before putting it aside.

Maglor smiled --- and to his delight found that the expression was mirrored in Sauron's face. He was fair, even for one of the Maiar, full lips, a nose that was prominent and aquiline, bright grey eyes that burned above high cheekbones. Nothing about his face was ordinary, and again Maglor sought to yank his hand free. Sauron, perhaps sensing his desire, nodded once and one of the shackles sprang open. Maglor sought Sauron's face, tracing the features, fingers curious, before they tightened in Sauron's hair and pulled him down for another kiss.

This was wholly different than the ones that had preceded it; and somewhere, dimly, Maglor wondered why he had ever objected to something so simple, enjoyable, lips warm and locked - he had done it with others, before sometime, but none of them matched this. Maglor's hand strayed from Sauron's hair when he was certain that Sauron would not withdraw, until they both broke apart only to gulp down air hastily before kissing again. The clasps of Sauron's robe sprang open beneath his fingers, revealing in swift succession more and more skin until they hung open like a blanket around his shoulders, and Sauron withdrew to shrug them off, and return to him naked, his skin so heated that Maglor could feel it even through his clothes, pulled him into another kiss and began to undress him, fingers that burned tingling trails over Maglor's already heated skin, until only his shirt hung by the shackled arm and Maglor strained to meet the other body.

Sauron in his eagerness was not gentle, seizing Maglor by the throat to flip him onto his back, his lips and teeth on his chest, clamping down on Maglor's nipples until he cried out and could not tell whether he was in a frenzy to get away or seek more, his face still fair but now intense and terrible in his eagerness. Sauron forced his fingers into Maglor's mouth and Maglor began to suck them, wrap his tongue around the digits, slick them until Sauron began to probe Maglor's body for his readiness, only briefly, enough to tease and hurt, before he grunted in satisfaction, shifting up against the head of the bed and pulling Maglor with him until their positions were reversed, and Maglor, facing him, knelt above his lap, rubbing and rocking himself against Sauron's cock, when Sauron's hands grasped his hips and positioned him, holding him in place the mere second it took to make him squirm.

"I would see how you would take your pleasure," Sauron said. "You are no stranger to men, it seems ---" and his words ended when Maglor lowered himself and began to move, first slowly and with gritted teeth, then faster until Sauron grasped his hips a second time, held Maglor down against his struggles, and began to thrust into his body unhindered. Jolts of pleasure stabbed at his core until the pressure within him crested and burst, he came, and sagged forward bonelessly into Sauron's hold to find the Maia's arms encircling him while Sauron himself threw his head back, his white neck exposed, working frantically until he himself climaxed with swift spurts into Maglor's body.

There was a light, feathery touch upon Maglor's mind that same moment, and he opened gladly. It took only that for something knit into place, some overwhelming and terrible force. Maglor cried out, and felt himself held until the sensation abated.

They rested together, blankets wrapped around their bodies haphazardly, and Maglor felt the fog lift gradually from his mind. Nonetheless he remained where he was, for the moment unwilling and too exhausted to move, feeling the heavy pull of sleep on a curiously calm mind.

He dreamt of a ship, white and swiftly speeding into a faraway sunrise, and he stood upon the shore watching it - but then loathing seized him, and he turned to run, convinced all of a sudden that whoever approached would mean him harm, tear him from a place he had just found, that he must be avoided at all costs --- and woke when he felt a touch upon him, something calling him to wake, to look into Sauron's face, his grey eyes awake and alert upon him. Maglor stretched - and only then took note that he was no longer chained, not even by one arm.

Outside, the time had grown onward toward dusk, and the tower room had been thrown into dimness. Sauron's skin shimmered with a soft, unearthly radiance in the low light, and Maglor reached out a hand to trace the muscles rippling over his stomach, laughing softly when his skin twitched.

"And what will this be when you are done?" Sauron asked. There was a distinct low smile in his voice.

"I --- cannot say," Maglor said, faltering. "Although I think I understand you better now," and when he said those words he knew them to be true. Sauron had been earnest in his claims, had been earnest in proclaiming that he meant well, had been earnest in his grief for the force he had been made to exert to effect this end. He had wisdom, knowledge, skill and age beyond the words Maglor possesssed and which not even sage Rúmil would be able to match. Feeling the Maia's kindness wash over him, Maglor's cheeks heated, and his hand dropped to his side.

