#yes if i buy one now i will probably name it gil galad

[ranscutedoll]

I have been thinking about getting a pet fish, a beta specifically. Now I had one a few years back, and I didn't know how to care for it(aka it was in a bowl...I am sorry gil estel). Now I do. My mind didn't shut up tonight with all the equipment I needed to buy if I wanted to make this a reality

[selenite85]

Whose Voice is Heard over the Seas: Part III

(Part I., Part II.)

Of course Maglor had heard about Elrond, the wise master healer of Lindon. Of course he had heard about the Kingdom of Númenor and he realized that Elros had been the first king.

But somehow, Maglor had forgotten to care. The grief over the lost jewels, lost brothers, and the lost purpose of life had been all he could focus on for a long time. And it would surely have consumed him by now, if it hadn't been for the two short encounters with the Atani.

But now it was time to stop running away from himself.

Was he doomed to stay here until the End? Yes.

Was he all alone? Yes.

But whose fault it really was?

Everyone's. No one's.

His own.

Truly, Maglor was alone, as lonely as an unknown, wandering stranger can be. But for the first time in many years he realized there still might be those who sometimes look upon the stars or over the sea and wonder: Where is the Minstrel? What is he doing right now?

Or perhaps they did not wonder at all. One thing was for sure, though – he would never know until he goes to see for himself.

Maglor suspected the sea would not let him cross the distance to Númenor. He would probably never make it there. Still, he traveled to the ports, to all the harbors which ever saw the sails of the Isle of Elenna, to at least try.

As always, he never got too far away from the shore, even while in the main havens of Lindon. The life of the city was not for him, he was no longer a part of this society. Instead, he chose to stay as close to the sea as possible. Close to the humans.

Most of the time, he would lend a helping hand to the fishermen, as he was used to, and he would receive food and shelter in turn, sometimes even clothing and other items he might have needed. And although he did not really pretend to be one of them, he was rather careful not to reveal the tips of his ears. No, he did not seek recognition, not yet.

All he could do after years of this fruitless effort was buy a piece of parchment and ink. He wrote the letter during one winter and finished it in the spring, crafting each word with care.

He felt reluctant to send it, though, and was filled with doubt when he was about to hand the writing to the Dúnedain sailing west. Maglor wondered whether there was still something he should add; he was not certain he was entitled at all to send letters to the kings of Númenor.

After having heard about the wisdom and deeds of Tar-Minyatur and his descendants, he felt humiliated and useless. He felt ashamed of himself that he hadn't even tried to reach Elros and his kin earlier, when it had been still possible...

But that surely was not all, right?

Even if a small part of the stories told about his foster son was true, it was still enough for a hero. And Maglor realized he had contributed to this outcome in his own way. The time he and Elros had spent together had been short, too short for his current liking, but it had been intense and worthwhile. And this sudden sparkle of fatherly pride in his heart was enough to finally dispel the insecurity, and made Maglor dropthe letter to the hands of the royal mariner.

He was alone again when he watched the ship leave the port; away from the hustle of the main harbor.

To be sure, he had decided not to wait for a possible answer. He had attached instructions for it, but he did not really expect any – he had not made any requests or claims in his writing, and he had not signed it with his name. All he had intended was to express gratitude and add some final missing pieces to the personal history of the first king of Dúnedain.

Thus whispering a quick prayer to Ulmo and Varda, he looked one last time at the flyingbanners of Númenor amidst the white sails, and turned to face his next goal – the seat of the High King.

He could not care less to announce his presence at the castle gates, though, demanding an audience with Gil-Galad. No, Maglor had only the master healer in mind and wished to speak to him in private. And thus from that day on, he would no longer remain hidden within the harbor. He would help the fishermen load their catch into the barrels of ice and take the goods to the market. There, he would hear the Elves talk, and he would listen carefully, especially for any tidings of the King's court.

He would never engage in these conversations himself, of course. Instead, he would just pretend to be busy rearranging the goods, re-filling the ice or taking care of any other task that did not require speaking. With his face hidden under his hair and a hat, he would rather turn away from the chatty customers, hoping not to hear his name being suddenly cried out loud.

