Title: Wasting the Dawn

Author: Talullah (talullahred@gmail.com)
Author's website: www.secretstigma.net

Pairing: Gildor/Maglor (Círdan/Galdor implied)
Summary: Gildor chases an elusive fox who turns out to be a moody elf.
Rating: NC-17.

Feedback: would be lovely.
Archive: My website. Others are welcomed, but please tell me where it
is.
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine; they belong to the estate of
J.R.R. Tolkien and God knows who else. No disrespect intended. No
profit made.

Author’s Notes: The title as well as some lines are from the lyrics of
"Stoned Immaculate" by The Doors.

Many thanks to Larien Elengasse for betaing this piece. All remaining
mistakes are mine.

Chapter 1
~~~~~~
Eriador, late 1590, Second Age

Rumours, hunches, and wild speculation usually preceded raging words,
incipient pity, lynching desires, and an abrupt changing of subject
for something more conclusive and immediate. Gildor had found himself
sceptically curious at first, then mildly interested, and finally one
day he had to admit that the subject of Maglor's fate had turned into
a very particular obsession. He burned to know what had become of
Maglor of the Golden Voice, assuming that he still lived, and so he
found himself at first listening carefully to tavern talk, gently
steering conversations, sometimes questioning openly, though the
latter often risked the danger of meeting heated tempers. Still,
despite all the guesses, no one knew or truly wanted to know where
Maglor stayed or where he wandered; rumour was all that there was.

A bleary consensus emerged from the splinters of information: it was
believed that Maglor wandered aimlessly through the shores of Middle-
earth, singing his grief and remorse to the waves. Gildor admitted
that was a possibility, but the fragments of evidence supporting this
theory were far from convincing. The sightings were never conclusive:
many of those who claimed they had seen or heard Maglor had never met
him personally. As for the logistics, Gildor knew Middle-earth and its
roads, villages, ports, rivers, and forests better than anyone else.
He highly doubted that it was possible to sustain oneself for almost
sixteen hundred years without coming close to others, and Gildor had
travelled amongst all possible 'others', carefully collecting their
tales. 

There were possibilities that most people simply did not contemplate.
One arose from the only theft ever reported in the Grey Havens, still
unsolved to the day... was it possible that Maglor had stolen a ship
to sail West? Ludicrous as it might have seemed, Maglor certainly
possessed the skills and the morals to steal a ship, but would he sail
West after the disastrous waste of his last chance of redemption at
the end of the War of Wrath? He could be using it for fishing, but
eventually the people of the Falas or the men from Elena would have
seen him.

They could have also have been looking in the wrong place: Maglor
might have left the shores and migrated inland. Why not? The hunting
was better and it was easier to find shelter from the weather and from
prying eyes in a thick wood than on an open beach. Still, there was
absolutely no trustworthy evidence of this theory.

Conversely, Maglor could be dead. That thought pained Gildor, like a
worn-out bruise still pains you when it is pressed. Many had asked him
about his interest in the son of Fëanor but he had always shrugged the
questions off with laughter under the excuse of plain curiosity; he
had believed it to be true himself. Whether on the road or in the
court, his interest was considered to be unseemly; in truth, he had no
obvious reason to be interested. He was little more than a child when
his parents took him across the Helcaraxë, and at that time, Maglor
was a grown elf already of renown. They had never made each other's
acquaintance, though Gildor remembered the golden voice as if it had
been the day before.

After a particularly embarrassing episode, Gil-galad had forbidden him
of mentioning Maglor again in front of Elrond, but Gildor had not
stopped until his own people pointed out to him that his obsession was
too intense and verging on being unhealthy. Gildor had meditated upon
their words and had let the matter subside from public talk for a
while, though in his heart it burned as brightly as ever. He was drawn
to mysteries, obsessed with the truth behind appearances, and this
trait had often been useful to himself, his people, and his king. Only
this particular puzzle remained stubbornly unsolved, refusing to die.

Over a thousand years had passed since Maglor's disappearance and the
birth of Gildor's very particular interest, and the matter had slowly
slipped from common talk. He still listened carefully for the smallest
hint, for sightings of an unknown traveller or vestiges in the woods,
but none of the news provided clues worth following. Gildor had
started letting the hope of ever finding Maglor's whereabouts fade,
but he still took the longest roads to his destinations, stopping in
every village. It was something his people enjoyed, that brought
commercial advantages, and provided them with good opportunities to
satisfy the ever-present need of information in Lindon.

Ironically, the first interesting clue in more than two hundred years
came not from the remote villages Gildor had always considered
promising, but from the cosmopolitan Mithlond. It was late in autumn,
and the cold had settled in, asking for a cosy fire rather than
another long journey. At Gil-galad's special request, Gildor and his
people had agreed to make a final journey before the first snows to
the Grey Havens, where a mysterious package needed to be safely
delivered to the hands of Círdan and none other.

Winter was so close on their heels that they took the shortest route,
relinquishing their usual meandering and numerous stops, but still the
first snowfall caught them in the last two days of their journey. The
warm welcoming of the Teleri with a generous offer of comfortable
rooms for the winter in Círdan's halls and other homes in town was
enough to renew the smiles of Gildor's people.

They had been settled for two days when Galdor returned from an errand
in Forland.

“Gildor, old fox!” he exclaimed congenially upon the sight of his old
friend.

They hugged each other, with vigorous back-slapping. Galdor looked
tired and they parted for a few hours, but at night, the elf was his
old self again, refreshed by a hot bath, a nap and a nice meal. 

Círdan's numerous household denizens and his guests filled the main
hall for some after-dinner music and conversation, mostly about the
preparations for the pending Yule festivities. Galdor found his old
time friend on a comfortable sofa and joined him.

“What brings you around so late in the year?” he asked.

Gildor smiled. “I wish I knew... I was asked to deliver something safe
to Círdan's hands and keep my mouth shut. In fact, I only tell you
this because you probably know more than I do already.” He could not
resist adding a wink.

“Well,” Galdor replied aghast, “whatever it was that you brought, it
is certainly distracting.” His face turned to a sardonic grin,
bringing laughter to Gildor's eyes.

“I'm sure he'll make it up to you later on...”

“One wishes,” Galdor replied dryly.

“And what were you up to in Forland?” Gildor inquired.

“Oh, you will love this. Actually I should have remembered you
sooner.”

“Yes?”

“Well, remember that nice little ship that was stolen some five yen
ago?” Galdor grinned. “I remember you suggesting that it had been
Maglor who was the thief.” Galdor's grin turned into a short laugh.

Gildor smiled indulgently. “Yes, I remember.”

“Well, I was called because wreckage of a ship was found on the
western shores of Forlindon. You know how carefully we record every
ship that comes and goes and not a single elf at sea is unaccounted
for. No one was missing so they called upon us to solve the mystery.
There was little left of it, but I am to believe that it was that
little skiff that so occupied your mind sometime ago.”

A sad “Ah” was Gildor's reply. Maglor sailing to the West to ask
forgiveness was one of his favourite theories, now shattered either by
drowning or by some other explanation. 

“Did you find what happened to that boat?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Still hoping, eh?” Galdor teased. “We have no idea, to be truthful.
I'd like to think that some young elf or elves has heard of this and
regrets now that so many people have troubled themselves about a
childhood prank. That's my best guess.”

Gildor nodded. “You say the west cost of the north side?” he asked
after a few moments of reflection. “I thought you had told me that
there is a strong cold current from Forochel to the south all along
the coast until the mouth of the bay. How did it get there, I wonder.”

“Not by Maglor's hand, that's for sure...” Galdor meant to jest but he
was pensive. “The logical explanation was that... I'm not sure.”

“Never mind,” Gildor said. “Some mysteries are not meant to be solved.
If no one is missing, that is all that matters.”

They chatted for an hour more while the music lasted, and at last,
Galdor bid Gildor goodnight, as he followed Círdan discretely.

The lights had dimmed and many had left the hall. Gildor found his
room and stripped in the dark. He felt too tired to light the fire,
and knowing that he would regret it later, he slipped into bed,
enjoying the cold scent of seaweed that all the bed linens from the
Havens seemed to share. A yawn, a silent prayer of thanks to Varda,
and then he was asleep.

