Clear Pebbles of the Rain by StarSpray

| | |

Epilogue

TA 3019

Since the Grey Company had departed it felt as though all of Rivendell was holding its breath. Elrond paced the halls of his house seemingly without ceasing, twisting Vilya and his wedding band on his fingers by turns; neither Glorfindel nor Erestor were ever far from his side. Arwen sat in the Hall of Fire with her spindle, spinning threads of all colors and kinds, keeping her hands busy as her thoughts drifted far away, over the mountains and the River. Maglor joined her, with his harp and with Lindir and others to accompany him, playing any song that came to their minds just to fill the silence; nearest to the hearth Bilbo sat with his notes and his book, scratching away with his pen. There was no laughter in their music, though. No joyful tra la la lally to echo through the rafters or outside through the fir trees.

Even the birds that came back as spring unfolded did not seem to want to sing. 

March wound on; snow melt brought snowdrops and crocuses, and the swelling of the river. Its music, at least, never ceased. The sun rose and fell every day and the stars shone as bright as they ever had. Gil-Estel blazed in the western skies in the evenings. 

Every hour brought them that much closer to either victory or disaster, and even the wisest of the Wise could not say which would come. Every night Maglor dreamed of blood and fire and the silence under stones. When he sang more often than not his voice shook and his fingers faltered on the harp strings. No one spoke of it; his was not the only struggling voice in the valley.

Then it happened. Elrond halted suddenly as he stepped into the Hall of Fire, his gaze going distant, his fingers grasping at Vilya. Maglor ceased his playing with a discordant jumble of notes, and Arwen rose to her feet as Bilbo looked up from his book. Glorfindel stepped in front of Elrond, watching his face intently; Erestor was still as a statue at his side. No one spoke. No one breathed. The silence was broken only by the crackle of the fire, and the breaking of a piece of wood as it burned. Fear gripped Maglor’s heart with icy fingers, squeezing, squeezing—

At last, Elrond closed his eyes and exhaled, hands dropping to his sides. “It is done,” he whispered. “It is destroyed.” He swayed, and Erestor caught his shoulders, guiding him to a chair. Maglor caught Arwen when her knees gave out, and she sank to the floor with a soft cry of relief. As for himself—he did not know what he felt. It felt like a dream, all distant and strange. When he met Elrond’s gaze he saw the same feeling reflected there. For so long the Shadow had haunted the world, waxing and waning and then waxing, waxing, and now—it was gone. Just like that. The Quest had succeeded, and Sauron was no more. 

Once the initial shock wore off, relief and joy swept through the valley, though it was tinged with lingering fear and uncertainty—for Sauron had been defeated, but they did not yet know the full cost. 

“Estel lives still,” Arwen said, in a moment when she and Maglor and Elrond were alone together. 

“As do Elladan and Elrohir,” said Elrond, his gaze on the window, looking out toward the mountains, south and east. “More than that…I cannot yet tell.”

“And Vilya?” Maglor asked softly. 

Elrond looked down at it. He wore it openly, now. “Its power is done. The time of the Rings is over.” He looked up again, this time at Arwen. “I will soon be leaving these shores,” he said. She bowed her head and nodded. Maglor reached out to take her hand, and she grasped it tightly. Great joy mingled with great grief, as it always did. 

They learned more when an eagle came, swooping down into the valley in a great rush of wind to alight before the house, to proclaim the victory, and to tell of the return of the King to Gondor, and of the honors bestowed upon the Ringbearer and his companion, and all of the members of the Company who had departed from Rivendell on that cold evening only a few months before. Maglor stood by Bilbo as they listened to the news, and bent to offer him a handkerchief when he began to weep. “I did not expect that, truly,” Bilbo admitted to him in a low voice. “Oh, but that is the best news of all—that my Frodo’s journey will be there and back again!”

“He will come back changed, you know,” Maglor said, as gently as he could.

“Oh, yes, I know. Of course. But he is coming back!” 

The valley was filled with activity after that, busy as a beehive with preparations for the journey to Gondor, and for the wedding that would take place once they arrived. Maglor was not needed for much, so he kept out of the way, and noticed that Elrond, too, slipped away more often than not. When Maglor went to seek him, he very rarely found him. 

At last, he managed to follow him to the farthest part of the valley, to the place where Gandalf had cornered him so many years before. Elrond had climbed up farther than Maglor had, and was perched on a mossy ledge high enough to provide a view of the valley stretching out before them, growing greener with each passing day as spring approached. He sat with one knee drawn up to his chest, and the other leg kicking idly against the stone. Maglor climbed up to join him, and they sat in silence for a time. Then, with a shuddering sigh, Elrond leaned against Maglor, dropping his head onto Maglor’s shoulder. “I thought I was ready,” he whispered. “I thought—after Elros, I thought I knew—I do not think I can bear this. All the better now do I understand Elu Thingol, when a hoar of winter fell over him at Lúthien’s first death.” 

There was no real comfort to offer. Maglor put his arms around Elrond and kissed his hair, and they watched the afternoon pass over the valley. Beneath them the spring bubbled up, bringing the Music of the world to the surface as it fell away down the stones, watering the moss and the lichen, and the flowers that grew in the cracks, tiny and pale blue. After a time Elrond spoke again. “She will have great joy, but the end will be bitter for her. I cannot stay for her. I am weary as I have never been before, and I cannot stay any longer. She will be alone, and there will be nothing I can do.”

