One in the Deep Waters by Isilme_among_the_stars  

| | |

Bonds That Do Not Easily Break

The years passed quickly in Middle Earth for elves who had once lived in Aman, as their long lives pooled, viscous like honey in a white-water rapid world. For Maglor, living a slow and largely solitary life amid a small cove East of Harlond served only to exacerbate the predatorily fast passage of time. Elros had been a strong tie to the outside world at first, dwelling in the havens a mere two-day journey West along the coast and loathe to let a month pass without visiting. But Elros came less frequently as the years passed and Maglor had taken to wandering between Mannish villages that dotted the new coastline, sharing his songcraft with those that would tolerate him, when he felt the need for company. Such a life did little to anchor him with any great sense to the endlessly marching calendar beyond the turning of seasons.

            So it was that thirty-five years seemed little more than the blinking of an eye. Before him now stood Elros, announcing that the time of leave-taking drew near. No longer a stormy adolescent seeking to find meaning in the strange twists of fate, he had become a man determined to make them his own. Elros would take the reigns of fate, turn them toward good and bring everyone he could along for the journey. In short, he was the kind of man Maglor would be proud to serve, were they counted among the same kindred. Maglor marveled at the transformation, of the boy, now full grown, who ran through life seizing every opportunity it presented. Maglor, by contrast, only felt that he marked time. The world was moving on, finding renewal after devastation, but Maglor could not move on with it. What was there left to him in this new age?

             So Maglor smiled, even as his heart grew shadowed, recalling the too-short years of lingering by this stretch of coast, keeping a promise to the foster son who needed him no longer. A promise he wished dearly would not soon reach its fulfilment. If Elros saw the shadows he made no mention of them. And as he walked for the last time up the rocky path that wended away from the cove, he did not turn back. Maglor hugged his arms to his chest, wondering how even after so much loss, the threat of another could still leave him feeling winded.

 

 

It was unanticipated, though not wholly unexpected, that Elrond arrived a fortnight before his brother was due to sail. More surprising, shocking even, was that he came accompanied by Gil-Galad. The High King had taken it upon himself to send off this first party of his allies in honour as they sought the new Island promised by the Valar. In token of and hope for lasting friendship, a final communing was to take place. If Gil-Galad happened to pause as his delegation passed Maglor’s coastal haunt on their way, that was his prerogative. Maglor did not recognize him at first, splendid under the morning sun, dressed in finery uncommon during the War of Wrath. Even the Valinorian contingent had become progressively more ragged as the battle dragged on. What the High King wore now restored finery to pre-Bragollach levels. Gil-galad looked uncomfortable in such raiment, as though he thought himself a swine dressed up in pearls. For a man who wore leadership and authority like a second skin, the trappings of office appeared amusingly out of place. Elrond, serving as advanced party lest Maglor try to flee, agreed with a wry chuckle as they watched the king pick his way with carefully cultivated grace down the steep stony path. Maglor, finding that he cared just as little for the courtesies of courtly politesse, hailed Gil-Galad with blunt frankness.

            “You’re not committing political suicide on my behalf coming here, are you?”

             “Hardly,” Gil-Galad scoffed, “I plan on a long career as High King yet.”

             “The office is not known for its longevity.”

             “With Morgoth gone I have hopes that will change. Is it so unexpected for the High King of the Noldor to pay visit to a prince of the same?”

              Maglor raised an eyebrow, “One who is in disgrace, living like a vagrant, as I am? Yes. For what purpose have you come?”

               “To extend an invitation,” Gil-Galad answered with a flicker of a glance at Elrond, whose face had gone worryingly blank, “stand with us as the first Edain leave these shores.”

                Maglor’s jaw began to work. When he spoke it was with forced politeness, “You no doubt believe this offer a kindness. Perhaps you do not fully understand the position in which it places all involved?”

              Beside him Elrond shifted slightly in discomfort, and Maglor began to pay attention, remembering how small tells were always a sign of something bigger below the surface with this twin.

               “I am not ignorant. Come, walk with me,” Gil-Galad bade him, already setting off at a brisk pace and not to be refused.

              Maglor turned to the younger elf, noting with concern the deeply lost in thought expression scribed into his face, and drew him into an embrace.

              “I don’t need to be coddled,” Elrond protested without much conviction.