~~~~~~
Chapter 2

It seemed that only a few minutes had passed, but when Gildor woke
feeling stiff and cold, the moon was no longer visible from his
window. Had it been any earlier in the year, he would have dressed and
ventured out for an early walk, but at this moment he only wanted to
light a nice fire and crawl back into bed.

The tinder felt wet to his fingers and after several tries it still
refused to cooperate. He started to shiver and the blasted thing fell
from his hands. He tried again, but could get no decent spark.
Cursing, he slipped back into bed and curled up tightly, trying to
ignore the cold and return to his dreams, but it was impossible.
Rubbing his shins with his hands in a vain attempt to warm them, he
lay awake, waiting for dawn, light, and warmth. His thoughts strayed
to the day that awaited him, to the lovely ride under the pale winter
sun, the always-surprising food of the Havens, and finally the
pleasure of meeting again one of his dearest friends.

The conversation with Galdor had intrigued him more than he wished to
concede, as he was all too familiar with ridicule. He kept thinking
about that lost boat, so completely unaccounted for. Boats did not
leave harbours without crew. The ports were guarded, no one was
missed, and now wreckage landed on some beach. They could have only
have wrecked on the spot, or drifted from the north; but no one lived
that far north. The cold waters were too poor to sustain fisheries,
and too exposed to the westerlies. The few woods that lay o
slopes of the Ered Luin were sometimes visited for fox skins and elk,
but the Teleri generally preferred Ulmo’s offerings to Oromë's. No one
lived there, and therefore Gildor had never explored the region.

He had considered it as an idle thought on a couple of occasions, but
even to him it seemed ludicrous and his people had refused the thought
of an idle trip. Some had crossed the Helcaraxë like himself and had
bad memories of cold and ice, but most were tree folk and they saw no
interest in visiting bare land with neither people nor resources of
interest.

A faint light seemed to venture through Gildor's window. He closed his
eyes, thankful for the dawn. Already the weariness of a bad night
weighed on him but he was eager to start the day. Forcing himself to
be patient, he waited for the first rosy streaks to show before he
rose from bed and dressed. What he needed to make him good as new was
a hot bath and a nice breakfast, but given the time of day he would
only be in the way of Círdan's bakers if he ventured into the kitchen,
so he chose the bath first.

In the Havens, communal baths were still popular, something that
Gildor appreciated for the lovely opportunities to socialise in more
than one way, but in that early dawn, they were empty. Fortunately,
one of the smaller pools had been already heated. After stripping, he
sunk in the warm water with a groan of satisfaction. Others might call
communal baths uncivilised, but to him they were one of the great
inventions of Elvendom.

He soaked until he could hear the house waking up. Soon, company
arrived, but the time was not right for socialising. Everyone was
preparing for the day, so Gildor dried and escaped to the kitchens,
where fresh baked bread surely waited him. Another habit of Círdan's
house generally deemed uncivilised but one that he enjoyed
tremendously was that only dinner was served in the main dining room.
Everyone was free to come and go from the kitchens within reasonable
hours and a relaxed atmosphere

As he was finishing his meal, Círdan and Galdor made their appearance.
They sat next to him and Gildor waited for them to break their fast.
The only words exchanged were “good morning”, sounding refreshed from
Gildor, absent from Círdan, and ill humoured from Galdor – apparently,
the welcoming Galdor received had been colder than expected. 

As they finished, Círdan invited Gildor for a walk. When they were
outside he asked bluntly, “Do you know what you have brought me?”

Gildor shook his head. “No.” He had been curious, but far from curious
enough to break Gil-galad's trust. 

Círdan chewed his lip and Galdor frowned toward an unknown presence on
the horizon.

“Is it something that has put my people in danger?” Gildor asked. He
should trust Gil-galad, but the question begged to be put forth.

Círdan straightened his back. “I'm not sure. I don't think so. This
'present' was not from Gil-galad but from Celebrimbor... you were not
the first to carry it in secret.”

Gildor nodded, his curiosity stirred, but he waited for Círdan to
continue.

“They have this need to create objects of power running in their
veins...” Círdan stretched out his hand, where a red glint shone, so
quickly that Gildor doubted his own eyes. He blinked and Círdan's hand
was naked again. Galdor turned his face from them, but not before
Gildor saw his lips pressing together in annoyance.

“It seems to heat or burn things... I'm not sure what to do with it
and I can't fathom why it was sent to me. I wish the boy hadn't felt
such a need for secrecy... A letter with instructions would have been
nicer than the cryptic note he sent.”

Galdor huffed and walked ahead a few steps. “We don't need 'something
to help'.”

“Galdor don't be so arrogant... I am sure that this will be of use to
someone, someday. Nothing happens without a purpose.”

Gildor looked around for an escape from the imminent quarrel, even
though he wanted to know why Círdan had confided in him, but the older
elf caught his wrist and held him close.

“Son, we know what you do, and we understand and approve. Ereinion is
like a son to me and when you come to my house at his request, I never
fear what your eyes and ears may catch. But now that I have received
this thing I want us to speak straight to one another.”

Gildor nodded.

“Why was this made? I know that the reports of orc attacks have been
more frequent of late, but tell me, is that the result of two bad
winters in a row, or is there something else that we should know.”

Gildor felt the full weight of Círdan's dark-grey eyes on him,
extracting the truth... but the truth was that he did not know.

“Gil-galad doesn't tell me as much as you seem to think... but I've
been asked to pay close attention to Celebrimbor's guest in Ost-in-
Edhil. I truly do not know if there is something dark growing
somewhere, but I can understand his concerns, and he has ordered
Elrond to keep an army ready.”

“Apparently he's not the only one who suspects,” Círdan replied.
“Celebrimbor asked me to confide in as few as I could and to keep the
ring out of view, which as you have seen is curiously easy – I just
have to will it.”

“Interesting...” Gildor was not too surprised. During his last visit
to Ost-in-Edhil, he had detected a subtle cooling in the relations
between Celebrimbor and Annatar, and he was pleased to note that the
mysterious guest was now absent from many of the dinner parties.
Celebrimbor had kept his silence when he had exerted his subtlest
inquiries, and Gildor had no choice but to quit before he overstepped
the bounds of discretion.

The rest of the morning was spent in deep conversation about the ring
and about the affairs of Middle-earth, and as noon came closer the
conversation turned to lighter subjects; Gildor happily obliged in
telling all of the latest gossip from other lands and mutual
acquaintances. The matter of the missing boat that had so obsessed him
had slipped his mind by the time dessert was served and plans for the
afternoon were made.

As the plates were removed, Círdan grinned wickedly in sudden
inspiration. “Ah, there is one more piece of news... I'm sure Galdor
told you all about the boat that was found last night, but I cannot
resist teasing you, my friend. I'm surprised that you haven't
mentioned it yet.”

Gildor smiled... He suspected that Círdan was far from approving of
his obsession, but his friend respected him, and in a way, understood.
Círdan felt that Gildor had a vague debt of gratitude towards Maglor
for the nurturing he had given to Elrond and Elros, and he was one of
the few who did not jump to accuse him.

He sighed. “We had other concerns of a more pressing nature. Galdor
won't agree with me, I'm sure, but the reappearance of this boat does
nothing to deny my theory.”

Círdan laughed. “Your persistence is truly virtuous.”

“I do have a theory...” Gildor tempted him.

“I would have been disappointed if you didn't have one!” The three of
them laughed.

“Shall we go to the library for a chat about this theory of yours?”
Círdan invited.

“Perfect. I'm going to need some maps,” Gildor replied with a wink.

In the library, they sat at a large table with their backs turned to
the vast window that was bursting with a vibrant seascape. Gildor
spread the current maps that Galdor kindly provided and traced a curve
with his finger, a curve that followed a thick dark blue arrow that
connected the Ice Bay of Forochel to the mouth of the Mithlond bay.