And for a long time, nothing worth his interest had appeared. Each day the gossip continued in a very similar tune – a growing unrest between the Noldor and the Sindar, the King working tirelessly for a sustained allegiance with Numenor, the raised concerns about the growing number of weird beast-sightings in the mountain forests... Until one day:

“A company of soldiers is said to depart for the mountains. When? Well, who is to say? Soon, that is for certain. Perhaps even tomorrow? There is no doubt the issue shall be solved, though, as Lord Elrond himself will take the lead.”

That was all Maglor needed to know. Later that day, he apologized to his human fellows that he could no longer be of service, and left. He knew where to go first – to his hideaway where he had stowed his swords and daggers, his cloak and essential parts of armor. All was still there, apparently he was still good at hiding treasures.

Not bothering to buy a horse, he waited for the nightfall; then set out on swift feet – out of the city, away from the sea, into the forests.

Maglor knew that following the company unseen would be no easy task, but he had resolved to meet Elrond like this, and did not wish to let this opportunity go. Thus he focused his mind and senses as best he could, and upon having spied the first riders readied himself for the hunt. And with a confidence of a Fëanorian, he knew he would succeed. He had already been trough much worse in his life, hadn't he?

Strange visions soon accompanied him on his way, though, and he wondered whose doing it might be. Was it still the Doom of the Noldor? Or could it be his personal curse he had once called upon himself, should he ever break the Oath? Perhaps something else entirely, as his journey was hard, but he was still able to go on. The invisible strings that tied him to the shore and kept him from sailing west did not hold him back this time.

But as he continued, the forest darkened and closed over him, so he could not tell the day from the night. And even worse, he had lost track of the company.

How come? What was the meaning of this? Was he not worthy to see Elrond, either? Or was it an ordeal he had to pass, to be allowed to speak to his kin?

Well, many of the Noldor had been forgiven after having passed cruel ordeals of their own, Maglor thought and recalled the melodies of the Lay of Leithian. And so, with his withered voice, he started to sing, quietly but with a firm resolve that helped him keep his pace, even if his visions encircled him, trying to choke his song down.

He stumbled many times, but kept going. When he fell, he rose again. And when he got to the part that spoke about the great courage of Finrod Felagund, Maglor felt his voice grow stronger, the echo of it coming back to him clean and unshaken. It poured back the strength into his whole being, and the trees and their branches seemed to move back from him on their own accord.

However, his voice failed him when he got to the darkness growing in Valinor – to his father, his brothers, even himself killing the Teleri. Maglor remembered his own heart bleeding over the deeds, regretting for uncountable times all those decisions and events. A desperate cry left his throat as his legs gave out and he fell, just like Finrod before Sauron's throne.

Unable to tell the reality from this vivid nightmare he felt a presence, an intense gaze upon him, piercing and burning.

“What do you want to accomplish here?” Maglor asked in a wild, raging defiance. “You have nothing left to take from me. Now I can only gain, and I will, when my time comes!” He cried, raising his head high to look the threat in the eye.

He saw the Enemy's face loom over him, the inner cruelty and twisted nature spoiling its original fairness.

“You cannot break me any further, and you won't, just like you did not break him. Finrod now lives in the light of the West, and you will never reach him again. It is you who shall fall!” He shouted and all he could do afterwards was cover his face from a sudden blaze of heat. Strong gale pushed him back and tugged violently at his hair and clothes, tearing his cloak apart.

He screamed against it, clutching the tree trunks and roots in despair, the splinters of wood biting into his bare hands and face, but he would not let go. Not like this, when he was so close. „It is you who shall fall!” he repeated stubbornly, almost choking on the wind. “And we will watch!”

One last cry, and it was over.

Maglor sank slowly to the quiet ground, nestled between the massive roots and just lay there. As he watched the newfound daylight play between the branches overhead, his eyes started to close. Listening peacefully to the high, whistling noise in his ears, he felt a sweet tiredness take over him. And he did not protest.

-End of Part III. (Part IV. here)