"I have wronged you."

"I have wronged you, my lord," Sauron corrected, gently, and Maglor repeated it without hesitation, continuing, "I have wronged you dearly, my lord, like a recalcitrant child that fails to understand that its parents mean no harm in the strictures placed upon it, but seek indeed the best for it. My lord, I would atone if you allow it, rather than stand indebted to you."

"You owe me your allegiance, and as long as it is unfailing, I shall hold your debt forgiven."

"I wish for nothing more," he said, "except that, and to aid you to heal the hurts that are upon the world and myself. I would forget them."

"It will be done. It is no swift process, nor an easy one, but it will be done. Now rise. We will wash, and you will eat - you have gone with poor fare for far too long, and I am not keen on hurting myself upon your bones again the next time I will have you."

* * *

Sauron kept his word, and made good upon his promises. The hurts on Maglor's body, except his hand only, were healed and ceased to hurt him, and the worries on his mind began to vanish, a few at a time, when he least expected it - a weight that lifted suddenly and was gone, at a touch of his lord's hand. He was given clothes similar to Sauron's, black and finely made, though less lavish and ornate, and the tower room was granted him as his own, though he was permitted to move about the keep at his leisure. He explored the fortress wholly, excepting only locked chambers. He could have easily sung them open, he believed, because no spell barred the locks, but despite the curiosity that burned within him, he was determined to prove himself worthy of Sauron's trust, and knew without putting any effort to it, when the Maia's mind dwelled upon him, watching like a great eye, often steering his thoughts or guiding him from afar, or when it was occupied with other matters.

Often, at such times, Maglor came to him, to find Sauron deep in some brooding thought, roused only by the bold touches of Maglor's lips when he knelt to service Sauron, and sometimes not even then, though more often than not he would find Sauron's hand in his hair absently pushing and pulling as he would have it, often thrusting so deep that Maglor gagged around Sauron's cock and his lord spilled down his throat, heeding his own pleasure only so it left Maglor hard and wanting, and stealing his own release in privacy. At other times, when Sauron's designs went astray through some odd chance, he often came to Maglor in a black mood and used him to relieve his anger. Maglor bore it without complaint, and though it left him sore and hurting, often with weals and welts across his back, bleeding scratches or the marks of harsh flogging that he was certain he deserved. Sauron's healing touches always followed.

And at times he was granted use of the great harp that Sauron kept in his room. Fashioned from bleached bone and ebony wood, the instrument was striking like none that Maglor had ever seen, and he relished in playing it, losing himself in the mournful music that poured forth, for it seemed incapable of any other sound --- sometimes it made Maglor recall, dimly, that he had once made mournful music of his own, but those memories had nearly forsaken him; the reasons had vanished, and so had the history that had spurred them. Had he not come from Aman and then wandered lost until Sauron had taken heart upon him?

He was made to play until the skin on his fingers tore and bled, and he added more stains to the ones already flecking the metal strings. He did not ask where they had come from, dry and so encrusted that they almost seemed to be a part of the instrument.

"They are your own," said Sauron, smiling, when Maglor asked. "You fail to realize how long you have been here, and there is no need for you to know. You are serving me well enough. I am content."

Other days offered no such occasions, for Sauron would hold court often, and Maglor stood for hours beside his high chair while the people - humans all - poured into the tower's audience hall seeking aid. Many answers were easily given - this improvement or that for their life, the makings of agriculture, water management, the breeding of animals, medicines and knowledge about the body that the people lapped up as though it were honey. There was more profound knowledge, too, given behind closed doors to the leaders (or those that would be leaders) that Sauron found worthy of his cause - the fashion of cunning weapons and poisons, the direction of minds, tactics not merely of rhetorics and convictions.

To those few who displayed the aptitude for it, perhaps descendants of some long-lost Avari who had chosen to mingle with mortals, Maglor taught to sing, the casting of glamours, even to shift their shapes. A man seeking the power to combat the goblins of the mountains that threatened him he taught of the nature of bears, and how he could make a bear-skin his own and pass that skill to his descendants. One of the Variags from the East he gave the songs to topple enemy chariots. There was a woman from Far Harad with rent clothes and turquoise beads in her black hair who cradled a dead girlchild; she had died upon the road when they had been travelling from afar to find healing for some sickness. Sauron took the child, and her kin comforted the weeping mother, bidding her wait.