Galdor made a noncommittal sound, a sort of snort, but Círdan
scratched his chin pensively. He raised an eyebrow at last. “You do
have a point... If there is a good hiding place for a resilient elf
that would be the barren north... I hope that this doesn't mean you'll
start taking your people there – they would lynch you.”

“I know. I haven't given this much thought yet. Frankly, my rational
side tells me that it's time to quit.”

“But you're not ready yet, are you?” Círdan affirmed more than asked.

“Not really, no.”

“They say the truth will set you free,” Círdan started. “You are one
of the people in this land highest in my regard and affection, and I
would like to see you my friend, free, not tormented by an old
question regarding some elf you have never even met. I think that you
know I am right.”

Gildor frowned. He knew Círdan was right, but he didn't like being
reminded. As he opened his mouth for a vague protest, Círdan
continued.

“Let's make a deal. You have no urgent travelling to do this spring.
Why don't I lend you a nice little boat and a couple of sailors and
you go to Forochel, spend the whole summer there if needed, and if you
find no one, which is most likely, you return to us and let go of this
obsession forever. Surely you can see that even if Maglor still lives
he is forever lost to us...”

Gildor had devoted too much time of his time and energy to the
question of Maglor's whereabouts to immediately assent. “I will think
about it,” he said, avoiding Círdan's eyes.

~~~~~~
Chapter 3

The next day found Gildor restless. Círdan's offer was equally
repulsive and tempting, and posed terrible questions. What if he
failed? What if he searched the last stretch of land west and north of
the Ered Lithui and found no one? What would that prove? And would he
be able to keep his part of the bargain? 

He sat for breakfast, Galdor sitting by his side at the table,
jovially patting his back.

“Have you considered Círdan's offer?” he asked with no preambles.

“I have.” Gildor took a long sip from his tea mug.

“Well?” asked Galdor in a slightly impatient tone.

Gildor nodded, but stayed quiet. He had heard Círdan's voice in the
hallway and waited for his host to join them.

“Ah, you're here!” Galdor exclaimed upon feeling Círdan's hand resting
on his shoulder. “Maybe you can convince our friend here to tell us
what he has decided.”

Círdan sat down and waited for Gildor to stop chewing his upper lip.

“I'll take your challenge, Círdan,” he said at last. “But I will not
wait for spring nor will I take any company. I'll take my horse and
travel east of the Ered Luin. There are but a few faded trails but my
horse is more than able-”

“You're mad!” Círdan slapped the table attracting several eyes to
them.

Galdor rested his elbows on the table, his chin propped on his hands.
“You certainly are not serious...”

“The weather has been holding fine. This will be a warm winter and one
who has crossed the Helcaraxë surely will survive a mild winter in
Forochel.”

Círdan and Galdor exchanged glances.

“I doubt this will be a warm winter, Gildor. Already we see ice blocks
floating down from the north. The snow, light as it may be, has not
stopped for more than two or three hours at a time since you arrived.
Soon every road will be closed, and where you are going there are no
roads as you yourself pointed out. Wait for spring,” Círdan pleaded.

“Círdan, if I am to do this I'll do it now.”

“You can't take your horse – the poor beast will surely die of
starvation before you reach half way. There's not enough for grazing
even if he was accustomed to searching for his food under the snow,”
Círdan objected.

“I'll go by foot then. I'll carry some food and hunt some on the way.” 

“I will go with you,” Galdor offered.

Círdan covered Galdor's wrist with his hand in a rare display of the
more intimate nature of their relationship.

“I cannot accept that offer, my friend,” Gildor said, “but I am
touched that you would follow me in my folly.” A bitter smiled crept
up to his lips.

 “I do know how ridiculously insane this all sounds,” he offered as a
measure of an apology.

“Your mind is set, then?” Círdan asked.

Gildor nodded. “I will be spending this day and the next in
preparation. I need to leave instructions to my people in case I do
not return...”

“You will,” Galdor said, squeezing his friend's shoulder.

~~~~~~
Chapter 4

The next two days were spent in concerted efforts to prepare Gildor's
journey. His people begged him to stay, but Gildor had his mind set,
despite his own admission of folly. Galdor helped him the best he
could and at the dawn of the third day, he left from the south pier
for a quick cross to the north shore. That would be all the help from
the Havens he would accept in his endeavour.

He started his ride north with clear weather. As if to spite Círdan's
words the weather seemed to be holding up, and for a few days Gildor
enjoyed a pale, cold sun. For three weeks he trod his way north,
following a sinuous line near the foothills of Ered Luin. He knew that
no dwellings lay on his way, and he planned to make his return voyage
closer to the shore side. It was a fairly large stretch of land for
one single person to cover, but Gildor was not in a hurry. He was
enjoying a strange and sudden feeling of freedom. The empty land
stretching white and pristine to the horizon begged to be explored,
not for some old compulsion, but for its sheer, pristine beauty. No
one depended on him now; it was him, the sky, and the white soft
slopes ahead.

His poetic view of the wilderness changed when a sudden blizzard
caught him as he made to turn east, forcing him to seek refuge in the
mountains. The forest was left behind, so he hoped to find a ledge or
a rock under which he could take shelter, but the few candidates he
devised always proved too small when examined more closely. The winds
swept the plains, bombarding the mountains with clouds of sleet, which
felt like shards of glass upon his skin. He was starting to despair
when he came upon a dark crevice that at first in the raging storm had
looked like a mere shadow. His heart warmed upon the sight of the
place. It was nothing more than a long slit between two boulders, but
it was enough to protect him from the worst of the storm. 

The storm held him prisoner for two days. When finally the hissing of
the winds subsided, Gildor found himself trapped by a wall of snow
twice his height. He dreaded thinking about how he would proceed with
all that snow, even using the special shoes Círdan had given him. With
each blow to the obstruction, he cursed himself for his stupidity,
wondering what had possessed him, but when he came to daylight, he
gasped in awe. The air was painfully dry and cold, but the snow now
took on blue hues, spreading out like a lighter sea, merging with a
pale sky at the horizon.

He put on his racket shoes and his backpack and prepared for the
painstaking walk ahead of him. By his account, he should reach the
cape where the shoreline turned south in one day, two at the most. He
suspected that if indeed Maglor was in the country, he would have
taken refuge far into Forochel, so his journey should truly start at
that turning point. 

Walking with the snow shoes was surprisingly easy, after a brief
period of adaptation. He was so far north that there was some light
during the evening, but he feared he would over-exert himself. He
tried to keep the routine that he had established before with regular
periods of rest. It took him three days to reach the cape. Despite his
cares, he was exhausted, and knew full well that the hardship he had
experienced was nothing compared to what was to come. He searched for
shelter and decided to rest for a few days before proceeding. 

The Ered Luin faded to soft hills at his back. He knew those hills
were not prone to host caves, but after his burial in the crevice, he
was not eager to find another cave. Too tired to walk, he sat on a
snow covered rock, feeling his body cooling rapidly. He scanned the
landscape, searching for the slightest hint of some place adequate to
rest. There was a rock formation about a mile south that could be
promising but he would wait a few more minutes, resting, regarding the
white expanse of ice that covered the cove that he knew from the maps
would lay ahead of him. Somewhere in the distance, in the other shore,
a flicker of dark in the white drew his attention. His heart stopped
for a second before starting to race, but then the tiny dot was gone. 

He started his walk toward the shelter but his eyes never left the
shore. Telling himself that it could be a wild animal or some debris
carried by the wind, he tried to occupy his mind with more pragmatic
thoughts, and he set up a camp as comfortable as possible under the
circumstances. His food stock was starting to run low and no signs of
game were imaginable. Not for the first time, he cursed himself.

He woke a few hours later, cold, hungry and disoriented; he could not
tell if it was dawn or dusk and that worried him. The elating feeling
of freedom and beauty that had flooded him before now was replaced by
flashes of Helcaraxë, terrors that were long driven into the dark
recesses of memory.

Shaking his head to dispel the confusion and apprehension, he took out
a ration of dried fish and biscuits. He wished he had wood to light a
fire and have tea, but he could see nothing that would serve under the
white blanket.

Thirsty and tired, he packed his camp. It would do him no good to rest
there, and he might as well go on and find the mysterious black object
in the distance. Maybe somewhere along the way better shelter would
come along.

