Stranded by Flora-lass

Stranded

Read Stranded

Maglor sat and stared out at the sea. He didn't know how long he had been staring; indeed, at that moment he could hardly recall ever having done anything else. And he had no idea when he had last heard a sound other than the waves or the gulls or his own singing. But now he was too tired to sing, too tired to wander, too tired to do anything except sit. And stare. He didn't know if he was cold, or how long it had been since he had eaten, or slept; or perhaps he now spent more time asleep than awake. He no longer cared very much. 

Sometimes, though, he gazed at the Silmaril in the sky, and it gave him a glimmer of hope that he would see the one he had thrown away coming back towards him on a wave. But in his heart he knew that if he so much as touched it, it would be lost to him again. And then he would think about where the third had gone, and he sank back into despair.

The wind blew his hair across his face and into his eyes. He should do something about it, he thought; but he barely had the strength to keep brushing it away, and he didn't much care about that, either. But he should at least turn his head, or attempt to tie his hair back, or…braid it?

Braiding. He had been good at that, once. Slowly, and very gradually, all the hair he had once tended, and all the people he had loved and helped to look how they wanted to look, became clearer in his mind. So many brothers: often impatient, often eager to be off doing something else, but still letting him care for them, and wanting him to. 

Russandol - the older brother he adored, who had sometimes braided Maglor's hair before Maglor had learnt how to do it himself…Maedhros, whose many torments he had been able to ease just a little…but no, he could never bear to think about Maedhros for long. Celegorm - vain and easily frustrated, but so rewarding, with his beautiful face and silvery-fair hair. Caranthir - dark and brooding, who never seemed to want much except Maglor's time and attention, but who could be the best with hair of all of them when he put his mind to it. Curufin - their father's favourite and so very like him, absorbed in the latest project and less bothered about his hair than the others, just wanting it done so he could get on. And Amrod and Amras, always fidgeting and plotting mischief, two redheads side by side, demanding to look exactly alike…

All gone now. All lost. All because of Silmarils.

Maglor remembered their mother, who had done his hair when he was very young, but soon became too busy. She at least was still alive, or had been when they had all abandoned her…who knew what had happened since? Their father hadn't seemed to take much notice of his sons’ hair (although their cousin Galadriel's had been a different matter). So when Elrond and Elros had come into Maglor's care, he had been determined to do theirs for them whenever they wanted him to. 

Oh, that day when Elrond had asked him for the first time, and had even offered to do his once he was good at it! The memory had shone like a beacon in Maglor's grey existence. (And Elrond had been as good as his word, as he always was). Even Elros had eventually joined in, although with some reluctance at first! Maglor almost smiled, remembering him bursting into the room where Elrond was practising braiding on Maglor, demanding that they stop playing hairdressers and come and look at whatever he and Maedhros had been doing. But he'd become more interested as he got older, and in fact had been more concerned to look his best to impress Gil-galad than Elrond had.

Maglor couldn't recall spending much time on hair once the twins had left - he and Maedhros had seemed to lose such heart as remained to them, after that. Suddenly he longed to touch someone else's hair again, to be close enough to make them feel special, or for him to feel loved. It had been so, so long since he’d had a family… 

He must have fallen asleep, because it seemed then that there were gentle hands in his hair, and a voice singing softly. And he knew for sure that he was dreaming, when arms came around his shoulders, and one of his hands was lifted and pressed to a braid that had certainly not been there before. 

‘You taught me well,’ said the voice.

Maglor could not speak - he was dreaming, after all. ‘'Elrond?’’ he said in his heart, and touched a strand of hair not his own. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Maedhros is gone, and Elros has gone now too. I need you, Maglor, and I think you need me. Please, please let me take you home.’