Away from the eyes of all but Maglor's, Sauron put forth his power, while he had Maglor sing for him - this melody to change the girl's aspect, the sunken eyes, the blood that had pooled in great bruises in her skin, to leech the deathly pallour from her, and Maglor diligently applied his talents, seeking to please his lord and wishing to aid the weeping woman. With Sauron's guidance, he sang breath back into the girl's lungs, and willed her blood to flow again, though the touch of dead flesh, even by song, made him recoil in terror of the deed that he had wrought.

They returned the girl to her mother, lively and alert. A final glamour masked the terrible emptiness in the girl's eyes.

"It is all that we can to do help," Sauron said to Maglor, sorrowfully, when he refused to carry the girl, or even touch her skin. "Even I have limits, and you, more so." Revulsion settled firmly within Maglor somewhere, though he dared not speak of it. He suspected Sauron knew, for how could he not, bound as they were? But he willed it down as he would force down some bitter medicine, and drew veils of darkness around it.

But whether Sauron knew or not, that evening he summoned Maglor. "I am minded to reward you for your service today. Your deeds have been exceptional, and I could hope for no better help than the one I have, nor for anybody more willing. After this, there is little more that I can teach you."

The words burned like a heady cordial within him, and Sauron offered himself as a reward that night. He let Maglor take him, long legs splayed, surrendering himself wholly to Maglor's ministrations, to the lips upon his skin, to the thrusts into him until they both lay spent, and then again after a short rest, and a third time until Sauron laughed and scolded him for his insatiable nature. "You are not seeking to supplant me, are you?"

"I would never, my lord." They laughed, and Sauron kissed him, but the idea settled with the revulsion from that afternoon, and watching Sauron doze, later, trapped in a hröa incarnate and subject to all the same weaknesses, unsuspecting, Maglor wondered, for the first time, if supplanting him were possible at all. Not that he would seek to. He was content.

Maglor dreamt of a shipwreck that night. Something told him that the ship he saw ought to be burning, rather than lie on hidden rocks in the shallows of some unknown beach with a shattered hull, broken mast, and footsteps from the shore leading inward decisively.

* * *

At times Sauron departed with the people to see to some matter beyond the ones that he could solve from his fortress. Maglor relished in being left to his own designs, walking among the people that continued to flock to the fortress for audience and speaking with them, rather than at them. Some of the people knew him, it seemed, from before.

"It is you!" an old woman cried and grasped for him with knobbled fingers. "I knew you when I was a child, you lived among us for a while -- I never forgot your tales and songs! We called you Ar Gwelan, the Seagull! That you should be here now!" She sank to her knees and kissed the hem of his robe.

Maglor could not remember her, nor ever living among them, but when he knelt and spoke to her, it was not in the common speech of the Westlands but in her own tongue, and effortlessly. "My harp shattered long ago," he said, "I have a new purpose now, not to mourn by the shores, but to let my songs become deeds," and then he fled from the hall because memories rushed at him that he could not place, leaving those that waited there for his aid. He fled to his room and for a moment stood, merely breathing, to try and quiet the turmoil on his mind.

The door to his chambers swung open behind him, and Maglor whirled around, ready to fling himself at the intruder, expecting it to be his lord returning, though his mind remained strangely absent and otherwise occupied - there were wars far in the East, beyond the plains and deserts of Rhûn, petty kingdoms that Sauron sought to unite to one before the fires of their anger spread west and threatened the peace that they had built.

He paused, and looked at the figure that had followed him, and found his heart clenching unexpectedly when the man threw back the hood that had shadowed his face.

Maglor knew him.

He could not say whence, but he knew him, and the sudden horror on the man's face gave him pause.

"You have changed," the man said. Bright grey eyes, not unlike Sauron's, holding the same cunning and determination, studied him. "And you have not changed for the better. Have you looked at yourself recently?"

Though spoken in a low voice, the words stung with scathing anger, loathing even, and plain disgusted horror.

"Makalaurë, do you remember me at all?"

Still he could only stare.

"It seems not."

"I... know that I do know you. But I do not remember. There were pains that I surrendered to my lord, the lord of this land, so that I might be healed of the hurts and griefs they brought me," he said. "But I bear you no ill will for it whatever lay between us."