He tested the ice – it looked solid and very thick, safe enough for
the crossing. He no longer could afford idle exploring; his resources
were running low and he had started fearing for his life, deeply
regretting his folly. The crossing of the ice took him the whole day,
but when he reached the other shore, it seemed even more barren than
the last. Falling to his knees in exhaustion and despair, he sent a
prayer to Manwë. His voice, unused for several days, echoed through
the air, rough and too loud. The echo faded as the world turned to
black.

~~~~~~
Chapter 5

Warmth surrounded Gildor when he woke. Unable to see a thing in the
dark he felt stuck within a dream, lucid but unable to move. With a
supreme effort of will he moved a hand, and he knew he still lived
outside Mandos's halls when bursts of pain coursed through his arm.
Awareness set in, and realising that he was naked and that the source
of the warmth was a naked body glued to his back, he tried to sit up,
but his head hit something hard and he fell back to the soft warmth
beneath him.

His companion woke and he heard a soft chuckle in the dark.

“Sometimes I do that too,” the voice said, an unmistakable voice he
had not heard in centuries. 

His flesh raised in goose bumps as his host moved and opened some sort
of a door. Finding Maglor now so suddenly seemed almost too easy after
ages of searching.He tried to follow his host but his legs were
uncooperative.

“You stay there,” Maglor ordered, turning back, already half wrapped
in a thick skin. His breath formed a cloud in the cold air. Even with
the door open, it was very dim in the alcove but Gildor was
increasingly sure that he had found Maglor at last... or rather, that
Maglor had found him.

He reclined and waited, hearing some bustling from outside. Soon his
host was by his side with a bowl of steaming broth in one hand and a
crude grease candle in the other. 

“Eat,” Maglor said.

Gildor held the bowl with difficulty, only then noticing that his
fingers were bandaged and somewhat numb.

“Cold bites,” Maglor said laconically.

Gildor ate, silently observing his host. The air was considerably
colder outside the alcove and he was shivering by the time he had
finished. Maglor took the bowl from his hands, placed it on some
surface right outside the alcove and climbed back in, closing the door
and snuffing the light as he disentangled from the skin.

“You need not worry for your virtue,” he joked, “This is the best way
to keep you warm.”

Gildor nodded in the dark, and feeling stupid he added, “I know.”

Maglor settled on the bed, sliding closer to him. Gildor felt self-
conscious: he had not bathed for some time, ever since his departure,
but then he realised that Maglor too smelled of more than soap and
water. A poignant mixture of smoke, something slightly fishy and
unwashed body enveloped him, but Gildor did not recoil. To his
surprise, he found the smell somewhat comforting.

“Still awake?” Maglor asked after a few minutes.

“Yes.”

“You should sleep. Whatever folly has brought you north drained you
nearly to your death,” Maglor reproached.

Gildor felt weary, sleep tempted him and he feared that he would not
hold awake for long enough to have a decisive conversation with
Maglor. He let himself slide into sleep, feeling the rough hands
running through his hair, as if he were a child.

It seemed that only a few minutes had passed when Maglor awoke him
with another bowl of broth in his hand.

“Time to eat, if you want to regain your strength.”

Gildor yawned and took the bowl. He still felt tired, but he was more
awake and the broth was comforting.

“Do you need the pot?” Maglor asked him as he finished his meal.

“No.” Gildor felt embarrassed. He knew he would need it soon, but the
thought of relieving himself in front of a stranger, even more a
legendary one like Maglor, made him feel awkward and self-conscious.

Maglor slid back into the bed, and curled around Gildor, clearly
preparing for more sleep.

“Thank you, Maglor,” Gildor said into the darkness.

Maglor sat up, quick as a bolt of lightning.

“What did you say?”

“I thanked you, Maglor,” Gildor repeated, searching for his host's
arm.

Maglor started opening the door of the alcove, but Gildor held him by
the arm. He felt as weak as a kitten and knew that Maglor could have
repelled him easily, but he did not. Instead he sat in silence, the
clarity from the exterior lighting his expression of perplexity.

“How did you know?” he asked at last.

“I've searched for you for a long while.”

“I see.” Maglor carefully extracted his wrist from Gildor's hand. “I
am to finally be brought to trial, or are you here to kill me?”

“Neither. No one believes that you still live. There are legends,
rumours, guesses, but deep down, not even I was completely sure that
you could still live.”

“Why did you come then, especially now? It almost cost you your life.”
Maglor seemed to disbelieve his words, indulging in a child's game.

“A friend gave me an ultimatum. Sort of.”

“It makes no sense, you know...”

“I do.” Gildor lay back and hoped that Maglor would join him, which he
did, after a few minutes.

“Don't kill me in my sleep,” he said as an afterthought.

“I won't. I am Gildor Inglorion, by the way.”

“Inglorion... I see. Sleep, then, Gildor...”

They lay in silence, but Gildor could not sleep. He was still weak,
yes, but his mind was racing. Maglor kept some distance in the bed,
but Gildor knew he was awake too.

“I can't sleep now,” Gildor said at last. “I know that it sounds
insane, but what I've told you is the truth.”

“If you say so...”

“I do say so... I think it started soon after the War of Wrath...”
Gildor spoke for long about his solitary quest, of how his interest in
Maglor's fate had become an unyielding obsession, how he had for long
tried to understand why Maglor had done what he had. His voice lowered
to a whisper, his words grew sparse, but when he stopped, Maglor still
listened.

“You're mad,” Maglor said.

“I've been told that, yes.”

“What do you plan to do now?”

“I don't know. I was hoping that you would let me stay for a few weeks
with you... I doubt that I can return south with this weather.”

“You are welcome to stay for as long as you need.”

~~~~~~
Chapter 6

As Gildor grew stronger, he ventured outside the alcove. Maglor's
dwelling was small, but ordered. He had an annex in a higher plane,
where he kept frozen game and fish, some vegetables, and wood, which
Maglor only used for cooking. Soon Gildor realized that the hut, if it
could be called that, was half buried in the ground, which contributed
to the excellent insulation and the permanent low light. Maglor had
built it in one of those rare places where Arda gave off its inner
heat, and had lined all surfaces with furs or dried reeds. It
consisted of a square room with a table and a wooden seat, with the
cosy alcove occupying a whole wall, and a small fireplace where Maglor
cooked in the opposite wall. The alcove had double lining and
according to Maglor it was directly above the heat source.

“You must have been here for long,” Gildor asked a few days later,
when he was up exploring his surroundings. There was not much to do
but sleep and talk, and he had had enough sleep.

“Not that long... some four yen, maybe... I don't know. It's hard to
keep track of time.”

“I confess that I was surprised to find you at all... and more even to
see you in such good shape.”

“Ah yes, of course,” Maglor said, his smile dimming. “The cursed
should whither, shouldn't they?”

“That was not what I mean... You've been alone for so long... I
presume. I think I would go mad in your place.”

“What tells you that I am not?”

“This.” Gildor waved his hand around. “You are able to take care of
yourself and others.”

“Hardly a good indication, if you ask me. You can draw as many
examples of similar self-preserving behaviour in my family, and yet,
were we not all mad?”

“People say that you fought your brother before the last killing...”

Maglor rose from his seat and took the heavy fur coat from the rack.
“Time to get some air,” he said, avoiding Gildor's eyes.

His absence seemed to last for an eternity. Gildor lay in the open
alcove staring at the ceiling, thinking that Maglor would not return,
when heavy steps and cold air announced his arrival. Gildor made a
silent promise of being more careful in the future.

“How was it outside?” he asked, trying for innocuous topics.

“Cold.”

“Do you need any help?” he asked, noticing that Maglor carried
something. 

“Thank you but it's all right.” Maglor moved to the annex, and Gildor
saw his burden were buckets full of snow.

Maglor returned and sat quietly, occupying himself with the fixing of
some tool. He was clearly not interested in talking and Gildor let him
be for a while. His shallow offer to help with dinner was curtly
refused and they ate in silence. Gildor was almost convinced that
Maglor's silence would last until spring, when in the dark of the
alcove Maglor whispered the most unexpected question.

“Tell me, do you know anything about Eärendil's boys?”

“I do,” Gildor started cautiously. It was the first time that Maglor
showed any interest in the outside word. “Elrond has become a fine elf
of sharp mind and kind heart. He is Gil-galad's right hand.”

“And Elros?”

“Elros...” Gildor shifted in the bed. “Elros was the finest man, a
wonderful and just king to his people...”

“Oh,” Maglor said. A heavy pause followed before he concluded the
thought. “Oh, Elros. Oh, stupid boy.” 

He turned his back to Gildor, and something like a sob made its way
into the night. Gildor reached his arm to comfort him, but Maglor
curled under his touch. Gildor came closer to him, enveloping him in
his arms, caring for him just as he had been taken care of. In that
moment, for the first time, Maglor truly stopped being a legend, a
mystery destined for him to solve, and simply became another being,
his brother, his friend, someone worthy of compassion, a wretched
waste of the promise of life. Gildor held on to him for the remainder
of the night, even as sleep caught up with them, and the tension left
Maglor's body.

The next morning found them entangled. Gildor opened the door and
tried to scramble out of bed, but Maglor held him. 

“Thank you,” he said sleepily.

Gildor smiled. “I owe you much more than that, but it was freely
given.”

A smile lit Maglor's face, it was the first true smile that Gildor
saw. “I brought all that snow to prepare a bath,” he said, sitting up.

“A bath?”

“Well, yes, I may be a hermit but I still recall some things about the
social necessities of personal hygiene. Frankly, we stink.”

Laughing, they covered themselves with Maglor's thick skins and Gildor
prepared a summary breakfast of tea, some of his dried fruits, and
smoked meat, while Maglor prepared a fire to heat the water. They ate
while they waited for the water, and then Maglor placed in the middle
of the room a large bucket, a dish with crude soap, a wash cloth and a
linen towel in the table, within hand's reach. The fire still burned,
rendering the room warmer than usual.

“You first,” he said.

Gildor graciously accepted his offer, unwrapping from the skin. His
fingers had healed but the water seemed too hot at first. He took the
wash cloth, wetted it and carefully scrubbed himself. Soon he was
finished and covered with goose bumps, despite the relative warmth in
the room. He reached for the towel.

“Aren't you washing your hair?” Maglor asked. 

Gildor had wanted to, but he feared the water would be too cold for
Maglor before he finished. Casting a glance laden with longing to the
water, he said, “Well, maybe later. You should use the water while
it's warm.” 

Maglor shrugged in response as Gildor reached for his leggings. “Suit
yourself.”

He cast his fur aside and started washing. Gildor forgot about the
hair, the clothes, and the cold. Maglor seemed made of wood, hard and
lean, all shadows and angles in the soft light. No one who would meet
him would call him beautiful; he was far too hard for that word, but
there was power in his form, more alluring than any softer traits
Gildor had seen. He had felt more than seen the stern beauty after a
week of sleeping together in the nude, and he had even felt Maglor
aroused in the dawn, as was natural of any healthy elf; but his body,
numbed by exhaustion, and his mind, clouded by the sheer surprise of
ever finding his goal, kept any interest of that sort out of his
reach. Now, his eyes devoured the sight before him, taking in every
detail and desire bloomed in his loins.

“Should I help you with your hair?” Maglor asked as he dried himself.

Gildor stood, knowing too well that his arousal would be visible,
making a brazen and mute offer of himself.

Maglor's eyes drifted to Gildor's groin and then up again to meet his
eyes. “You don't have to extend your charitable feelings so far...”

Gildor turned his back to him, his heart racing, and knelt by the
bucket in taunting submission. Looking back he said, “No charity
here.”

Maglor knelt by Gildor’s side, the towel around his waist hardly
concealing the bulge that formed there. He took Gildor's hair and
washed it quickly, then wrung it. 

Gildor remained in that position, looking enquiringly at Maglor as the
elder elf sat back on his haunches. Reaching to caress Maglor's
erection through the towel, he bestowed a rough squeeze that was
followed by gentler fondling. Maglor's nipples hardened visibly as his
breath caught; that was all the incentive Gildor needed.

He rushed to Maglor, fisting his wet hair as he pulled him in for a
kiss, the roughest one he could remember. He did not consider the
source of his hunger as he pushed Maglor back until they were lying in
the alcove, the towel lost somewhere on the floor and his leggings
half-way to his knees. 

Maglor flipped him onto his back, ripped off the leggings, and settled
between his thighs, grinding his hardness furiously into his own in a
pleasure so fierce it hurt. Their mouths clashed again and again,
tongues threatening to suffocate the other, moans becoming louder as
their hands roamed their bodies, grasping more than caressing,
kneading flesh, pulling buttocks closer, scratching skin.

Maglor drew away, briefly, catching his breath, but Gildor pulled him
down, turned him on the bed, draping his leg over Maglor's hip. 

“Too much,” Maglor breathed before plunging in for another flaming
kiss. 

Revelling in the incomparable delight of naked skin on naked skin,
they rolled in the bed, until Gildor was on top again, straddling
Maglor as he held his wrists tight above his head. 

"Need more," he panted into Maglor's neck, his mouth eagerly tasting
the sheen of sweat that started to form already.

Maglor humped up, his hardness finding its way into Gildor's entrance
all of its own. 

"Don't - want - to - hurt - you," Maglor panted, but still nudging up.
They looked around and Gildor leapt to fetch the soap dish.

"It will burn..." Maglor observed, even as he coated himself with the
soapy water left on the dish.

"Let it." Gildor lay back in the bed, his legs spread wide open.

It did burn when Maglor entered him, enough to make him whimper, but
Maglor started moving immediately, turning the discomfort into bursts
of pleasure as his prostate was hit repeatedly. Maglor's fingers dug
in his hips too hard, the rhythm was so intense that he could barely
move, but no pain reached him; all he could feel was fire consuming
him. Their moans had turned into harsh groans, flesh slapped on flesh
loudly, and Maglor moved above and within him with a dark expression
of concentration, the tension of impending release distorting his
features in a grimace of pain, creating the most erotic vision Gildor
could recall. 