              “This isn’t coddling, it’s caring,” Maglor insisted, pressing their foreheads together gently, “Incidentally, there is a passable bottle of mead stashed in my pack should you wish to take the edge off. You hide it well, but I can tell you’re a wreck.”

             “Just what do you think you are doing?” Maglor questioned snappishly when he caught Gil-Galad and was sure they were out of Elrond’s hearing, “No one will thank you for this, least of all me. I’ve spent the better part of three decades wandering this coast. I know the general opinion held of me, and it is not good.”

             Gil-Galad sighed, “it is a kindness. For Elrond, not you.”

              “I wasn’t under the delusion you thought it was.”

              “I’m well aware of what I’m asking you to face up to, Maglor. You’ll survive. And popular opinion can be damned! I will not have my herald face this day without the closest thing to family that remains to him. Surely you of all people understand how difficult Elros's departure will be.”

            The thinly pressed line of Maglor’s lips was all the confirmation Gil-Galad needed.

             “Whether I like it or not, it’s you he calls father. I would prefer if you agreed under your own volition, but I will order you if necessary. I am still your High King, vagrant ways or no.”

             Maglor stopped in his tracks, “you care for him.”

             “Of course I do,” Gil-Galad argued, seeming ready to box Maglor’s ears if he dared say anything quite so obvious or stupid next, “what kind of ruler would I be otherwise? Elrond is a trusted and valued member of my court. He is also, incidentally, rightful heir to the crown as things stand.”

             “No, no. This is beyond perfunctory safeguarding of your subjects’ welfare. You’ve genuine, personal affection for him, don’t you?”

              Gil-Galad met Maglor’s eye with an expression equal parts vulnerable and fierce, “He is like a younger brother to me.”

              “Well, I’ll be damned,” Maglor said softly.

              They’d bonded, and it wasn’t terribly hard to guess why. The man who stood before him had easily as complicated relationship to the concept of family as Elrond did. Gil-Galad had himself been bounced between kingdoms and father figures as a boy. Death or circumstance had forced him to part with all save Círdan, who it so happened was now preparing to personally escort the departing Edain to their new home. And this at a time when Gil-Galad’s amalgamated kingdom, still fledgling by Elven reckoning, was establishing itself. In the privacy of the secluded cove, Gil-Galad seemed to wilt slightly, recalling the boy Maglor remembered from the days of the long peace many years ago. Círdan’s fostering aside, Maglor was also among the closest family Gil-Galad had remaining to him in Middle Earth.

             “Is it only for Elrond, Erenion? Do you also wish me by your side?” Maglor asked softly.

             Set in a face that seemed to plead for understanding, Gil-Galad’s eyes sharpened, “To admit something like that would be political suicide.”

             “And yet you choose to dance with your words, and do not deny it.”

The younger elf sighed heavily then, a sound punctuated by the shadows beneath his eyes, “Did the crown ever feel heavy on your head during the brief years that you wore it?”

             Compassion flared anew in Maglor’s heart, “Constantly. Today, perhaps, you may have leave to set it down. Here you do not have to be a king, only a cousin paying visit to a cousin.”

            “That would be an immense relief,” Gil-Galad admitted.

             Maglor nodded and set off back along the beach, grinning at indignant surprise in Gil-Galad’s voice when he called after him, the younger elf’s boots clattering against the rocks as he now ran to catch up.

             “Where are you going?”

             “To find you spare tunic and hose, so you can take off that finery,” Maglor answered without slowing.

              “For what purpose?”

              “You look incredibly uncomfortable. Those robes are unsuitable for what I have in mind, besides.”

               “You are a wonder,” Gil-Galad fumed, “Forty years it has been since I saw you last, with not a single word. Now, as though over a century had just come unraveled, you resume fussing over me like a mother hen.”

                “Have I grown feathers?” Maglor inquired mildly with mock surprise, seeming to grow ever more patient as the younger elf rapidly lost his.

                 Gil-Galad ignored the quip, “I am not the small boy you once indulged in Hithlum many years ago and drew away from the talk of battle his grandfather, and your brother, could not confine to the council room, even in peacetime.”

                 Maglor snorted, “Maedhros was a terror for that, I remember, before he himself knew what it was to raise children in wartime.”

                 “Fingolfin was worse,” Gil-Galad reflected, “But my point stands. I am no longer a child to be shielded and led.”

                  “No, that you are not,” Maglor agreed, “however, you do appear to require assistance to set aside your burdens. I note that once again it is you who follows after me, without a thought for the fact you could simply have ordered me to stop. Subjects are generally bound to bend to their King’s will, after all, but you just cast aside the crown.”

                   Gil-Galad’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, “Are you schooling me?”

                   “Perhaps”

                   “Everything changes and yet nothing does it seems.”

 

 

Shortly after, Maglor stood facing the slate-grey ocean, watching the gulls wheeling past cliffs on the other side of the gulf, cresting airy rills that blew ahead of a distant storm. Elrond, beside him, was too quiet, too tense.

            “How long can you stay?”

            “Only to midafternoon,” Elrond repliced, with a hint of ruefulness in his voice.

            “There’s no possibility of extending that beyond sundown?”

            “For myself, perhaps. For Gil-Galad certainly not.”

             “I thought not,” Maglor sighed, “I should have liked for him to see the stars over the water; the way their light seems to shimmer to the backdrop of those cliffs. It is a new moon this night, the perfect sky for it. Do stay, if you can, and we might enjoy it together. Tell me, does Ereinion still sing?”

             “Little, these days, though his voice is fair.”

             Maglor turned to Elrond with a sharp, searching gaze, “And you?”

             “Even less than he,” he admitted, breaking eye-contact.

             Maglor’s heart twisted, “That is a pity. Well, let’s get this sorry craft into the water, shall we?”

             Elrond looked upon the disheveled thing with some suspicion, “Are you planning to drown us, or do you really think this thing will keep afloat with three grown men aboard? Where did you get it anyway?”

             Maglor grinned, “Minstrelsy has its perks. It was payment, from a township around 10 miles East of here. Some old wretch died with none to inherit his dubious legacy, I take it. This they planned to burn, can you believe?”

             Elrond gave him a hard stare, having surveyed the skiff bow to stern, peeling paint and all, and found it wanting, “serving as firewood seems too good for it, honestly.”

             “She’s sound enough where it counts, I patched her up,” he reassured, “though I freely admit she appears none too grand at present.”

             “Fine,” Elrond acquiesced, lifting the stern so boards did not scrape over the rocks as Maglor slid it prow first into the lapping waves. 

             “So far, so good,” Elrond assessed tentatively as Gil-Galad came up behind them.

             “Transport awaits, Your Majesty” Maglor announced with a mock bow as Gil-Galad, his kingly bearing only accentuated by the change to plainer clothes, eyed the bobbing boat with as much suspicion as Elrond had. Still, he made no remark, stepping tentatively over the gunwale and settling himself in the rear. 

             “After you,” Maglor waved Elrond aboard, and soon his own powerful strokes took them out beyond the breakers, where, in the sheltered gulf, the water was calm. From this vantage the little cove was a sight to behold, an almost perfect concave of cliffs on all three sides nestled them in its centre. The boat, amid such geologic grandeur, seemed very small indeed.

             “What are we doing out here?” Gil-Galad asked, the earlier frustration gone from his voice, leaving only curiosity in its wake. 

             “Something very Maglor-ish, I suspect,” Elrond groused.

             “This,” Maglor declared, raising and rounding his voice in a deep base note that reverberated among the cliffs.

             “Oh,” Elrond looked up in awe, “No wonder you favour this place. I had wondered why you’d settled here, when it seemed too far from Harlond for practicality.”

             “Yes, well, this and the fact Elros needed more space than he wanted at first. This seemed a better compromise than disappearing into the Blue Mountains,” Maglor jested, “Go on, try it.”

             Gil-Galad lifted his tenor, so like Fingon’s that it almost brought a tear to Maglor’s eye, in an ancient ode to Ulmo, Vala of the sea. Elrond added his own clear strains tentatively and Maglor underscored their harmonies with a driving obstinato until a rich tapestry of sound echoed through the bay. 

             “You cannot tell me that does not feel good,” Maglor insisted somewhat smugly as the last of the echoes faded and all became quiet once more. In answer Elrond only smiled faintly, all sung out, and carefully laid himself back in a patch of sun breaking through the clouds. As he dozed in the prow, lulled by the rocking of the waves, Gil-Galad struck up a quiet conversation.

             “What do you plan to do with yourself once Elros is gone? I know you linger here in pledge to him.”

             “Why should it matter, so long as I make no trouble? Do you wish me to solemnly swear that my war-making days are over?” 

             “Hardly,” Gil-Galad snorted, “I doubt many seriously fear the strange old hermit, who occasionally makes appearances in seaside villages to belt out shanties and laments for crumbs, will raise an army against them. Do you realise the small, yet vocal, crowd that objected to this visitation, did so not in remembrance of Silmaril fueled violence, but because they’re genuinely terrified you’re unbalanced enough to cause some unwitting tragedy.” 

             Maglor turned to gaze fixedly out to sea, “I can’t say I blame them.”

             “And that’s what worries me,” Gil-Galad spoke honestly, placing a hand gently on his arm, “I need you to convince me they’re wrong.”

              “Which of the twins put you up to this? One of them is due a tongue-lashing.”

              “Both. They both solicited me. Separately,” Gil-Galad laughed, “such kindhearted men you have raised! One might be forgiven for believing there was goodness yet in your heart.”

              Maglor pulled a face. 

             “Now I can’t very well welcome you with open arms into the court at Mithlond-” Gil-Galad went on.

“-nor would I ask you to,” Maglor cut in.

             “But,” Gil-Galad continued patiently, ignoring the interruption, “it would not hurt for you to visit Elrond from time to time. You need not be a complete stranger.”

             “What? And damage both of your standings? I don’t think so.”

             “Association with you is not quite the poison you think it is, you know. There are enough that remember with gratefulness times your company had their back during the war. Many too have heard how close you were to submitting not to your brother’s will, but Eonwë’s at the end. There is even an eager young historian who’d do just about anything short of murder to have your first-hand account.”

“And there are enough who won’t forgive, Ereinion,” Maglor countered, his voice bitter and clipped, “Eldar have long memories, and the Noldor a tendency toward grudges.”

             “At the very least I shall expect correspondence between you and my herald. If you do not take the task upon yourself I shall have him ply you with pen, parchment and ink until such time as you either write us or are drowning in the things.”

             “You’re as stubborn as your father, you know that?”

             “Which one,” Gil-Galad asked with a wry smile and a twinkle in his eye.

             “The one who was daft enough to think they could dance in and out of Angband unharmed. Fortunately for us all, he turned out to be right.”

 

 

That evening, with Gil-Galad long since returned to his own encampment, Elrond sat on a battered stool under the verandah of Maglor’s lean-to. The two paid witness to Gil-Estel’s rise, nursing steaming mugs of tea in hand.

           “Do you think of her often?” Elrond asked, watching wind-whipped waves toss jewel-bright light along their crests.

            “Who?” Maglor replied, baffled.

            “Your mother. And the others you left behind across the wide sea too, I guess.”

            “Not a week goes by that I don’t stare at that distant horizon, wonder what her life became, and whether she misses her sons. She was strong, though, my mother. I am sure she found her way.”

            “Doesn’t it bother you? The constant reminder?”

Maglor smiled wistfully into his cup, “No, quite the opposite. She was one of the few uncomplicated things in my life, one that it is easiest to look back on with fondness.”

             “I don’t know how I will stand it,” Elrond confessed, eyes shining with unshed tears, “looking out over the ocean each day knowing Elros is somewhere leagues away where I cannot reach him.”

             “Elincë,” Maglor reminded gently, “you’ve been parted for years. Mithlond and Harlond are hardly close.”

             “But I can clamber onto a horse and be at his side in little more than a week if I ride hard enough. A horse cannot carry me over the ocean.”

             “A ship could.”

             “I do not believe that will happen more than a few times,” Elrond said with the certainty of foresight.

             “The path of thought is still open to you, distance is no limitation.”

             Elrond turned to him then, eyes bright and piercing, “I know, but tell me atya, does it bring you much comfort, compared to a living, breathing, warm body beside you?”

             “No,” Maglor agreed with a note of longing.

             “And the sea will mock me every day, reminding me of what I cannot have.”

 

 

It was under a clear sky that Elros left the shores of Middle Earth. Manwë blessed the day with fair winds, and Ulmo the seas with calm waters. On the docks at Harlond, dwarfed by the carrack he was shortly to board Elros stood with arms wrapped tightly about Maglor and Elrond.

             “It is time,” Círdan interrupted, his voice steady and calm, as always, “we must be underway before the tide turns.”

             “A moment,” Elros begged.

             The grey-bearded elf replied kindly, “a few minutes will do no harm.”

             Elros buried his face In Elrond’s hair and breathed in deep, “you have no idea how I will miss you.”

             “I think I have some idea,” Elrond scoffed, “be safe, brother.”

             “Likewise,” Elros told him, “And be bold! The world will not dissolve beneath you if you do.”

             Elrond chuckled weakly, his fingers desperately grasping fistfuls of his brother’s hair, as if by this simple expedient, he might keep him from leaving. They broke apart at last, Elros pressing one firm hand to Elrond’s chest as the other gently brushed his cheek.

             Maglor pressed one last parting gift into Elrond’s hand: One palm-sized book, it’s leather embossed with vines and leaves, and rather lumpy little parcel.

             “What’s this?” Elros asked, weighing them in his hand, and then sniffing the parcel with a suspicious look, “dirt?”

             “It’s a small piece of home, to take with you. I could not give you soil from the place that we once shared a home truly, for that part of Ossiriand lays beneath the waves, but this is as close as I could come.”

             “Atya, when did you…”

             Maglor laughed, “I travel a lot these days.”

             “And the book?” Elros asked, flicking it open to a random page and finding notes of the growing of mulberries.

             “A catalogue of sorts,” Maglor explained, “On board you will find a small chest stocked with seeds. Plant them when you reach your island and see what grows. Each is from a plant that once grew in the forest where we once lived. Most of them edible.”

             “Trust you to remember Elros thinks first with his stomach,” Elrond laughed wetly, wiping away a tear.

             “When I have had time to explore the land the Valar have made for us, and the green things that grow there, I will send you a package also. Then you will know that I’ve arrived safely, to a rich land full of promise,” Elros vowed.

             “I will miss you Anarinkë,” Maglor said, leaning in for one last embrace and whispering into Elros’s ear, “don’t ever change!” 

             “Farewell for now, atya,” Elros replied, “but not forever. I expect you to visit.”

             Maglor nodded, already sure that he would like to journey there some years into the future, to explore the new lands and see what his foster son had made of them.

             “I don’t want you to go,” Elrond was saying as he stepped forward and clasped Elros tightly by the shoulders, “but since you must, promise me something.”

             “What?” Elros asked, baffled.

              “Write to me. Tell me what it’s like to sail on the seas as adar did. Tell me about the land. There is a section of the royal library in Mithlond newly set aside for the history of your people. Let me do this for you, brother. If I cannot keep you, then let me build you and your people a legacy in the great songs and stories. A memory for your children, and their children for many generations to come.”

             Elros, who had been until that point the sunniest of disposition and the only dry-eyed among the little party struggled visibly to hold back tears. He nodded, “I will, Elrond. I will write. As often as I may.”

             At last Gil-Galad stepped forward and clasped Elros firmly by the hand, who promptly drew him into a firm embrace.

             “Go well, my friend,” the King said, “may your paths be straight and your days blessed with peace.”

             “Thank you,” he said simply. And bestowing a parting kiss upon each of their foreheads, Elros turned and stepped lightly over the gangway. With all of his passengers now safely aboard, Círdan called orders to his folk, stowed the gangplank, and set the ship in motion. Ropes creaked, sailors cried out and sang, and sails filled. Soon the great carrack was underway and Elros waved to them over the railing, his face a picture of joyous exaltation. 

             They stayed until the ship was a mere dot on the horizon, and then not to be seen at all. Gil-Galad placed a warm hand on Elrond shoulder and led him away through the dispersing crowd, finding his way to a private place with Maglor bringing up the rear. Elrond, a passable facsimile of stoicism right up until the very moment they passed the threshold, began to tremble. Maglor gathered him in his arms.

              “Oh Ellincë,” he crooned, “cry if you need.”

               Then Maglor held his remaing son safely together as his heart tore itself in two.  

Chapter End Notes

Adar = father in Sindarin. Elrond uses this to refer to Earendil.

Ellincë = little star & Anarinkë. These are Maglor’s affectionate names for Elrond & Elros respectively.

Harlond is a haven on the Southern side of the Gulf of Lune. This is where I image Elros and the Edain to have used as a base in preparation for sailing to Númenor in the early second age. As far as I know this was not specified. Mithlond is the harbour city at the heart of Gil-Galad’s new kingdom in Lindon.

This story uses the parentage of Gil-Galad from the published Silmarillion, in which he is Fingon’s son. 

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment