Encounters by Independence1776

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Encounters

Written for the May Matryoshka challenge, the easy set of prompts.

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A group of seven young Elves stood in the doorway of the Hall of Fire, staring at Maglor. He watched them out of the corner of his eye, pretending to be more interested in the architecture than a group of adolescents. He couldn’t afford to challenge them but nor could he afford to ignore them.

“What are you doing?” another voice said, older and masculine-- and clearly not Elven.

“Uh…” one of them responded.

“That’s what I thought. Don’t you have something better to do?”

The group hurried away from the doorway and Maglor turned to study the Man who entered the Hall and stood near the entrance, just as clearly studying him. Old but hale, in gray robes with a hat… and quite possibly not mortal. Not with the hint of light shining from him, concealed from those who could not see, and a sense of Power around ones of his hands, the same sense that Maglor had felt around the Ring Elrond had been unable to hide from him.

No mortal would be able to wear an Elven Ring and go unremarked, not in Imladris of all places. Whoever this person was, he was no Man. “Who are you?”

“I could ask the same question, but I suspect I know the answer: the Exile, the Wandering Singer, Maglor Fëanorion.”

Maglor turned to face him and settled into a stable stance in case he was attacked. “You did not answer my question.”

“I am Gandalf, here called Mithrandir.” The person came closer, staff thumping on the stone floor as he moved down the room.

“What are you?” he asked as Mithrandir came to a halt well out of arm’s length.

“Ah. Now that is an interesting question. I am a wizard.”

Maglor snorted. “You’re Maiar.” He jerked his head in a bow and said, “If you’ll excuse me.”

He stepped around Mithrandir, who, when Maglor was walking away, thundered, “I did not excuse you.”

Maglor flinched and turned around. “I don’t need you to excuse me, Mithrandir. I am not a prisoner here.”

“Then why did you say I did?” Maglor rolled his eyes and Mithrandir’s hands shifted on his staff. “I am here to guide people, to help quietly. You may need my advice.”

Maglor snorted. “How can you have any applicable advice? You are no Kinslayer. I know my time here is limited, no matter what Elrond and Lady Celebrían say. Despite that, I choose to act as though I will be in Imladris for years. I know the Elves better than you ever would or could. Good day, Mithrandir.”

He left the Hall of Fire, turning the corner and heading out to the courtyard and the valley beyond. The late spring sunshine did not match his now-foul mood, but at least he wouldn’t take it out on anyone else.

He wandered by the pottery on his way deeper into the valley and stopped in his tracks as a pack of black-and-white puppies ran out of the door toward him. He knelt down on the ground and let them sniff him. “Hello there,” he said. “Now who might you be?”

The puppies naturally didn’t answer him. He wasn’t Celegorm, after all, and his talents lay elsewhere. But they crowded around him as close as they could, climbing onto and then falling off his lap. One persistent puppy, with a large black patch on one ear and most of his face, kept trying, determined to lick Maglor’s face.

“Where did… Oh,” a woman said as she came to the door of the pottery. She stared at him and finally stepped forward, whistling a little tune and almost all of the puppies went running to her. The patched puppy did not, but quit climbing on Maglor’s lap to turn around to look at the woman. “Well, then,” she said, walking toward him with the puppies gamboling at her feet. “It has been a long while, Maglor.”

“Indeed it has,” he said gravely and rose. “I assumed you would have sailed long before now, Salmë.”

She shrugged. “I like Middle-earth. Despite Gil-galad’s death, I saw no need to sail. Nor have I retired, though I am now second-in-command rather than the spymaster.” She looked him up and down. “Come inside, Maglor. We can talk.”

He followed her into the small building and glanced around. A shelf of unfired glazed pottery sat on a shelf; below it was a shelf of greenware. A couple of tables stood in the middle of the room, with a handful of stools around each, and a potter’s wheel was in the far corner. Pots of glaze covered the near table and she gestured at them. “Have fun.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow at her. “I am rather a disaster at this.”

Sal shrugged. “Elven-painted ceramics fetch a good price on the market. As long as it doesn’t look like it’s done by a child, someone will buy it.”

Maglor sat down, looking over the glaze pots before settling on a handful of earth tones. The patched puppy lay at his feet. “He seems to like me.”

She smiled. “He’s yours, then. He’ll be weaned in a week.”

Maglor blinked at her. “Are you sure?”

“I remember what you did in war against Sauron, Maglor. Kinslayer or not, I do trust you.”

Maglor glanced away and then nodded. “Thank you, Sal,” he said quietly. “Not many do, for obvious reasons.”

She shrugged. “The Elves don’t know you anymore. All they know is history and rumors. Prove them wrong.”

He picked up a paintbrush and dipped it into the nearest pot, dark brown as it turned out. “That is remarkably similar to something Elrond said to me yesterday.”

“We do talk, Maglor. There’s only a couple of thousand of us remaining in the valley. More will leave as soon as they know the road West is safe. The Age of the Men is beginning.”

Maglor nodded. He’d seen that as well in his wanderings. He tilted his head at the puppy, who was now softly snoring. “What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have one yet. I leave that for those who give them homes.” She smirked. “If you pick Rover or Patch or something else inane, I will never let you hear the end of it.”

“Yes, the greatest singer of the Noldor picking Rover. I couldn’t bear the shame of it.”

Sal laughed. “You’ll pick something interesting, knowing you.”

He snorted. “We’ll see.” He glanced down at the puppy and smiled.