The man began pacing, and once more Maglor found himself reminded of Sauron, the first time they had been in this room. "Is this a test? Is my lord testing me?" he ventured. The likenesses seemed too strange to be mere coincidence.

"No, this is no test, other than a test on your memory. My name is Curufinwë Atarinkë, and I am your brother. I was sent by the Lords of the West to relieve you of your slavery, but I am not surprised they failed to inform me of your condition. And I took too long to find you. And I tarried too long to move, knowing I would have to combat a Maia, with the chance of losing being high."

And now the bitter loathing in his voice turned inward. "I should have found you sooner before any of this came to pass!"

Maglor remained standing, his thoughts struggling to make sense of the words, while the other man continued pacing, now approaching. He laid a hand on Maglor's shoulder, and Maglor nearly nearly jumped. The touch was warm, and comfortable, though the fingers gripped him tight.

"You are nothing more than skin and bones, I can feel that through your clothing."

"I am being provided for well. I lack nothing."

"Except freedom, free will, and a mind that is not muddled by evil craft!" The man's voice rose, and if Maglor had entertained any idea that this was his lord in a different shape, it vanished immediately at those words.

"No, I am here of my free will!" Maglor's voice, too, lifted, and reached out as though to strike him. "You are not my brother, and I will --"

"STOP! If you do not believe me, very well, and I will not trouble you again, in exchange for a story."

Astonishment gave Maglor pause. "A story? I am a minstrel; there are many that I could tell. Why would you seek one? You do not have the looks of a lover of words, or not of words wrought in this way."

"No," and now a sly smile played around the mouth, near a smirk. "I am not asking one of you. Rather, I would share one that you may find interesting, to add to your own collection. It may prove valuable to you yet."

Maglor considered this, and gestured to the chairs by the window, where he often sat to simply look out, or where Sauron would have him sometimes, in sight of all that might move below to stake his claim.

The man took a seat and began to speak swiftly and surely, with certainty and knowledge and an air of both the commonplace and the strangely unusual, even the horrid, swords lifted against kin, and often, it seemed to Maglor, that the words rang true, burrowed into his mind, and took root - or found root in the dark, banished corners --- and flowered.

"... and I slew Uldor for his treason," Maglor said. "And after we wandered scattered as leaves before the wind. And that star above --- is one of Father's Silmarils, guarded, they say, by Eärendil in his ship upon the sky." Maglor pointed to the window, where above the gathering dusk, the stars were rising.

He closed his eyes and leaned into his brother's hold as the memories, more and more, resurfaced. They spoke far into the night.

"What should we do?" asked Curufin, at last. Maglor drew back after a while wrapped in the comforting darkness of his mind. It no longer seemed empty, nor for the moment to harbour Sauron's voice to offer him consolation, only the bond... the bridge, the connection between him and Sauron remained. Maglor could feel him stirring restlessly in his dreams, seeking for the source of the new disquiet, a change that he must have undoubtedly noticed.

"I do not know," Maglor said. "I am not --- I am not free. Curvo, he ---"

"He tortured you," Curufin snapped. "You let him torture you. Do you not see all his marks upon you?" He was tight-lipped, and white with horror. "You are starved. Your fingers --- they are not scars I have ever seen, nor are they the Silmaril's touch; what happened? Did he cut them?" Curufin touched his neck. "And he choked you." He traced his hand back up Maglor's neck, where, a while ago, a stray lash of Sauron's flogging had fallen and curled. "He whipped you, and I am certain there is more I cannot see, nor care to."

"But ---" Maglor evaded his brother's touch, shuddering. "How can you see all this? He promised me healing of my hurts, and until now --- I never saw them. Nor did they pain me. I was content here until you came, I was needed --- WHY DID YOU COME HERE?"

Then he wept.

"If you prefer ignorance - I will leave you to your design." Curufin stepped back, withdrew from Maglor's blind, clutching hold. "But to me it seems as though whatever fetters he placed upon you were incomplete, for you to recognize what lies behind them - now at least."

"You ought not speak to me!" Maglor choked forth. "You should be running, as far from this land as you can. I will remain here - perhaps that will placate him enough. Perhaps he will allow me to settle into his designs again and let you go unpursued."

"And you think you have grown to love your captor. It is not so. It is not love, Makalaurë. He has you bespelled. I should take you and run."

