Many Meetings : the Night is Passing by bunn  

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An Unexpected Reunion

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Life went on, on the Lonely Isle among the waves, years of the Sun fleeting past like the shadows of clouds flickering across the open sea, and still the Valar stood deep in silent discussion within the Ring of Doom beside the western gates of Valimar. 

Until at last, upon the Old Straight Road out of Middle-earth, there came one last sailing: a fleet of seven ships, and at their head was a great white ship strong and bright, with a figurehead made in the form of a mighty leaping whale. She shone with the rising sun behind her as she rode down the clear green waves, with porpoises surfing before her bow. 

The Teleri fleet, thousands strong, had been waiting that night in the channel outside Alqualondë. Now as the sun rose, they came sailing out, beating up close-hauled against the wind to meet the seven ships running West. Their tall sails glowed bright against the rising dawn in every shade from white to deepest indigo, and voices raised high in a song of greeting across the endless music of the waves. 

High above, on great white wings that caught the warm dawn-light, the Lady Elwing flew, and beside her many white birds followed, bright against the clear blue. 

The great fleet of the Teleri went about and fell in behind the seven, who led them on, west across the waves to the Lonely Isle, and the harbour of Avallónë that once had looked out to vanished Númenor. 

There, the flag-ship put in briefly, and four passengers disembarked, three tall figures, and one short and rather bent, who needed some help climbing down the ladder. Elwing came down gracefully and put off her wings to greet those who were waiting there. 

And then the flag-ship set her white sails once more and went on, leading all the Teleri fleet, far too many of them ever to put in at once at the little haven of Avallónë. They sailed on, a short way North up the coast, porpoises and dolphins dancing at the bow. All of them were singing now, a joyful song of homecoming that rang across the waves and could be heard across the Lonely Isle, and all the way up into the Calacirya to Tirion. 

At last the singers came into the harbour of Alqualondë, and there the great white ship found the place that had long been reserved for it. 

Círdan had forsaken the Grey Havens at last, and had come to make his home in Aman. 

. . . . . 

The stooped old hobbit who must surely be Frodo’s friend Sam stood on the deck of the tall white ship. He accepted Elrohir’s assistance to help him down the ladder. Glorfindel, ignoring the hobbit’s protests, had taken his small pack and carried it for him down onto the quayside, then turned to steady him as Sam set his feet on the ground. 

Frodo hurried forward to greet him, his face shining with delight. Sam straightened up and stared at him in astonishment. 

“Why, Mr Frodo, you don’t look changed at all!” he said. He reached out tentatively to touch the shoulder that long ago had been wounded at Weathertop, almost as if he expected Frodo to vanish in a puff of smoke.

“It barely troubles me at all now,” Frodo told him. “It’s so good to see you, Sam!” He flung his arms around Sam’s shoulders in delight. “But you have got so old! Has it really been so many years? It’s hard to keep count of them here among the Elves. Rather like it was in Lórien, do you remember? Your hair’s all white! You look like the Gaffer!” 

“That does happen, when you get to be an old gaffer with eight children yourself.” Sam said, hugging him back then pulling back to stare again. “You do end up looking like what you are. Or most of us do. But not you, seemingly! You’re more well-preserved than old Mr Bilbo used to be, even!”

“I think you’ll find I’m much better preserved than I used to be, young Sam!” Bilbo said, coming forward to shake his hand. Sam’s mouth fell open in amazement. “Old Mr Bilbo, as I live and breathe! And looking no older than my boy Hamfast!” 

“Yes,” Frodo said, his voice bright with joy. “All three Ringbearers together again at long last.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you both again,” Sam said. “And yet, it’s hard too. It’s very hard. I lost my Rosie, you see.” His voice cracked a little as he said it. 

“Oh, Sam,” Frodo said, and drew his friend away to sit him down and offer whatever comfort he could. 

Beside them, Elrond and Celebrían had come up to embrace Elrohir and Glorfindel. Ecthelion of the Fountain, who was there watching Maglor today, came up smiling to greet his old friend Glorfindel too. Then Celebrían looked up and squealed in delight as someone else came down the ladder. 

