Clear Pebbles of the Rain by StarSpray

One

Read One

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
- “Wild Geese”, by Mary Oliver

- - 

Late Autumn
TA 2941

The messenger from Lothlórien arrived just as the weather began to turn from colorful autumn toward an austere winter, at the same time as an eagle swooped down to tell of the happenings at the Lonely Mountain. Both messages—a letter from Galadriel, and the spoken message of the eagle, brought as a favor to Gandalf—were brief. The Lonely Mountain was retaken and Smaug dead, and plans made for the rebuilding of Dale—but so, too, had died Thorin Oakenshield, and his nephews. Relief mingled with grief, as it always did in these days. 

Galadriel’s letter was more surprising. Elrond had expected his own sons, or at least Glorfindel, to return before winter blocked the mountain passes. Dol Guldur had been emptied and Sauron driven out. Galadriel mistrusted the ease with which it had been accomplished, but wrote that Gandalf would tell him more of it when he passed back west come spring. At the end of it she spoke briefly of the captives rescued when they had at last breached the fortress. There had been fewer than feared, mostly Woodmen now either returned to their homes and families or brought to Caras Galadhon to live out the rest of their days in what comfort the Elves could provide. There had been a handful of Thranduil’s folk, too; Galadriel feared that very few of them would find healing on these shores, and expected that they would find their way west to the Havens in due time. But at the very end of the letter she spoke of one more prisoner that Elladan and Elrohir had discovered in one of the deepest dungeons, locked away behind a door unopened in so long that the hinges had rusted. 

Maglor. 

The letter fell from Elrond’s suddenly numb fingers, fluttering to the ground and catching on the grass at his feet. The breeze caught it, but Erestor rescued it before it could be blown into the nearby stream. “Ill news?” he asked, looking at Elrond with concern. “Did something go wrong at Dol Guldur?”

“N-no.” Elrond gestured for him to read the letter before letting his face drop into his hands. He heard Erestor make a small noise of surprise, but his mind was whirling with questions. How had Maglor come to be there? How long had he been there? Too long, far too long, if he had been locked up and forgotten about, as it seemed. Yet Elrond could not believe that he had been forgotten, or that his identity had escaped the notice of Sauron. Galadriel had not written any more than that he had been brought to Caras Galadhon and was resting in as much comfort as she could provide, and that Elladan and Elrohir intended to bring him back to Imladris in the spring or summer, when the passes were clear and he was strong enough to make the journey. 

“My lord?” Erestor touched his shoulder lightly. “What preparations should we make for him?”

Elrond took a breath, and got to his feet. “The room with the blue hangings, that overlooks the river,” he said. “That will be his.” It had always been his, in the hope that he would find his way to Imladris. That hope had steadily faded over the years, but never quite left. “There is no hurry. We have all the winter to make it ready.” It was hard to say what else should be done, as he did not know what Maglor would need. “…A harp,” he said after a moment, as they began to walk back to the house. “I would have a harp waiting for him.”

“I know just the one,” said Erestor. “I will find it.” He quickened his pace, no doubt making a list of all the things that Elrond could not think of in the moment, and a schedule for them that would have everything in perfect readiness by the time Maglor entered the valley. Elrond kept his own pace slow, unwilling to leave the bright sunlight just yet. He paused by a fountain to listen to the water’s gentle music, and looked up toward the mountains, casting his thoughts to the lands beyond. Wilderland would know peace, a real peace, for the first time in many years. The mountains had been emptied of orcs, and Smaug lay at the bottom of the Long Lake. A king ruled again under the Mountain, and Dol Guldur was emptied of its horrors. Still, Elrond’s heart ached. The Council could have acted sooner—Gandalf had wanted them to, and Elrond had agreed, until Saruman had counseled patience, lest they overreach themselves. Better to watch and to wait, he had said, so at least they might have some idea of what the Enemy was doing. And so they had watched, and they had waited. 

How much had that patience cost Maglor?