The Holy or the Broken by Independence1776

The Holy or the Broken

Read The Holy or the Broken

Nerdanel waited until she could barely see Makalaurë far down the white sand beach and stood up, leaving the book she'd picked up at a secondhand shop on the green-and-pink striped beach towel. She toed on her flip-flops and walked over to the boardwalk leading to the beach house her son had rented. She carefully walked over the worn boards and up the stairs to the porch overlooking the Gulf of Mexico.

He'd left a book on the picnic table. She smiled and flipped it open to where he had a piece of scrap paper as a bookmark. She replaced it with her note, folded over so he wouldn't immediately see the Tengwar, and put the book back exactly how she'd found it. She returned to her towel, folded it, and tucked her book between her chest and the towel. And then she went to her hotel room overlooking his rental house and sat on the balcony to wait for his return. She had to be sure he received her note.

If he didn't, she'd knock on his door at eight AM. She was not going to chase her son back to his home. She'd already had to convince one of his neighbors that she meant no harm when she'd asked where “Matt” went on vacation. Nor would she return to Aman without him.

* * * * *

Maglor rinsed the sand off his feet at the low shower next to the stairs leading to his porch. It had been a long, necessary walk. Both the air and the water were cooler than they would be in September, but after a month of holidays, he needed to get away from the city and breathe. He needed the shore in a way he couldn't explain to any of his friends or colleagues, not even the bare handful who knew his identity. Sometimes, he felt the shore had sunk into his bones.

He grabbed his book as he walked by, fishing the key ring out of his shorts pocket. Once inside the beach house-- the interior as updated and modern as the outside was not-- he dumped the keys and the book on the table in the breakfast nook and pulled out the box holding last night's pizza leftovers.

Once that was reheated in the microwave, he sat down and opened his book. A sheet of folded printer paper nearly landed in his vegetarian pizza. He put the book page-down to keep his place and opened it.

Makalaurë, it read in Quenya scribal hand, meet me at sunrise on the beach in front of your house.

There was no signature, and with the formal scribal script it would be all but impossible for him to identify the writer. But he had two guesses: Celeborn, who wouldn't hesitate to play a prank on him, or Glorfindel, who would be utterly serious. Given that Glorfindel would be rather more direct about a threat or concern, it was likely the former. The third option was that someone in the government, whether the US or another, had put together the miniscule clues none of the remaining Elves couldn’t help but leave simply due to living in an age where there was no avoiding video surveillance and cameras on everyday devices and felt a need to secretly contact him. But they wouldn't know scribal hand… unless they'd captured another Elda and forced them to write it.

Maglor sighed, tossed the note into the trash can, and ate his dinner. Logic demanded he call Glorfindel or Celeborn to learn if they left it. Logic could go hang.

At sunrise, he stepped out of his house, unarmed but for his voice. That was all he hoped he needed. He reached the end of the boardwalk and stepped onto the sand, the beach deserted save for a fisherman half a mile or so away and the woman standing with her back to him, staring out over the waves, her ankle-length tier skirt in oranges and reds blowing in the breeze.

She turned to face him when his bare feet squeaked over the sand and he stopped. “Mother,” he whispered.

She walked the few steps closer and threw her arms about him. He embraced her as best as he could with his arms practically pinned to his sides. She finally released him and stepped back. “Makalaurë.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you to bring you home.”

Maglor turned his head away, toward the water that now had sunlight glinting on it, banishing the night. “I can't.”

“Your exile is over.”

He met her gray eyes again. “You would not have searched for me if it wasn't.” He tilted his head slightly. “How did you find me?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “The Valar knew where you live. Of course, when I got there, you'd left on vacation!”

Maglor huffed a laugh and decided that the question about the Valar keeping an eye on him could wait. “Who did you ask?”

“Miriam Goldstein. I had to pretend to be a cousin of yours. Do you always claim estranged family?”

“It's easier than saying everyone's dead.”

“True. But why then can't you come home?”

Maglor took a deep breath. The rest of the Elves had known for centuries. But he'd never imagined needing to tell his own mother. “I'm Jewish. There is no community for me in Aman.”

Mother grinned, her eyes sparkling. “Barukh atah Adonai, eloheinu melekh ha-olam, she-heyanu v'kiymanu v'higianu lazman hazeh.”

He could only stare at her after she spoke the blessing that thanked God for bringing her to this moment.

