When All Other Lights Go Out by sallysavestheday

Will O' the Wisp

Elrond will not permit Maglor to be lost.

Whenever he can, he makes his way into the dunes and watches for the glow and dance of color in the dark: the light of Maglor’s lamp, shining. It is almost a game, the patient waiting. The days or weeks of solitude as he searches are cleansing and steadying. Eventually he will stumble on the camp: tidy or disheveled as Maglor’s current mood directs; more or less equipped to face the day.

Elrond brings rope and knives and candied fruit, a warm cloak and whatever songs he thinks Maglor may not have heard. They grill fish over the humming fire, exchange news, dissect the politics of Lindon, or Eregion, or Imladris, as the centuries turn.

Galadriel’s doings always spark Maglor’s particular mirth and admiration: he takes a crooked pride in that tiniest cousin grown so grand. When Elrond’s news is that he has wed Celebrían, Maglor laughs and laughs and laughs. “Were you not already entangled enough with the Finwëans?” he asks, breathless with delight, as Elrond blushes and scowls.

Somehow Maglor knows when Elrond’s children are born. He finds him waiting each time with some strange yet perfect toy carved out of driftwood and embellished with the gifts of the sands: shells, bone, seeds, fragments of softly weathered glass. For Elrohir, a horse with a mane and tail like water-weed; for Elladan, ancient branches twisted into clasping hands. For Arwen, in sea-bleached wood, a small, white tree. Elrond turns the gifts in the lamplight, watches the colors shift and burn.

Over the long years, they slowly untangle the pain of the Silmarils, of Sirion, and of Maedhros’ fiery end. Elrond’s visits are Maglor’s penance: a love both longed for and endured. Eärendil arcs overhead as they sit in the dark and sing, with only Maglor’s lamp to see by. Maglor tips the star-lord a grin, or a wince, as the mood of the moment demands. Elrond leans closer; he smiles at the sky, smiles at Maglor, unconcerned and unbiased in his loving.

The years of war keep them apart, but Maglor waits, knowing that Elrond will eventually bring his grieving and his rage to temper at the seashore. He sings the lamp alight each night and holds it cupped in his hands, imagining that the glow soothes the cracked flesh of his branded palm. It is such a long time since he was a child afraid of the dark; a boy whose brother loved him, both of them basking in their father’s warmth.

Maglor’s heart grows slowly lighter with every visit. The tug Westward strengthens as his spirit cools, but still he waits. He waits.

The last time, Elrond stumbles through the dunes, weeping. Celebrían is Sailing: his heart is broken, his craft has failed. It takes a great deal of garbled pleading before Maglor realizes what he is being asked. He trembles with it, even after all the time that has passed. But this is Elrond begging; Maglor will wrestle the sea itself on Elrond’s behalf.

Celebrian’s wounded heart calls to his own: they know each other instantly, deeply – two battered souls uncertain of their welcome in the West. Maglor takes her hand; he leads her up the gangway, singing.

Elrond watches from the quay as the sails grow smaller and smaller in the distance. The lamp burns, steady and bright, in his lonely hands.