Gildor’s hand moved frantically on his own erection, drops of pearly
fluid smearing on his skin, contributing to the intoxicating scent of
sex around them. He heard Maglor groaning, 'Hold', but he increased
the pace instead, until his body tensed and his seed shot through the
air, landing as high as his chest. Maglor slammed harder into him, his
groans now turned into shouts, taking him little more than a few
movements to follow Gildor, who still shuddered beneath him.


~~~~~~
Chapter 7

They lay side by side, barely touching. Maglor had quickly cleaned
them with the wash cloth but now a current of outside air chilled the
sweat of their skin and eventually, Maglor pulled the bedding up to
cover them. He looked at Gildor hesitatingly, settling for a quiet
gesture of affection, a timid caress to Gildor's cheek.

“I hope you're not too sore...” he said, lying back by Gildor's side.

Gildor snorted, tiredly. “Please don't tell me you are ready for more
so soon.”

“Actually...” Maglor started teasing, but then he turned to lie on his
side, facing Gildor. “Thank you,” he said, his face serious and
unreadable.

“You have nothing to thank me for. No more than I have to thank you.”

Maglor lay back. “Thank you, still.”

Gildor took his hand and they lay in silence, until hunger drove them
out of bed.

They dressed slowly, talking about what they would prepare for lunch.
Gildor felt that this sudden and unexpected intimacy had given him a
point of contact, a place to start knowing Maglor better, but he was
enjoying the peacefulness that had followed the euphoria of their
explosive release, the fragile pleasure of simple talk that was of no
consequence. They did not touch as lovers, but a constant smile lit
Maglor's eyes, and Gildor knew a similar grin was plastered on his
face.

They sat through the afternoon, Maglor occupied with his usual
maintenance tasks, and Gildor feeling bored and happy. At last he
broke the silence.

“You never sing...”

“I do.” Maglor lifted his eyes from his work and smiled. “I sing in my
head constantly. The acoustics in here are terrible, though. All this
insulating dampens the sound, dulls the highs, muffles the lows... I
reserve my singing to the clear days outside.”

“Winter must be an ordeal for you, then...”

“Not really... Maybe at first, yes, but the funny thing about life is
that you get used to everything. More than getting used to, we
actually manage to find enjoyment in things that seemed appalling at
one time... I thought that permanent loneliness would be an acceptable
punishment, but before I found you... or you found me, I had grown
convinced that it was no longer a punishment.”

Gildor crossed the room and knelt by Maglor. He took Maglor's hands in
his, and kissed them, poring the immense tenderness he felt into the
gesture, compassion, newfound desire, and regret tingeing the feeling.

“See, I am not interested in pity that I do not deserve or forgiveness
that is not yours to grant, nor am I interested in the hate that I
have fully earned, and thus I live alone.” Maglor's voice was kind but
firm as he gently pushed Gildor away. “I do not need a saviour,
Gildor.”

“I can't offer you that. I am just an elf,” Gildor replied.

Somehow the words were right. Maglor caressed his face, pulled him up
for a kiss, affection soon coloured with desire and need. He led
Gildor to the bed, his deep kisses now softened by tenderness. They
undressed, this time exploring each other with softer touches and
lingering kisses. Their hunger was still present, though contained; it
revealed itself in shuddered sighs, impulsive movements of members
eager to entwine, and half contained words that were not there before.

Maglor kissed his way down from Gildor's mouth to his nipples, and
from there to his navel, then lower to his testes, teasing his
erection with soft touches from his face as he moved along. Gildor's
whimpering moved him to mercy, and Maglor engulfed his erection in his
mouth, sucking at first gently, but harder and harder as Gildor
agitated beneath him, struggling to find release. His mouth was
unrelenting, making Gildor come down his throat in hot spurts much
sooner than both expected.

Maglor lay by Gildor's side, hard and panting. Gildor turned, still
breathless and kissed him deep, tasting his fluids mixed with Maglor's
own unique taste. He trailed kisses down Maglor's body mirroring his
lover’s actions, but took the time to nibble on Maglor’s inner thighs,
and to trace tiny circles with his tongue on his skin, extracting
gasps from him, until he found Maglor's entrance, slowly penetrating
it with his tongue. Maglor rose on his elbows and looked down, a vague
look of concern darkening his features. 

“You want to?...” he asked.

Gildor's only reply was a kiss to his mouth, and a soft, “Relax.”

He returned to his previous ministrations, teasing, taunting, until
Maglor relaxed and fully accepted his play. He wetted his fingers, and
probed the entrance as he kissed the skin above, his fingers diving as
his mouth sought Maglor's length. A hand fisted his hair and Gildor
forwent delicacies. His mouth and his fingers speed up to a harder
pace, drawing louder moans from Maglor. Soon his jaw ached, but he
persisted, his hands continuing to bring Maglor to the edge of
pleasure. By the time he finished with Maglor, a slow throb warmed his
own length, but he was too satisfied and tired to give it any pursuit.


~~~~~~
Chapter 8

In the aftermath, Gildor thought that Maglor seemed distant; though
his lover had an arm wrapped around him, his eyes looked unfocused, as
if his gaze were fixed somewhere far away.

“Where are you?” Gildor asked after a few moments.

“Nowhere special... the past.”

“I'd like to listen...”

“You wouldn't...”

“Try me.”

Maglor sighed. “I had a lover before the War of Wrath. Cheeky young
thing, feisty too. It was a brief affair, but I hated him intensely
for dispelling the comfortable numbness that had sheltered me.” Maglor
paused, caressing Gildor. “See, I told you that you wouldn't like it.”

“Do you miss him?” Gildor asked, trying to restrain his own feelings
before this revelation.

“I missed him for a long time after the War of Wrath. I hated him for
not stopping me from becoming a thief and from murdering again, but he
was little more than a child and had no idea of my plans, or the power
of the Oath over regret and repentance.”

Maglor extracted his arm from underneath Gildor. “You try to forget
that, don't you? That I am a murderer?”

“I know what you are,” Gildor said, draping an arm over Maglor. “I
know more than most.”

Maglor stayed quiet under Gildor's hold. Eventually, he brought his
hand up, the palm turned to Gildor's eyes. “See?” he asked, flexing
the hand. In the dim light the scarring was still visible. “I could
not keep it. For a while I was tempted to sail to Aman, deliver the
stone to the Powers, and plead for judgement; but even in this, with
nothing else to lose, I was too much of an indeterminate coward.”

“You would never reach the shores. Unlike your brother, you held onto
a life with no hope of redemption, forgiveness or joy – no coward
would do that.”

“Don't speak of Nelyo! You know nothing of him.” Maglor sat up in the
bed and Gildor sat too, facing him.

“Maglor,” he tried, but Maglor was already half-way out of the bed,
searching for his clothes.

He dressed quickly under Gildor's gaze, and left the hut. Many hours
later, Gildor still sat on the bed, naked and cold, staring at the
door. Maglor came, his lips blue and his coat covered with snow
flakes. He took off the coat but did not approach the bed or look at
Gildor. 

“I meant no offence, and I apologise for my ill-thought words,” Gildor
tried.

Maglor nodded, his back turned as he prepared a fire. Gildor put on
his leggings and tried to make himself useful, but they prepared
dinner and had it in an oppressive silence. Then they sat quietly for
the evening and Gildor watched as Maglor fidgeted with some tool.

Still in dark silence, they went to bed, avoiding each other's eyes.
The complete darkness absorbed the hostility and Gildor felt
comfortable enough to wrap Maglor in his arms.

At length, Maglor spoke. “It is hard for me... Before, when I was
thinking on my lover, I was actually thinking of spring and of your
departure... You shouldn't have come.” 

Gildor kissed his hair. “You can come with me.”

“Ah, but I can't. This is the ultimate punishment for my deeds, to
have this... warmth flaunted before me, reminding me of all that I
can't ever have again... I could love you. You feinted my defences, or
maybe I was so thirsty for company that I've let them down.”

“It's not a punishment,” Gildor said, holding Maglor tighter.

“No, no, no. There is no place where I could go in Arda... I am to
live alone.”

“A long time has passed. You could choose another name for yourself,
few would know you...”

“And be a coward again?”

“And be alive again,” Gildor contradicted. 

“To what? For what?”

“For me, why not? For yourself. You deserve more than a hole in the
ground in a forsaken place.”

Maglor took Gildor's hand on his own. “See, Gildor,” he started in a
slow, patient voice. “It's obvious that you are in love with an idea
that you cultivated, that you were probably in love with that idea far
long before we met. It won't be long before you realise that I am not
what you think that I am, and maybe I have not suffered enough, but
I'm not willing to-”

“You underestimate me,” Gildor protested.

“And you overestimate me.”

Gildor withdrew his hand, hurt by Maglor's rejection and Maglor did
nothing to stop him. They lay in stubborn silence until sleep claimed
them.

In the morning Gildor awoke to a hand softly stroking his hair. Maglor
sat on the bed by his side, fully dressed and holding a steaming mug.

“Truce?” he asked.

“Truce,” Gildor confirmed. “Until spring, that is,” he added with a
wink.