“I will stay,” Maglor said. They had spoken on and off, of late, of whether he would go with Elrond into the west, without ever making any plans or promises. He knew that Elrond wished for it, but he had remained uncertain. “I will stay, and she will not be alone, however bitter the ending. Whatever comfort I can, I will give.” Elrond turned his face into his shoulder then, and Maglor felt his tears soaking into his shirt. 

“And then what will you do?” Elrond asked. 

“I will take ship,” Maglor said, and he felt some of the tension release from Elrond’s shoulders. 

“Thank you.”

 

In the end Elrond lingered another two years, until all was ready for Elladan and Elrohir to take full control of Imladris, and for Frodo Baggins to make some choices of his own, and set his own affairs in order. On a bright afternoon in autumn they departed from the valley, Elrond for the last time. He lingered for several minutes at the top of the path, gazing at it, dry-eyed but solemn, before he turned away and rode on without looking back. They met with Samwise and Frodo in the Shire, near to where Gildor had first met Frodo on his flight to Rivendell. And so they passed westward, unseen, through the Shire and past the Tower Hills, and down the road to Mithlond. 

Maglor had never been there before; Lindon was as dwindling a realm as any other in those days, and the streets were quiet, though not empty. As the sun was setting they came to the docks, where Círdan awaited them. Maglor slid out of his saddle alongside Elrond, and for a moment they regarded one another. “Do not forget your promises,” Elrond said at last.

“I will not.” Maglor embraced him, holding tightly, and closing his eyes against the sting of tears. “I will not tarry.” They were weighty, those words.

When Elrond went to escort Bilbo onto the ship, Galadriel paused at Maglor’s side. “You will not sail with us?” she asked. They had spoken much in the short time since they had reunited on the way to Gondor, and since Galadriel had come to Imladris in preparation for the voyage, but they had not spoken of Maglor’s own plans. 

“Not yet,” he said, and realized something else they had not spoken of. “Galadriel—I have not thanked you, for all that you did for me.”

“There is no need.” She smiled at him. There was a weariness in her eyes that mirrored that in Elrond’s. Nenya and Vilya were kinder than the other Rings, but they still took their toll. “It is enough to see the light in your eyes again, Cousin.”

“May I ask one last favor of you?”

“Yes, of course.”

Maglor drew from his pocket a letter, several pages long, that he had labored over for so long that it felt a little ridiculous. “Will you take this to my mother?” he asked. “If she wishes to read it.”

“Of course.” Galadriel took the book. “Have you any other messages to send—to Nerdanel, or anyone else?”

Maglor looked out over the water. The waves were softer in the Gulf of Lhûn, gentler than the harsher coasts he had once been used to. “Tell her I will come west soon,” he said. “And that—that she is often in my thoughts.” That was what the letter said, really, though in many more words.

“Nothing else?” Galadriel regarded him, her eyes no less keen now than they had ever been. “What of your brothers, or mine, or our cousins?”

He shook his head. “No, nothing else.” 

“Very well.” She took his hand and kissed his cheek. “Namárië, Macalaurë. Until we meet again, may the stars light your way.”

“Namárië,” he murmured, and watched her pass up the gangplank and onto the deck, where Elrond stood with Frodo. Elrond looked at him and Maglor smiled back. There was grief in this parting, but it was not bitter, and there was hope yet for joy across the Sea. 

He remained on the dock with the hobbits until the last glimmer of Frodo’s star-glass faded into the distance, and lingered still after Sam and Merry and Pippin departed, back to the Shire and the lives they were building there, watching the stars come out and glimmer on the water. Oh, how he had missed the Sea—more than he had realized. Nowhere did the Music of the World sound louder. 

Círdan came to him as the moon rose behind them over the hills, full and yellow. “I will see one of them again,” he said, nodding toward the road down which the hobbits had disappeared. “Will he have a companion when he takes ship, I wonder?”

“I hope he will not go alone,” said Maglor, “but I will not be with him. I will tarry until Elessar’s reign comes to an end, to see the start of this new Age.”

Círdan’s smile was knowing. “And then you will return home.”

“I will return,” Maglor said. Whether it was home was another matter. 

“What will you do in the meantime?” Círdan asked. 

Maglor tipped his head back to look at the stars, and smiled. And then he laughed. “It has been a long time since I have wandered the shores of Middle-earth,” he said. “I think I will do so again. And once I thought to seek the headwaters of the Anduin—perhaps I will find them this time!” He shouldered a satchel and a small harp he had made for himself. “Farewell for now, Círdan!”

“Until we meet again,” Círdan said, and Maglor left the docks, and left the city, abandoning the roads and the fields for the sands and stones. As he walked he sang—a walking song that he had learned in Rivendell, of paths running west of the moon and east of the sun, and of hearth and home waiting at the end of the journey. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much to everyone who's followed along this story, reading and commenting--I appreciate the encouragement so much! And most special thanks to the regulars of the SWG discord's Write-In channel; those sprints have been what got at least 80% of this fic written!

All OC names--Dringil, Ifreth, Eleryn, & Nesseldë--are from Chestnut's Name List. 

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment