After the Storm Ends by Independence1776

After the Storm Ends

“Have you heard the rumors?”

Maglor looked over at the short, elderly man in blue lungi and uttariya who walked onto the balcony through the open door to Maglor’s suite of rooms. “Which ones,” he asked the old man who was not an old Man.

Alatar leaned against the bronze-painted wooden railing and said nothing, merely looking West at the thunderhead looming in the distance. They were normal in spring, but given the hushed mood of the compound and the fact that the wind seemed to whisper of secrets and veiled threats, the storm itself appeared an omen.

Maybe it was an omen. Maglor knew enough of the last days of Númenor to know that Manwë had sent such storms. Alatar and Pallando had both confirmed it during some of their conversations with Maglor through the years. But why send one to them? As far as he knew, none of them needed the warning because they already were vigilant.

Alatar looked up at him and Maglor met his crinkled, dark gaze. “The rumors about the Deceiver, the one you name Sauron.”

Maglor let out a breath, gathering his thoughts into some sort of order. “I have heard, yes. The slave trade is more active than it has been in years, even in places where we thought it had been abolished. Armies are gathering, the gore crows flying. That all of his attention is on the northwest region of the world, that there is some power growing there to challenge or even supplant him. People are too afraid to flee because if he wins, they will become his targets for lacking faith in him, but they are afraid to stay in case he loses. Trade West and South is drying up for those who are neutral and gone for those who oppose; some of the delicacies we have now are the last we will see of them. That if his attention is turned here, we will lose.”

“Yes, those rumors.” Alatar put his weight on his elbows, looking at the rain cloud sheeting from beneath the approaching thunderhead, eerily beautiful when lit up by flashes of lighting. “That storm is not a warning for us, by the by. It is merely weather. Come inside before you become soaked.”

Maglor hid a smile and followed Alatar back into his suite. Maglor shut the door behind them due to the wind picking up, shaking the potted flowers and herbs on the balcony. They sank down next to the low table on the pile of rugs Maglor had chosen for the dining area. There was no food available, though Maglor did pour them both small cups of water from a pitcher he kept in the center of the table. They sipped them silently during the thunderstorm’s arrival, the rain pouring on the roof and the wind whistling around the eaves, sending splatters of rain against the glass door.

“How would you gauge the truthfulness of the rumors?”

This was a test. Alatar well knew Maglor’s biases. “I’d say most of them are true. Some may be exaggerated. I know not which ones those are, though I could guess with some accuracy. But Sauron… one of his weapons is fear. He wants us worried about what will happen when he defeats at last his ancient enemies.” Maglor met Alatar’s eyes. “We are his next target, after Gondor is destroyed. Both Pallando and you have stood against him time and again, both openly and secretly. Sauron well knows where I am; I have made no attempt to hide in recent decades. He knows I will not stand aside while you fight. He would count it as a great victory against the West to win one war, much less against the Valar’s emissaries.” Maglor paused. “Not that I am one. But apart from Galadriel, Elrond, Círdan, and a handful of others, how many people live who remember the War of Wrath? I fear that magnitude of disaster happening again.”

“Not Númenor?” Alatar said, holding his cup just below his mouth.

“No,” Maglor said. “Númenor invaded the West under Sauron’s influence. There are those here who would say their ancestors never fell under Morgoth’s sway-- or Sauron’s. There are those who say the opposite. Both may be right. Both may be wrong. Yet they are innocent people. Innocent of blasphemy of the sort Sauron preached, at least. I do not think the Valar would be able to lay down their governance of Arda so Ilúvatar may act, if their retreat from the circles of the world has not already constituted such an action.” He gave Alatar a wry look. “Your presence says otherwise, of course. But I do not think Ilúvatar would destroy the world to stop Sauron. It’s overkill. The Valar wouldn’t have sent five Maiar to oppose him if you wouldn’t be effective.”

“You sound so disgruntled,” Alatar said with a small smile on his lips.

“You sound too amused,” Maglor said, side-eyeing him.

Alatar laughed. “Mayhap I am, whippersnapper.” He peered into the thin air above Maglor’s head before sobering. “Pallando approaches. He’s disgruntled about getting caught in the rain.”

If Maglor wasn’t holding his cup, he would have buried his face in his hands in exasperation. The two wizards had a habit of using Ósanwe-kenta to disconcert people. They usually didn’t bother with him… but this wasn’t an attempt to do so. “Alatar, what are we doing about Sauron? I have heard little solid planning and it worries me.”

“We’re waiting. We have reason to suspect that the West may win.”

Maglor stilled. “Was the One Ring found?”

“I do not know. But events are moving that you would not have heard of. Not yet.”

Maglor was, after all, not the spymaster here. He had other roles and there were some things he simply did not need to know unless it became relevant. “We wait?”

“We act,” Alatar said with a broad smile. “We simply don’t know what we will need to do. Not until we know more.”

“When will that be?” Cavalry needed time to move into position. Supply lines had to be managed; he could not lead an army of riders without them.

Alatar’s smiled deepened. “After the storms ends, Maglor. After the storm ends.”