Clear Pebbles of the Rain by StarSpray

Ten

He woke slowly, hearing birdsong outside of the window, and laughter and singing somewhere in the distance. For a moment Maglor thought himself back in Lórien—but the singing was of a different kind than he had heard there, and the bed was bigger, and the warm breeze drifting through the window smelled of roses and apple blossoms. Of course. He had come to Imladris.

Maglor opened his eyes, and rolled over to look at this new bedroom. It was much larger, with hangings on the walls—tapestries in various designs and shades of blue—and rugs on the flagstone floor. There was a hearth across the room, though no fire burned; the breeze coming in through the several open windows was warm. One of the windows was quite large, and set into the wall to make space for a seat piled with cushions and pillows. And beside it stood a harp. Maglor stared at it for a long moment. It was much larger than the little lap harp that Eleryn had given him in Lórien, made of dark wood inlaid with gold. There was something familiar in the design—something Dwarvish, perhaps?—but Maglor could not quite figure out what it was. Nor did he really want to.

He turned away, and saw bookshelves partly filled with a selection of books, and with a few pieces of decoration to fill the empty shelves. There was a wardrobe and a chest beside it, and hooks on the walls, one of which sported the cloak that Galadriel had given him. It was a beautiful room, built for comfort. Maglor got out of the bed and went to the nearest window, which provided a view of much of the valley—but especially of the river. He could hear it flowing along merrily down its stony bed, fed by streams of snow melt from higher up the mountains, which towered over Imladris. Nearer at hand many flowers were in bloom, and birds and butterflies flitted between the bushes about their business. The sun was already high, and the sky blue and cloudless. Maglor had no idea how long he’d slept, but it had been dreamless, and he felt better rested than he had in a very long time. His arrival in the valley now felt like a strange dream, painful and comforting all at once. He could not recall much of what Elrond had said to him, or even the way from the house’s entrance to this room.

Clothes had been laid out for him on the bed, and when he went to the wardrobe he found more inside—robes and tunics and trousers for every occasion. Boots and shoes were lined neatly along the floor of the wardrobe, too. He turned to look at the room again, at the tapestries depicting scenes from Cuiviénen or the seaside, with stars over dark waters, or over wide open fields. There were scenes of Valinor, too, of the Two Trees and of Tirion with its white towers, and the Mindon Eldaliéva shining above all others.

He moved to the bookshelf, finding books of music and poetry there, alongside collections of stories from faraway places whose names he did not recognize. Precisely the sort of books he might have chosen for himself. He found there a flute on one of the shelves, and on another a set of pipes. And there, just at his eye level, a porcelain figurine of a dancer, pale and delicately wrought. He turned from the bookshelf to look again at the rest of the room. The rugs were very soft beneath his feet, and the chairs set around the hearth were plush and inviting. On a table by one of them he noticed a tray with fresh bread and butter on it, alongside a jar of honey and a jar of jam, and a pot of tea gently steaming.

All of this was more than a single winter’s work, Maglor realized. This room had been waiting for him for a very long time.

He poured himself a cup of tea and stirred in some honey, and went to the large window to sit and look out over the valley. He saw paths and trails winding away out from the house. People came and went along them, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups, sometimes in pairs. He saw a woman of the Dúnedain go by not far from his window, arm in arm with Elladan or Elrohir and laughing at something he had said. He saw a shining figure with golden hair go singing down another path; had he not known the tale of Gondolin, Maglor would have thought him to be Glorfindel.

The tea was hot and soothing, but when he finished the cup Maglor did not turn away from the window to get another. Instead he drew his knees up and leaned back against the paneled wood, closing his eyes. He drifted, thinking of nothing in particular but listening to the birdsong and the flowing river, and did not notice the door behind him opening until he heard footsteps closer at hand. When he looked he found Elrond pausing to look at the tray, untouched but for the missing teacup. When he looked up and saw Maglor watching him he smiled, and came to stand by him at the window. His hand rested on Maglor’s shoulder, a warm and comforting weight. Maglor found himself leaning back against him before he could think better of it.

“I hoped you would like this view,” Elrond said. Maglor could only nod. It was a beautiful view. And a beautiful room, in a beautiful house, in a beautiful valley. It was precisely the sort of place that he had hoped Elrond would find, or make for himself, and precisely the sort of place he did not belong. Especially now.

Elrond did not speak again for a little while. Instead he took Maglor’s cup and refilled it, stirring in precisely the right amount of honey. Then he poured himself a cup as well, and came to sit with Maglor by the window. “You should eat, too,” he said as he handed over the new cup. Maglor took it, but shook his head. He had no appetite. A slight rippling through the dark tea betrayed the trembling in his fingers. “Do you no longer like raspberries?” Elrond’s tone was light, but when Maglor looked up he saw the concern in his eyes beneath the slight furrowing of his brow. “I can find another flavor of jam if you wish. There are plenty to choose from in the pantries.”

Did he still like raspberries? Maglor remembered eating them and claiming to love them, but he could no longer recall the taste on his tongue. He turned away, looking out into the valley again. Of all the things to cry over, berries had to be the most ridiculous yet.

The next thing he knew Elrond had spread jam over one of the slices of bread, and brought it back over to him. “It’s all right if you cannot eat all of it,” he said, “but please try to eat some.” His fingers brushed lightly over the scar on Maglor’s cheek. “And then—will you let me see what can be done for your voice?”