"And risk your life by taking me. I am Artano's, I am not free to go where I please, and I am certain he will destroy both of us rather than let me escape with you. He would find us anywhere!" Maglor hurtled to his feet in wide-eyed terror. "He is coming --- he, he must have heard, felt - he knows you are here."

"Then it works both ways - whatever bond is upon you, it is not simply from his mind to yours, it is reciprocal," Curufin said. "Shut your mind to him and let us prepare!"

"No. If anybody is to defeat him, then it must be me, or I feel I will never be free of him!"

Curufin said nothing, but he looked on darkly, and Maglor found it easy to guess the thoughts behind his eyes, "If you will be ever be free of him, as much as he has tainted you, but we must attempt it."

Sauron came on like a thundercloud on the swift wind from the East, a growing darkness, a pressure and weight fraught with anger on Maglor's mind, until he thought his knees would buckle underneath the wrath that Sauron bent upon him.

The earth growled and rolled, and from his window, Maglor could see a sudden, great plume rise from the summit of Orodruin - only smoke yet, no fire: Sauron had not yet arrived, but even with his physical presence absentt Maglor could hear his voice, great and booming and terrible, on his mind, now interested only in retribution, revenge, destruction.

Gone was the perceived kindness. Gone were the glamours on Maglor's mind that held his pains in check. He reeled and staggered, and fell to his knees onto the cold stone floor, with Curufin pulling on his clothes to make him rise, and still Sauron kept approaching. Out of the East, the darkness grew.

But more than that, what kept Maglor prone on his knees was the crushing sense of betrayal and a wild howl in his mind born from broken trust: "All I have given you is true, and you, fool, you betrayed me and squandered my effort. You, with your talents, could have been among the great upon Arda. Now its spring shall never return, and the blame lies upon you alone! Think of what you could have wrought, think of the glory that we could have gained together!"

Maglor clutched his head. The howling was rising into a shrill, infernal, wordless noise, a whirl of chaos and dark, and then, with the door slamming open, Sauron strode into the tower room.

Gone was the fair aspect, gone were the noble face and well-wrought body, gone were the grey-lit eyes. The creature was not wholly man, nor wholly wolf, lich-pale beneath bristles of dark fur, with eyes of flame, claws on hands and feet that clicked over the stone floor as it came.

Maglor wondered, briefly, if this was what Finrod had faced in his final hour, what Lúthien had battled, the shape of one of Sauron's abominations that Sauron wore as Beren had worn Draugluin's fell, and if he were to fall the same way, rent apart by the creature's jaws, if he could defeat it --- somewhere in the room, Curvo screamed as the beast turned its ruinous intent on him, first to destroy the one who had wrested Maglor from the unquestioning hold of Sauron's spell.

And that was all it took. Fighting for breath, Maglor climbed to his feet, his eyes upon the creature, seeking within him, though his mind recoiled from the bond, suddenly understanding that this, the Lord of Werewolves, had always been a part of the union that had been forced upon him, that he could read its secrets, for in the black wrath there was nothing, nothing, upon its mind but desctruction, all its secrets lay for the taking, the vast fortress of Sauron's guarded knowledge gaped open to him, the secrets to the shape that he had taken, the spells that knit his spirit to that hideous form, the spells that had kept Maglor docile and adoring, ignorant of his hurts, a slave that upheld the soiled, unlawful bond that had been forced upon him when Sauron had tricked his mind into opening and forged them upon his body, and deepened them when he entered into the enemy's teachings, sucking up the knowledge as a starving man would.

He knew them all. He knew the bond was soiled. There had been no Naming of the Name, there had been no Blessings, no goodwill, only the desire to dominate, and the one to yield, itself forced, and the frenzied coupling that had caused it.

Maglor climbed back to his feet. He could break it.

He could break it, even if it meant to break parts of himself, to rid himself of all the touches upon him, mind, spirit, heart and body. He would do the same upon Sauron.

The room vanished before his eyes as he began to sing; his brother's desperate attempts to stave off the beast that had forced him into a corner, bleeding from the slashes of Curufin's dagger across its snout, black blood that withered the blade. Maglor sang, through the sharp, tearing pain rising through him. The bonds snapped, hanging only by threads now.