“Father!” she said. “I didn’t know you were coming!” 

Maglor, who had been watching the joyful greetings with a smile, looked up in alarm and retreated quietly behind a pile of lobster pots. It was unlikely that Celeborn of Doriath would recognise him, but it would be best not to risk a confrontation and spoil the moment. He took off his coat and folded it carefully to hide the star. 

No-one else was getting off the ship. Galadriel had stepped forward to take her husband’s hand. The mariners were untying ropes. Maglor could see Elrond still standing on the quay beside his mother Elwing, saw him look up expectantly at the ship, then back at his son with an expression that mingled joy with distress. 

Elrohir’s fair face looked troubled; he was saying something to his father and mother and shaking his head a little. Maglor was now too far off to hear, across the bubble of voices, but it was clear from Celebrian’s face and the surface of Elrond’s mind what Elrohir was saying. 

Elrohir had chosen the path of Elves and come to Aman. Elladan had not. 

. . . . . 

It was definitely not a moment for Maglor to intrude. He retreated through piles of fishing gear, sail-stores and boathouses, as swiftly and silently as he had done so many times when he had encountered Elves upon the Western shores of Middle-earth. 

There was an inn on the outskirts of Alqualondë that Frodo favoured, and it was just opening up for the day as Maglor passed. He looked at it, and decided it was not a place where he was likely to encounter Celeborn.

He went in and made an agreement with the landlady for wine in return for music. He had done that a few times, a very long time ago in Tirion, though usually with a group of friends and not first thing in the morning. 

He remembered how his father had called him undignified and rolled his eyes. Maglor had laughed, and his father had laughed back. Fëanor had never been particularly dignified himself, in those long-distant days before anyone had thought that being dignified was important for princes. A long time since he had thought of that particular memory, for some reason, though now he came to look at it, it had a small ordinary joy about it that made it shine. 

The landlady seemed happy with the arrangement, despite the time of day, so he took the wine-jug and a plate of bread and cheese, and found himself a corner of the garden, in the shade of a vine upon which the small green grapes were starting to swell. He had not brought his harp, but the reed flute tucked into his coat was probably more appropriate for an inn anyway. 

There was nobody in the garden yet but people would probably turn up when he started to play. They usually did. 

It was a considerable time later when Ecthelion arrived, looking a little harried. The garden was half-full of cheerful people listening to the music and having a drink by then, and Maglor felt that he had more than fulfilled his obligations. 

“There you are!” Ecthelion said coming over to him. “I turned around and you’d vanished!” 

Maglor continued playing until he had reached the end of the verse, then put his flute down and nodded politely to his audience in response to the applause. 

“I didn’t vanish,” he told Ecthelion. “I just wasn’t there. Vanishing would suggest I’d made an effort. Believe me, Ecthelion, when I say that after six thousand years avoiding company, if I wanted you not to know where I was, you would not know. I have no duty to account for my whereabouts to you.” 

Ecthelion narrowed his eyes. “You are usually more obliging,” he said. 

“I am. I am extremely obliging. But you must know that the only reason that Elrond did not send you and your friends off with your tails between your legs long ago is because I made it clear that I was prepared to let you watch me.”

“Ah. I wondered about that. Why?”

“I thought it might help those like Egalmoth and Galdor who endured the slaughter at the Havens. And Celebrimbor too, since he can hardly send my own people to watch me. The Havens wasn’t easy for him either. Believe it or not, I would prefer not to haunt anybody’s nightmares.”

“So what’s different today?” Ecthelion asked, and sat down on the bench next to him.

“Today, Elrond and Celebrían have enough to think of without remembering what I did, or worrying that Celebrían’s father may be angry, or that all of you, Elrond’s grandmother’s people, who should owe him allegiance, do not trust his judgment or his ability.”

Ecthelion’s grey eyes widened, taken aback. “I hadn’t thought of it quite like that.” He frowned. “But still, it is a great deal to ask, that we should trust to his word about you. Your own people tried to stop you.”

“Yes. I did notice that, oddly enough,” Maglor told him, looking away uncomfortably. “You seem to think of Elrond as only Eärendil’s son. He’s a good deal more than that, and he has more than proved it. Anyway, you have had a busy time finding me, and now you and I are going to stay well out of the way. It’s fortunate that it’s you, today. It might be harder for Egalmoth to hear and understand me.” 

Ecthelion gave him a long thoughtful look. “I understand you. You don’t think Elrond will wonder where you are?”

“You’re underrating him again. Elrond will tell me when he wants me. This is a pleasant spot to stay out of the way. I have known a lot worse! The wine is excellent and the audience appreciative.”

Ecthelion had never been a particular friend of Maglor’s, but he had been a friend of Turgon’s. Once or twice, in Tirion a very long time ago, Finrod had brought along Turgon and some of their friends, among them Ecthelion, to hear Maglor play. Some of them had joined in. 

Ecthelion, very young and very far from the imposing Balrog-slayer he would become, had been rather obviously star-struck; Maglor had, he hoped, been kind, though probably less than he should have been. 

He gave Ecthelion a smile. “I hope you brought your flute. It’s been a long time.” 

Ecthelion laughed. “I’m supposed to be watching you for Egalmoth and the others, not playing a duet!”

“Well, in that case, you have a choice,” Maglor said. “You can play the flute, and I can sing, or you can sit there watching me while I show you all the ways that I’m a less expert flautist than you are. Only the first choice lets you share my jug of wine.”

“Not much of a choice!” Ecthelion said, pulling out his flute from its carrying-case. “Don’t mention it to Egalmoth. I don’t know what he’d say.” 

“I won’t,” Maglor said. “He wouldn’t listen to me, anyway. But I’d be grateful if you’d consider telling him yourself. It might help him sleep better, in the long run.” 

. . . . . 

It was not very long before Elrond reached out to Maglor’s mind with a polite, unrevealing enquiry. Maglor explained where he was, and awaited orders. 

He was not entirely surprised when Frodo came in, leading Bilbo and a rather wide-eyed Sam. Hobbits were famously enthusiastic about inns, and this was, after all, Frodo’s favorite inn in Avallónë. 

Maglor was, however, so startled to see that they had brought Celeborn with them that he almost dropped a note. Ecthelion stopped playing abruptly. 

Maglor got to his feet and bowed politely, as Frodo began to pull up the chairs that the landlady of the Silver Shearwater had some time ago thoughtfully adapted for the use of hobbits. 

“I understand you have been staying with my daughter,” Celeborn said, standing there tall and silver-haired and enormously dignified, once Bilbo had made the formal introductions. 

 

“Yes,” Maglor said cautiously. “She has been very kind.”

Celeborn sighed and shook his silver head. “My wife,” he said, rather helplessly, “danced joyfully in and out of Moria when it was full of dwarves, and expects me to welcome dwarves into my home. I understand she has broken all the rules and invited her friend Gimli to join us here too. My son-in-law rode desperately to the aid of the last stronghold of the House of Fëanor and expected me to assist him without blinking. And now I arrive in the West at long last, and find my daughter has adopted a son of Fëanor and taken him home with her. I don’t know what Thingol would say.” 

“I sympathise,” Ecthelion said, laughing. “I came out this morning to carry out guard duty upon a criminal, and I have spent most of today drinking his wine and playing the flute for him. I don’t know how it happened.”

“Good,” Frodo said, smiling. He picked up the jug and shook it. “Did you know this is nearly empty, Maglor?” he asked, looking stern. 

“We have earned another, by now, I think,” Maglor said with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And probably a jug of ale for you, too. I assume, Master Samwise, that you too prefer ale?” 

“I wouldn’t say no,” Sam said. “If there’s a decent pint on the Lonely Isle, it’s a good start.”

“You can take my word for it,” Frodo said. “I may have lost track of the years a little, but Bilbo will support me when I say the Silver Shearwater has the best ale on the island.” 

“Wine for me,” Celeborn said, and sat down, as if accepting his fate. 

“Very well then,” Maglor said. “I have an apology for you, Celeborn, for Doriath, if you will hear it. But first I’ll get the drinks.”