There, Not Back Again by eris_of_imladris

Chapter 7

He chanced a trip to a local inn after the war ended. There were so many questions still in his mind that needed answering, and the rumors he heard as he crept alongside the roads at night would not suffice.

Maglor knew there was a special spot in the Void reserved for Sauron, the one who (he was entirely sure, given the Maia’s reputation) had tortured his brother long ago. A certain peace began to settle into his heart – not forgetting the past, but the frayed threads beginning to pull together, some part of him understanding that even the tiniest of his vengeance was complete.

The Prancing Pony buzzed with activity, enough that he was able to slip in almost unseen, finding his way to a small round table at the back. It took the barmaid several minutes to notice him, and in the meantime, he listened to what he could, soaking in every detail.

It was hobbits in the end, not warriors of Imladris or Lothlorien who had lived for millennia, not dwarves or even the men who claimed the new age was theirs. Rather, it was a hobbit, a member of a race many considered simple. He would have even said it at one time, not understanding that they were anything different from small men.

The chatter at the bar was filled with rumors about the journey, how a little hobbit might have found himself so far away from home and made his way to the very heart of Mordor. Then followed the questions of “why,” for both him and his companions who apparently included an elf, a dwarf, and men. Maglor hadn’t heard that part.

One voice was louder than many of the others. “Do you know he told my husband his name was Underhill?” said a plump woman by the bar, collecting some ales before passing them around. “He was right here under our very noses and we had no idea, not a whit!”

A bearded man mumbled something, only for the woman to shove his ale at him and put a hand on her hip. “What was that?”

“I said your husband wouldn’t notice if the King himself was sitting under his nose,” the man repeated, only slightly louder.

“Watch your mouth,” the woman said, shaking her head, but the little smile on her face made Maglor believe there was some truth in the man’s words.

One of the ales was apparently for him, although it looked like he still needed to wait for the rest of his meal. He watched as the woman made her way around to the tables, embellishing the story at each go-around until she was practically speaking the hobbit’s words herself. Well, hobbits’, apparently, since there were four who came to the Pony that night, led by the dark-haired one who had given the woman a false name, much to her chagrin.

“I mean, did he think we were the Enemy?” she asked a table of three men, all of whom shook their heads.

“Don’t know how they could mistake a peach like you for evil,” said the one on the left in a sultry tone, only to receive a swat from a rag she plucked from her hip.

“I’m old enough to be your mother,” she replied before stalking off to the kitchens, leaving Maglor wondering whether or not to laugh. It reminded him of times long ago, when members of his grandfather’s council in Tirion had said one thing and meant another, their faces or eyes the only clue to their true intentions.

He was too many years out of practice with such niceties to do anything but cut to the chase when the woman returned with his meal, a meat pie of sorts that he had not been able to cook in a long time. The fork and knife she slid along the table wrapped in an off-white napkin were thick enough that he would be able to grasp them.

“I heard you speaking of the hobbit – the hobbits, rather – who brought the One Ring to Mordor,” he began.

“Yes,” she replied. “They were here, and I must say I’m rather proud they ate my own cooking before going off and saving Middle-Earth.” A big smile broke across her lined face.

“You mentioned the name Underhill,” Maglor continued, wondering if his lack of manners were about to get him kicked out of the bar. Then again, the environment was far from formal, considering the squeaking of a fiddle in the corner and the loud, raucous chatter of the nearby patrons.

“Yes, but it was a fake name,” she nodded. “I didn’t find out his real name until recently. I suppose it’s important to keep a secret for a mission like that, but I was a little miffed. It’s not like I’m telling secrets from this lot all day.” She motioned to the bar behind her, where many drunks undoubtedly spilled their life stories and deepest secrets.

“The Enemy is not to be underestimated,” Maglor said, hesitantly reaching out a gloved hand to take the fork and knife. “But now that he is gone, we may speak more openly. I am curious, would you mind sharing his real name?”

The woman looked around nervously, the smile sliding off her face for a moment. “I suppose it can’t do any harm, although I don’t know you… then again, from your ears you’re an elf, and no one ever heard of elves doing anything unsavory…” Maglor, who had picked up the ale and was taking a hesitant sip, nearly coughed up the thick brew.

“Yes, that’s right, I’m sure it’s common knowledge by now – his real surname is Baggins.”

“Baggins?” Maglor asked, putting everything down and looking into her eyes. He saw no deceit there, only curiosity of what compelled him to ask.

“What, do you know him?”

“I know the family a bit,” he said somewhat honestly. He never heard of what had happened to Primula after she washed up right next to his campfire, and occasionally he had imagined it like the beginnings of a noble story, a lone seeker of the future trying to make her way in the world. Sometimes he wondered if she had ever seen the Onodrim.

“It’s not Bilbo, if that’s what you’re wondering. I suppose one grand adventure was enough for him,” she said. “It was his nephew, though, and I heard he raised him, so he must have taught him some things. His name is Frodo.”

Maglor froze to think of the boy he had heard of as a sweet-tempered child facing against the greatest foe of Middle-Earth of his time, but allowed himself a rare smile at the thought that it was this boy, it was [i]her[/i] boy, who had won the day.

No doubt the woman thought Maglor was strange as he stared into his meat pie, thinking of the food he shared with Primula that day, so few years ago in his own lifespan, and yet enough for her small son to grow up and earn his glory. He wondered if she was still alive, if somewhere, an elderly hobbit was sitting under the shade of the newly awakened Onodrim with tears of pride brimming in her eyes at what her boy had done, at the way his mix of strangeness and strength had saved the world.