And so it was. Snowstorms came and went, the hissing of the wind
barely audible in their cocoon. They ate, slept, made love, talked,
ate, bickered, and made love some more. Sometimes Maglor would go out
into the cold, sometimes he would indulge in memories, regrets and
timid aspirations. Sometimes Gildor would join him on his walks in the
cold, tell him of his company, of the way the world had changed, of
old friends and events. Both respected their truce and both kept to
themselves the observations they might have made about the lesser
snowfall, the gentler winds, the thawing ice on the bay, the sprouting
of timid green, the blooming of the first flowers, the first spring
birds... But the arrival of spring in all of its glorious array could
not be ignored forever.


~~~~~~
Chapter 9

“Come with me,” Gildor said one evening in an admission of defeat –
time had caught up with him at last and it was time that he returned
to his people and his duties. They were eating outside, having a fresh
roasted bird in a nice change from their diet of conserved food. The
bay spread out before their eyes, the sunset tingeing it with warm
colours and long shadows. Behind them lay Maglor's home, now covered
with a roof of grass, almost undetectable in the greenish prairie. 

Maglor looked up from his piece of meat. “Stay for the summer.”

“My people will be worried. Come... please.”

“I can't.”

“You won't,” Gildor accused softly.

“That too. But I really can't. What would you have me do? Walk up to
Círdan or Gil-galad, and say 'Hi there, do you remember me by any
chance? Ah yes, you remember correctly, I am the last of Fëanor's
hated sprawl. No worries, I'm not in the mood to slay anyone and I was
never that good with the sword anyway',” Maglor spat ironically.

“Elbereth, no! Trust me, they might not call you beloved cousin, but
they won't harm you or disregard you in anyway. Wouldn't you want to
see Elrond again?” Gildor tempted in a cheap shot.

Maglor tossed the bone he had been chewing to the fire.

“No,” he replied laconically.

“You lie.”

“Maybe I do, but why do you insist?”

“You know why. Don't tell me that you are to me some fantasy that will
lead to disappointment. Maybe at one time that would have been true,
but how can you-”

“You have seen me in the comfort of my home, humble as it might be.
How do you know you will still recognise me when you see me in the
presence of others?”

“I know. I have faith in you. I see your strength better than you see
it yourself. And I will do what it takes to bring you south with me,
even if it takes something criminal such as burning your home.”

“You jest!”

“Don't bet on it.” Gildor's tone was anything but jesting and Maglor
regarded him as if seeing him for the first time.

“I am more determined than you realize, Maglor,” Gildor started softly
before letting his anger at Maglor's stubbornness rip through his
words. “I was forty-eight when I crossed the Helcaraxë, I've survived
three major battles and countless scraps, and I've found you after an
age of searching for you. You will go with me.” 

Maglor rose and walked to Gildor, grabbing his tunic below his neck.
“Don't threaten me.”

Gildor imitated his gesture and rose in full fury. “Don't deny me.”

They stared at each other in anger, until Maglor quit, letting go of
Gildor's tunic and drawing away.

“I will sail west with you and stand before the Valar, by your side.”

Maglor froze in his tracks. “You are mad! You said yourself that I
would never reach the shores.”

“Perhaps not by yourself, but Ulmo would not sink a boat with a
relatively innocent elf such as myself aboard.”

“Blackmail the Valar? You are mad!”

“Come south. Círdan will talk with Ulmo on your behalf.” Gildor
approached his lover and held him from behind. “Come,” he whispered.
“The time for this is over... We'll see what we can do in Mithlond.”

Maglor shook his head slowly, but Gildor felt he had finally breached
his reserve. They went inside and started kissing, a well known
prelude to both, but something was off. Gildor pushed Maglor to the
bed and stood staring at him. 

“I won't allow you to kiss me like that,” he said angrily.

“Like what?”

“Like it's a goodbye.”

Maglor sat up and tried to reach for Gildor, but he escaped him.

“I swear I should have brought that bloody horse. I would have tied
you and thrown you to his back by now,” he uttered, his back turned to
Maglor.

“The horse would have been dead long before you reached me...” Maglor
tried for a teasing tone, but Gildor didn't respond. He stood up and
reached out to hold Gildor.

“You are sulking and acting like a spoiled child,” he said.

“And this noble self-punishment of yours is little more than
cowardice.”

Shocked, Maglor loosened his hold on Gildor. 

“I told you I was a coward,” he said.

“I tell you this is a choice, not a condition.”

“What would you have me do?”

Gildor turned to hold him. “Take me to your bed one last time before
we hit the road.”

“We?”

“We.”

In the morning, Gildor started packing his sparse belongings and
Maglor followed his example without a word. The road was long, but
pleasant, now that discord was left behind and summer warmed them, fed
them with its bounty, and promised blue skies over the wilderness and
no regrets. 


~~~~~~
Chapter 10

“I don't know what to say...” Círdan scratched his chin and raised his
eyes to Galdor. “Why don't you sleep and we'll talk in the morning. I
will warn your people that you have arrived. Some were ready to start
mourning you...”

Gildor and Maglor had arrived to Forland the day before and came to
Mithlond during the night after the long crossing of the bay. They
stood in Círdan's hall, tanned, ragged and expectant. Gildor's
optimism had dwindled somewhat before Círdan's puzzled reaction. It
was plain to see that he had never expected him to find Maglor, but
still... Círdan's hospitality was renowned for being flawless.

He headed for his room, when he heard Galdor. “I will lead... erm,
Maglor to his room.”

“Don't bother,” he replied quickly.

Maglor's eyes searched for his. “Maybe it's better,” he mouthed.

“Galdor, Círdan, do you have any objection?” Gildor asked with an
edge.

“None at all,” Círdan replied in a more gracious tone.

“Then we will find the baths, sleep and we'll talk tomorrow as you've
proposed.” Gildor stormed out of the room with Maglor in tow.

~~~~~~

Much later, they lay in Gildor's bed, on top of the covers, enjoying a
soft mattress for the first time in weeks,  as well as relishing the
pleasure of being thoroughly clean.

“He didn't seem too happy...”

“I know. Have faith. Sleep.”

Despite his order, Gildor stayed awake long after Maglor had fallen
asleep. He saw the sun rising from his window, and he gently woke
Maglor.

“Come, let's go down. It's time.”

They found Círdan in the nearly empty kitchens. Some of the maids
looked inquiringly at the stranger by Gildor's side. He knew life at
the Havens well and he knew that despite his late arrival gossip was
likely to be well on its way. Círdan offered them a place by his side.

“It has been long since we last met,” he told Maglor.

“True.”

A tiny smile lifted Círdan's mouth.

“You weren't shy then,” he observed.

“Back in those days everything was simpler and more confused.”

“And yet, in the midst of all the confusion and all the wrongs you
made one excellent decision.”

“You mean the Peredhel?”

“They called you father, no need to pretend that you didn't care for
them.”

Maglor kept silent, averting his eyes. A maid came to the table with a
tray of fresh baked bread, taking much longer than needed to serve it.

“We should continue this conversation in the library,” Círdan said.
“Galdor is already there.”

They rose and followed Círdan though the hallways until they reached
the well-lit room. Galdor rose from his desk and came to their side
after giving instructions to a couple of young scribes to go on some
errand and to close the door behind them.

They gathered around the table.

“So Gildor was right about you... you still live and are well,” Círdan
started. “Knowing my friend's persistence, I shouldn't find it odd to
see you, but I confess that I'm surprised. You chose isolation long
ago.”

“And now he chooses differently,” Gildor cut in.

“Gildor...” Maglor touched his hand. “I can speak for myself.” 

He looked into Círdan's eyes. “If am not welcomed here, and I don't
expect to be, tell me and I'll leave.”

“I see that time has not doused that famed Fëanorian spirit in you,”
Círdan riposted. “The world has changed since you exiled yourself...
but you might know that, not necessarily from Gildor's telling.”

“In fact you are correct. I wandered for long by land and by the sea,
and I took something of yours as we both know. Once a thief...”

Círdan waved his hand. “Better a boat than a life. What did you do
with it, if I might ask?”

“I wanted to sail it to Aman... instead I ended up visiting here and
there... as far as the Harad in the south. Then I settled in Forochel
and the boat was useful for fishing until it betrayed me and returned
to its owners, as Gildor as told me.”

“It was of inferior build.” Círdan sounded almost apologetic.

“I know. That's why I chose it. I've already taken too much in my
life.”

“Why didn't you sail to Aman?” Galdor cut in.

For the first time, Maglor lowered his eyes. “Lack of courage,” he
replied quietly, but then he looked up to face Galdor's stare. “I
tried on two occasions, but the sea would rise tremendously, as if
Ulmo himself was opposed to my passage. Thus, I quit.”

“And now? What are your plans?” Círdan asked, his voice softer.

“I don't have any. I am here at your mercy.” Maglor kept his stoic
expression but Gildor heard the doubt and fear in his voice.

“He will stay with me until he decides what to do, if there is any
decision to be made,” Gildor said defiantly.

Círdan smiled. “What would you like to do? Deep in your heart?”

Maglor stayed silent, avoiding Círdan's eyes, but the Shipwright
reached his hand across the table and touched Maglor's face. A red
gleam coming from Círdan's hand enveloped them, excluding Gildor and
Galdor from a silent and deep exchange.

“I see,” Círdan said, withdrawing his hand as the gleam faded. “I will
give it some thought and see if I can help you.”

Maglor nodded, astonished. “It has the mark of my family, doesn't it?”
His eyes searched for the ring with the fire he had seen in Círdan's
hand but it was gone.

Círdan nodded. “Celebrimbor. It took me a while to figure its true
use, I must say. Are you all so laconic?”

Maglor smiled. “Not many of us left now to be anything.”

“Your nephew, though, has a great mind and many splendid works. He is
what your father and brothers and yourself could have been, had you
forsaken-”

“-the Oath,” Maglor completed, regret permeating his words.

Gildor drew Maglor into an embrace. “I think it's enough for today,
isn't it?”

Círdan assented. “And what shall we tell to the people?”

“That you house Maglor, Cleaver of Gold,” Gildor replied proudly.

They walked to the door and embraced, but as they left Círdan called,
“You do know that he has a role to play in something bigger, don't
you?”

Both looked back, Gildor in puzzlement, Maglor with regret stamped on
his face.