Sauron's mind returned to him, the counter-song ready on his lips, a ghastly, monotonous howl that strove with his music and shook the foundations of the keep, reminding him of bodily pleasures, wisdom, greatness, Arda as a vast green garden freely yielding milk and honey to the people upon it, healed of hurts and fairer than Aman, if Maglor but surrendered, if he but unlearned his follies ---

--- and then it ceased. A stabbing pain had Maglor clutch his chest and he fell forward; the world spun to a stop. The room returned to sharp focus, the monstrous shape sprawled upon the floor, Curufin's dagger, buried to the hilt in the creature's chest where its heart must be, the great paws flexing in its last impulse, and then it was still.

Maglor tore the last few, thin, remaining threads, and then let the darkness swallow him whole.

* * *

He could not say when he emerged from it again, cradled against a broad chest with warm arms around him, and the sense of a swift body beneath them both, a horse - stretched in full gallop, the ground beneath it flying by.

"Is he dead?" Maglor asked, but even as he asked he knew that the question was futile. For all his bodily shapes, for all the setbacks his incarnate form could suffer, Sauron was a Maia.

"No," said Curufin, and spurred the horse forward. "But weakened. We may outrun him."

They moved northward at a quick pace, first along the coast and then cutting inland; Curufin told him as much in rare moments of waking. Maglor barely remembered the journey, or how long it took, or where they took shelter, only that one day there was the clamour of voices about them, and faces swam past his eyes, a day that saw him clinging, barely, to wakefulness - some known, many strange, and many of them peering at him in concern.

"Are we safe?" he asked. His lips and tongue felt numb and slurred the words.

One of the people answered, "He turned from pursuing you, and fled, we think, to hide and nurse his wounds. He will no longer trouble you, nor this world, for many a long Age, and if he returns to try and wreck more ruin, then we are warned. Although your brother has asked to leave both of you out of the histories and record only the event of Sauron's rising to not besmirch your memory yet more, you have wrought a great deed and many are grateful to you."

Maglor smiled, and let himself fall again.

The next time he woke lying in a bed of grass, and beside him was not Curufin, but a golden-haired elf, his head pillowed on his arms and sleeping. Maglor reached out to touch the fair hair that spilled free of his braids, curiously running the strands through his fingers, and the warm feeling of familiarity that bloomed within him was something he took back into his sleep - some past memory that was also resurfacing, and a name that came with it.

"Gildor?" Maglor said softly, the next time he woke.

"You are remembering?" Gildor replied. He sounded relieved, but his eyes were full of tears and he seemed irrevocably sorrowful. "Your brother found my Wandering Company several days ago - and you walked with us as though in a stupor, I doubt you were even within the waking world. When you slept, you suffered nightmares." His fingers strayed toward Maglor, and he jerked back.

"I am sorry," Maglor said, staring at his clenched hands. "If Curufin told you of my ordeal, then you will know that --- I cannot tolerate touch for the moment."

"I do not know much. You were ill-treated, that much he ventured, unnecessarily, for that is plain to see. Do not trouble your mind with regret - if you could help your actions, I know you would."

Maglor nodded, uncertain what to say. "Where are you taking me?" he asked instead.

"To Mithlond, the seat of Gil-galad in Lindon that used to be Ossiriand. Do you recall who Elrond is?"

"My son." It came as a matter-of-fact statement, and he failed to understand why Elrond, for all their past bonds would tend to him. They had been broken long ago. "But my brother is the one who looks after me."

"Yes - but Curufin is no healer, and many of my people - some of them hail from Nargothrond, others from Doriath - are uneasy around him. They do not love you either, but you at the least pose no threat - but you cannot, neither of you, stay with us. Elrond became the King's herald, but more than that he is a healer of some renown, and will hopefully able to tend what ails you. If he cannot, he will provide you with a ship. There will be healing beyond the sea even if there is none upon this shore. Would that I could come with you, but as of yet my place is here."

Maglor said nothing in reply. Cold dread settled within him - he remembered Elrond's disappointment well, when he was made to take leave from him and Maedhros, and with his brother went to live in Gil-galad's kingdom. He did not want to face Elrond, and instead of speaking further with Gildor, Maglor sought refuge within himself, for how long he could not say.

