My Dearest Makalaurë by StarSpray

Coda

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.