“You won't be the only Jew in Aman, Makalaurë. A Kinn-lai clan sailed West from Spain in 1492. They'd converted while the Romans still had a successful Empire.”

He'd heard of the clan that had limited contact with outsiders. He'd never guessed why. Nor had he known when or why they'd sailed; he'd been in Baghdad that year and they'd vanished by the time he'd wandered back to Europe a century or so later.

“And you learned the prayer to convince--”

“I converted a long-year or so ago.”

Maglor choked. “How many Amanyar?”

“There's a few thousand of us now.” She shrugged and linked arms with him. “I can tell you more inside, Makalaurë.”

“I'll make breakfast.” It was the only thing he could think of to say.

* * * * *

Nerdanel studied Makalaurë as he moved around the kitchen to make them scrambled eggs and toast. She wasn't sure what to say to him; he still didn't seem convinced it was a good thing for him to sail home. “Will you?”

He looked over at her, holding a whole egg in one hand. “I don't know.”

She didn't know what she could say to convince him. Being Jewish was an obstacle easily removed, but the rest? His guilt may be the overriding factor. “Why?”

He dropped the eggshell into the carton and tossed the whole thing into the trash. “I've been on Middle-earth for longer than I lived in Eldamar. For all its faults, it's home. I have a life here, friends, work I mostly enjoy. Yet I'm not mortal and there's only a few dozen Quendi left on these shores.” He looked sharply at her. “Have you contacted them?”

She shook her head. “I wanted to wait until after I'd seen you.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Do you want cheese in your eggs?”

“I don't have a preference.”

He put some shredded cheese in. Neither one of them spoke until Makalaurë put the two plates on the table. “Give me a month.”

“To decide?”

He shook his head. “To leave. I can't vanish, Mother.” He hesitated. “And I want at least two of these weeks alone. Go tell Celeborn to go home, or Glorfindel for that matter. I'm sure they'd love to hear the latest news.”

“The latest gossip, you mean?”

He smiled at that. “What's the difference, when it comes to our family?”

“Why did you decide?”

He briefly looked haunted. “Because we will shortly no longer be able to hide, if we haven't already lost that ability.” He shook his head again. “I'd stopped dreaming of home, Mother. I thought it forever closed to me. I needed to stop reacting and to start thinking.”

“You're still shocked.”

“Of course I am!” He stabbed his eggs with a fork. “Why now?”

“The world is unsafe and we wanted you home.”

“Who is we?”

So suspicious. “Myself, Elrond, Findaráto… Maitimo.”

“He's reborn?!”

“Most of your brothers have been. Aman is likely not as lonely as you'd imagined.”

He wore a soft, wondrous smile on his face now. “No, no it won't be.”

The sailboat bumped the shore. She'd made the determination before she left that a smaller vessel that didn't need to land at Alqualondë or one of the other Telerin ports on either the continent or Tol Eressëa would be easier on everyone. Celebrían and Elrond had settled near the shore, between the mountains and the sea in northern Tol Eressëa and they'd gladly volunteered their beach.

Elrond and Celebrían stood holding hands, their twin sons behind them. Galadriel had eyes only for her husband, who was barely restraining himself in the boat. Glorfindel remained in his seat, patiently waiting until the excitement had died down. Findaráto and Maitimo stood side by side, with Turko, Pityo, and Telvo beside them.

Nerdanel looked behind her at Makalaurë, who stared slack-jawed at everyone. He muttered something under his breath-- possibly the Sheheyanu-- and rose to his feet for a moment before losing his balance as a larger-than-usual breaker passed under the hull and ended up back in his seat. He rolled his eyes and stood again before scrambling out of the boat and landing awkwardly in the water. He toppled over and vanished under the waves before jumping up absolutely drenched. Laughing, Makalaurë waded onto the sand. Maitimo ran to greet him, embracing him heedless of Makalaurë's wet clothes. Nerdanel leaned against the mast and joyfully watched Makalaurë and the rest of her family reunite on the beach.

---

Chapter End Notes

Barukh atah Adonai, eloheinu melekh ha-olam, she-heyanu v'kiymanu v'higianu lazman hazeh. --- Blessed/praised are you Adonai, our God, sovereign of time and space, for granting us life, for sustaining us, and for bringing us to this moment.

The Sheheyanu is used for occasions ranging from the mundane (wearing new clothing for the first time) to ritual (said every festival) to special.