Maglor nodded—who was he to deny Elrond anything?—and he ate the bread. He did still like raspberries, and the bread was so soft it melted on his tongue under the rich butter and the tart sweetness of the jam. Elrond did not press him to eat another slice, and after they both finished their tea, Elrond took the cups away and sat directly in front of Maglor. When he raised his hand, something glinted on his finger, and Maglor reached out to catch it before he thought better. It was a ring, of course, and it was both like and unlike Nenya that Galadriel wielded. It was gold, and the sapphire set into it was blue as the sky in high summer.

“It is called Vilya,” Elrond said. Maglor released his hand. “Sometime soon I will tell you the tale of the Rings in full, for it concerns you now at least in some small part. But not now.” He lifted his other hand to cup Maglor’s face, tilting it so their eyes met. His gaze was not so direct as Galadriel’s, not so piercing though Maglor did not doubt that he saw just as much as she did. Also unlike Galadriel, Maglor knew that he could look away if he wished. He did not, until Elrond drew back and dropped his hand. Then Maglor realized he’d been holding his breath, and he dropped his head, taking a few deep breaths and trying to stop himself shaking.

Once, it had been his job to protect Elrond—protect him from all the things he had just seen in Maglor’s mind and in his recent past.

Elrond reached out again, both hands covering Maglor’s where they were clenched on his knees. “I am no stranger to the torments of the Enemy,” he said softly. “All that happened to you has happened to others. I could not save them all, but I have saved many. If you will trust me, I can help you.”

Maglor turned his hands to grip Elrond’s, and he nodded. Everyone he had once trusted had long ago left the world—except for Elrond. Their roles were reversed, now, in strange and painful ways. But the trust remained. Somehow, in spite of everything.

Elrond then coaxed Maglor into dressing and leaving the bedroom. There would be plenty of time, he said, for Maglor to get to know the house as a whole. It was difficult to get lost, but if he did there would always be someone to point him back to more familiar ground. That morning Elrond showed him the way outside into the gardens, where all the paths leading up and through the valley branched out, and to the dining hall, and to the Hall of Fire, where a fire burned low on the hearth, and many seats and benches were scattered about the room. “There is always a fire here, and it stands empty most of the time,” Elrond said, “except on days of celebration, or in the winter when everyone gathers to sing and tell stories in the evening; in the summer those gatherings move outside under the stars. All are welcome at any time—for singing or for just sitting and thinking.”

They went to the library next, where they found the young woman that Maglor had seen earlier, sitting by a window with a book. She rose as they entered, and Elrond greeted her warmly, and introduced her to Maglor as Gilraen of the Dúnedain. If Gilraen was surprised to hear Maglor’s name, she did not show it, and instead smiled at him warmly as he bowed over her hand. She returned to her book as Elrond guided Maglor farther into the room. There was something almost anxious in Elrond’s manner as he described the sorts of records and books kept there, and as he repeated several times that Maglor could take whatever he wanted at any time, and go wherever he liked whenever he liked.

To stay, to make the valley his home, as it was Elrond’s home.

They returned to Maglor’s room, which Elrond pointed out was not far from his own rooms. Maglor happened to glance at the bookshelves as they entered, and nearly tripped over one of the rugs. The figurine was different. Instead of a dancer, from the doorway it looked like a spray of flowers. “Maglor?” Elrond said as Maglor went to look at it up close again. Standing in front of it, it was again a dancer. When Maglor turned it, it became the spray of flowers again, and when he kept turning it, it became a tree, until he came full circle to the dancer again. Looking at it now he recognize the face of her—Vána, as she danced through the glades of Valinor in the spring. Now he understood why it had felt so familiar. There was only one sculptor he knew of who could create such a work. And when he lifted the figurine to look underneath, he found the stylized hammer and chisel that was his mother’s mark.

“It was given to Amandil by the Elves of Tol Eressëa,” Elrond said, coming to join him. Maglor set it back on the shelf with shaking hands. “It was the last visit they made to Númenor, for the days were growing dark then, and Elves were no longer welcome. Their last gifts were the palantíri and a few smaller tokens of friendship, including this. Amandil’s wife Nesseldë escaped the downfall with her son Elendil and his family, and before she died in Annúminas, she gave it to me.” He touched one of the fragile-looking flower petals with a fingertip, and looked at Maglor. “I have long suspected it was made by Nerdanel, but none of her other works have crossed the Sea, and there was no one to ask. It is hers, then?” Maglor nodded, throat tight. “I thought that you would like it, but if it’s too distressing—”

Maglor shook his head. It was distressing, but he did not want it taken away. He’d not seen his mother’s work since they had left Tirion for Formenos, and he had never known her to work porcelain, or even much with clay of other kinds. Stone and metal had been her preferences, at least when he had been young. He missed her, suddenly and painfully, but when he tried to remember her face all he could see was the not-right image of her that Sauron had conjured once in the dungeons of Dol Guldur.

“Maglor, come.” Elrond’s hands were on his shoulders, turning him from the bookshelf, returning him to the window seat. The scene outside was blurred, and only then did Maglor realize he was weeping. He pressed his hands to his eyes, wishing he could go a single day without tears, without something appearing to remind him how far he had fallen. He felt ancient and weary down to his very bones, but at the same time, like a child, he just wanted his mother—all the more, knowing he would never see her again.

He felt Elrond’s arms encircle him, and leaned into the embrace, as a hand rubbed circles on his back. He was so tired, and Elrond was so kind. The sun was warm, and the breeze smelled of lilac and hyacinth. “You have been alone for too long, Maglor, with the ghosts of the past. Let them rest.”

If only it were that simple.