Mithlond was a hazy memory only. The last he recalled was Elrond's grave face, looking far older and more stricken than he shouldand the swiftly diminishing buildings of Lindon down a long gulf before the ship passed out into the open sea. The further they passed from the land, the lighter Maglor's mind became, and the fog of fear and grief began to lift, driven away little by little, by the sea wind. He slept often, and sometimes woke himself screaming - a wolf's grimace glared at him from his memories, a great eye moved through the shadows of his dreams seeking, seeking, but no longer finding. Sometimes he dreamt of that first time Sauron had had him, his body rigid and his face burning, but all these things, too, faded, under the creaking of the sails and the splash of water upon the hull.

"I think you will heal," Curufin said one day, when they were far out in the open sea, and the water stretched in a glassy, deep blue around them, glinting under the sunlight.

"Yes," Maglor said. He rose and walked to the prow. Still far ahead, a strip of white beach and above it a long range of mountains beckoned, and for the first time since the escape from Sauron's keep, though the hurts remained, and would remain for a long time yet, he lifted his voice in hesitant song.

---

Chapter End Notes

Sauron's wolf shapes are directly derived from his association with wolves in the Silmarillion, though an ordinary wolf did not seem sufficient for the final duel, so I decided to up the ante a little (lot). As for his characterization - Tolkien was careful to point out that Sauron was not wholly evil after being freed of Morgoth's hold, though he did escape Eönwë's judgement in the War of Wrath until around the year 500 of the Second Age when he began to convert Men to his service. This is where the story takes place. Tolkien also notes that

[h]is capability of corrupting other minds, and even engaging their service, was a residue from the fact that his original desire for 'order' had really envisaged the good estate (especially physical well-being) of his 'subjects'."

which directly informs part of the characterization here, though I twisted it a fair deal.

Thauron would be the Valinorean Quenya form that Maglor would have used, retaining the original/Fëanorian th. But because the sá-sí version is the more common form of his name, I went with that throughout the story elsewhere. Artano (High Smith) is another of Sauron's names with reference as a Maia of Aulë.

Síriseldë means River-Daughter, and from that and the description it should be fairly clear that I was referencing Goldberry. Making her a Maia is a bit of a personal indulgence, but it seemed to make sense in giving Sauron's story credit.

I depicted Mordor as it might have been before the outright corruption by Sauron. In one of Tolkien's notes (which I'm failing to rediscover), he mentioned that the land had already had that name due to its volcanic activity - and in Lord of the Rings it is mentioned that the lands around Nurnen (the body of water Maglor spots) were fertile enough for farming even during the Ring War. And with Mt. Doom being originally inspired by Mt. Etna in Sicily (which supports intensive agriculture in its region), it seemed to make no sense to already make Mordor the ruined land that it became with Sauron's continuing corruption.

Ar Gwelan is Bretonic for 'the Seagull', and that moniker for Maglor is wholly my invention. I decided to use a Celtic language for the original inhabitants of Rohan, Gondor and Dunland because they and the people of Bree share an ancestry (via the Haladin of the Silmarillion), and Tolkien seems to have decided to make use of Celtic to render names in the Bree region. Bree itself is derived from Brythonic brég, 'hill', Archet and Chetwood contain the word chet, 'forest', and Combe/Coomb (as in both the village in Eriador and the valley of Helm's Deep) are derived from Old English loans from Welsh cwm, 'valley, deep hollow'.

And of course thank-yous are in order as well:

I have a feeling that, though they probably will never read this, I owe a lot to Pandemonium_213 for her portrayal of Sauron that made me want to explore the character in the first place and is partly responsible for my choosing this prompt. Likewise, to Marta, for her SWG Character of the Month biography of Sauron that helped me develop an idea of him and filled in canonical considerations with more philosophical ideas (whether that was to the detriment of this story or not is not my place to judge, but I did try my best).

I hope neither of them cringe, if they ever read this fic. If they do, the fault is mine alone.

I am likewise very, very grateful to my lovely betas and nitpickers, cheerleaders and those who put up with me during the duration of my writing of this story --- that's GG, SWE, Tam and Zeen (in alphabetical order because you should all come first in that list, you are stars). Getting this onto the page certainly wasn't an easy process, and I'd also like to thank the mods for their patience and understanding that it took longer than expected and intended.

This is not to say that I am ignoring my recipient - last but certainly not least, especially not if you are who I think you are --- thank you for offering this prompt and getting my mind churning. This probably was the story the furthest out my comfort zone to date, and I hope you enjoyed reading it.