My Dearest Makalaurë by StarSpray

My dearest Makalaurë,

I hope this letter finds you well, if it finds you at all. Olórin has promised to carry and deliver it if he should meet you in the course of his labors across the Sea, but I know that it is a slim hope. But he tells me that is better than no hope at all, and so here I am putting pen to paper.

There are many tales that try to guess at your fate. Many say that you are dead, while many others say that you wander the shores still singing laments into the wind and waves. I know that you live still, but if you still wander the shores of Middle-earth, neither Uinen nor Ossë nor Ulmo will tell me.

Nothing has changed here, and yet everything has. The sun is shining brightly through the window onto this page as I write, and there is a mockingbird singing merrily in the cherry tree just outside. I can smell the smoke from my father's workshop, where he is blowing glass in dozens of colors for someone in Valmar to hang in their windows so that they may have rainbows on their walls every morning, and the bread my mother is baking, and I can hear the clacking of my sister's loom in the next room. It is very quiet here. Too quiet—even after all this time I miss desperately the noise of you boys coming and going and shouting and arguing and laughing. Sometimes I think I can hear an echo of it, memories rising to the surface and fading away like a breeze. My workroom is littered with busts and little sculptures of you all—as you are in my memories, when the Trees still shone and strife was a word we did not understand.

I went walking through the countryside yesterday, following a small river that did not exist when you left here. The sunlight danced on its surface, and fish were jumping as I passed by, and the birds were busy fluttering about in the trees over my head. I came to a place where a large boulder sat on the very edge of the water and sat down. It so happened that the forest fell quiet for a few minutes, the birds all gone off to other places where I could not hear their calls, and the only sound was the water flowing over the stony river bottom, and the occasional splash of a frog or fish. It made me think of you, when you were a child and would spend hours trying to write music that captured the sound of water or of wind in the grass. I cannot remember now if you were ever successful. Perhaps you have achieved it since, in your wanderings. The songs all say that your voice is like the sea, but I do not remember it that way. But perhaps it is only that I have not spent enough time by the shore listening properly. I wish I could hear the music you make now. I hope that you still make music.

Should Olórin not find you already safe, I beg you to make your way to one of the remaining elven havens in Middle-earth. There are whispers that the Valar will sometime soon lift the Ban that keeps the remaining Exiles in Middle-earth, and should that happen I beg you also to come home. We miss you. My parents and sisters send all of their love, as do your other aunts and uncles and cousins.

And of course you have my love, always. Be well, my darling.
Mother

TA 3020

It was a grey and chilly day. The skies overhead were heavy with slate-grey clouds, though Gandalf did not think it was going to rain. The sea was the same color, tipped with softer grey foam as the waves broke on the pebbled beach. Tufts of pale green added just a splash of color here and there to the shoreline. He had walked along this beach for days now, following the whisper of a rumor. It was not often that he indulged in this particular quest, with his other duties taking him far and wide and only rarely to the seashore, but now all of that was done, and this was his last opportunity, before it was time to go home.

There was still a letter, after all these years, tucked safely away in his satchel. It had been preserved from the consequences of time by his arts and by the signs and the seal put on it by its author, although the traces of clay and stone dust had long fallen away. It would be a great relief to finally be able to deliver it. He kept walking.

At last, the next day as the clouds overhead started to grow serious about whether they might let loose, Gandalf paused at the sound of a voice. It was not loud, but it carried, harmonizing with the waves and the wind in a way he knew no other could. He smiled, leaning on his staff as he listened.

He found the singer plucking at a harp as he sat at the base of a grassy dune. His hair was bound back out of his face and he was dressed warmly, Gandalf was glad to see. His cloak was the color of the clouds over their heads. At Gandalf’s approach Maglor ceased singing, looking up with a slight frown on his fair face. “Well met at last, son of Fëanor,” said Gandalf when he was finally close enough to speak without shouting. “You are hard to find.”

Maglor rose to his feet in a single swift motion. “Who is it that seeks me?” he asked. His eyes were bright and hard and keen as he looked into Gandalf’s own.

“Only a messenger,” said Gandalf, ignoring the flex of fingers near the sword that hung from Maglor’s belt. He reached into his satchel, into the innermost pocket, and pulled out the letter. “I have been waiting a very long time to deliver this.” He held it out. After a very long pause, Maglor accepted it, running his fingers over the seal and his name scrawled across the front. “No need to write a reply,” said Gandalf. “But if you wish to respond, come to Mithlond, this time next year. Farewell, Maglor.”

And he turned his boots back north.