~~~~~~
Chapter 11

Gildor spent the rest of the morning with his people. Nothing much had
happened in his absence, but he liked to hear of them and their small
worries, and they needed to hear of him. He felt guilty for evading so
many of their questions about his trip and the stranger he had brought
with him, with jokes and descriptions of the cold wilderness, but in
the end he promised, “I will tell you more soon, I promise.” 

He found Maglor sitting by the window of their room.

“Will you tell me now what went on with Círdan? What did he mean?” he
asked, sitting by Maglor’s side.

Maglor smiled sadly. “Círdan is wise and sees deep into the hearts of
those he touches.”

“And he tends to speak cryptically,” Gildor completed dryly. “What did
he think he saw in your heart?”

“Regret, sea-longing, desire for true penitence… fear.”

“I could have told him that much myself. What did he mean with that
‘role in something bigger’ riddle of his?”

“I cannot see that far. I do know that he meant you and I know that
you are to stay for much longer here in Middle-earth. Clairvoyance is
not required to understand your role, but I felt that there will be
something more... When he touched me with the ring, I saw you
sheltering someone. It was very important, but I could not see more.”

“You will be there by my side to see it, whatever it is.” Gildor held
Maglor’s hand, squeezing it.

“I don’t think so…” 

“Don’t say that.”

“I told you I didn’t need a saviour, and yet that is what you are.”
Maglor rose from his chair and sat on the arm of Gildor’s, leaning in
for a tender kiss. “I am glad that you brought me here. But let’s not
talk of this until we know more.”

Gildor sighed in frustration, but obeyed. Days passed and Maglor
stubbornly refused to leave the room for anything more than meals and
a bath. Gildor tended to his business; Círdan disappeared without a
word; and Galdor would not speak of his lord’s whereabouts. Midsummer
approached fast, and Gildor saw his people growing restless. It was
time to return to the road, he knew it, but Círdan was still absent
and Maglor begged him to wait.

One night Círdan returned and called Maglor and Gildor to the library.

“I have long talked with my Lord Ulmo and he in turn talked with Manwë
and Mandos.” He paused, sighing, and for the first time Gildor thought
he looked old.

“You are free to choose your course as you have always been. You are
free to stay here in Middle-earth and face the hardships you know you
are destined for… or you can seek your heart’s desire and sail West to
be judged. You will receive no help or impediment from the Powers of
the sea. If your ship should wreck you will become a guest in Mandos’s
Halls, from where you know you may not leave until the end of Arda.”

“How would I sail?” Maglor asked, raising a shocked gasp from Gildor.

“Alone. I will be glad to give you a boat, for I have seen your
heart.”

“If he sails, I go with him,” Gildor cut.

“Sailing alone and facing the dangers of the voyage by himself is
required as proof of his change of heart and true repentance,” Círdan
replied.

“I will follow him, then,” Gildor insisted. “I have promised as much.”

“You are free to do so, of course,” Círdan offered. “That is an issue
that you should discuss between yourselves.”

“I have not taken your promise to heart, Gildor,” Maglor spoke softly.
“Let us follow Círdan’s advice.”

Galdor and Círdan left the library silently, closing the door behind
them.

“I do not want you to follow me, Gildor,” Maglor said, embracing him.

“Stay with me for a few years,” Gildor asked, burying his face on
Maglor’s neck. “Then you sail. But stay for a while. Elrond, your
nephew Celebrimbor, there are people who would love to see you.”

“That is not possible. I would never be able to leave you, if I were
to indulge.” Maglor held Gildor tighter. “And what awaits me in Aman
is mine to face alone. Let me hold on to these shreds of dignity.”

“Don’t you think that this is worth keeping?”

“It is.” Maglor drew back to look into Gildor’s eyes. “But you and I
have lived. We know that given time this will be a nice memory of a
fleeting moment. And maybe we will love again, or meet again, who
knows…”

“You mean more than that to me, and time… time flies.”

“Let’s not make promises… I’ve had enough of those for a lifetime.”

Gildor freed himself from the embrace. “When will you sail, then?” he
asked, facing the dark window.

“When Círdan finds me a boat. The longer I stay the harder it will be
and I’ve been wandering in hopeless night for far too long.”

Gildor nodded. They snuffed the candles and left the library for their
room to start a farewell that would last for several days.

The time for goodbyes came to an end in a rosy dawn. Galdor called on
them in their room. Maglor sat by the bed, fully dressed, staring at
Gildor, who still slept in the nude, exhausted by a long night.

Galdor retreated, embarrassed, casting a single warning, “Time and the
tide, as we say…”

Gildor, awoken by the intrusion, dressed quickly. They reached the
pier in time to see the waters turn to shades of rose, tinged by the
sun rising on their backs. Círdan awaited them by a small boat.

“You have supplies and water,” he said, pointing to the boat. “You
also have my best wishes for this journey and what lies beyond.” The
rustling of a wave punctuated his words.

Maglor bowed curtly in thanks, but Círdan reached out for a stern
embrace. “Fare safely,” he said, with more warmth than he had allowed
himself to show before. Galdor and Círdan stepped away, giving a few
final moments of privacy to Maglor and Gildor.

“No eternal reward will forgive us now for wasting the dawn.” The
words left Maglor’s lips of their own volition, as he squinted against
the morning light.

A chill ran down Gildor’s back. “Do not prophesise… the future is not
ours to know.”

They embraced in the morning light, feeling the first real pang of
loss, the first hint of the long days of regret and loneliness that
would come.

“Thank you,” Maglor whispered into Gildor’s ear. 

Gildor swallowed the lump in his throat. “Be safe, wait for me.”

Maglor finally broke the embrace and spoke his last goodbye. 

“Until we meet again.”


~~~~~~
Epilogue
Mithlond, 3019 Third Age

The elves gathered on the pier waiting for their turn to embark. Most
wore grey cloaks and sad smiles, looking back with regret. The sea-
calling sundered their souls. Many of them had never known a home
other than Middle-earth, and they looked to the future with
apprehension, facing the unknown and anticipating the legends of
bounty and beauty. Others remembered Aman as a dream of their youth,
something they had left so long ago that it had started to lack
reality. Many still feared that they would be tried for their
rebellion.

A lonely tune floated on the air, sung in the pure voice of a Teleri
boy. Soon all elves would leave these shores, leaving behind works of
beauty, memories of songs and laughter and better days as well as war,
defeat, death, and waste, and that brought a feeling of loss that
darkened their hearts. 

One elf though, stayed apart from the crowd, a genuine smile in his
lips and a glint in his eyes. He was glad to return home, for no
matter what else expected him there, he would meet again the one that
had haunted his dreams for three ages. As he stepped onto the ship, he
his lips moved, forming a single word as a silent prayer.

“Maglor.”

Finis
July 2006