Live Journal FeedType: Possible scenario
Author: Elvenwanderer, rolypolyerthybal@aol.com
Rating: PG
Primary Characters: Maglor, Celeborn, with references to other elf-lords (non-slash) and two elf-ladies.
Warning: none.
Disclaimer: There is no slash, profanity or other such nonsense in this fic. And here I quote Julie (one of the greatest authors Ive ever had the fortune to read), who expresses this very well: We write fan fiction solely for our own enjoyment and do not claim any copyright or ownership nor do we have intent to make financial gain. All original concepts and characters are from our minds and remain our property. I will use my right to poetic license, though not that much.
Beta: My mom.
Notes: One of my favorite elves from the Silmarillion is Maglor; his fate always has intrigued me. I like to believe that he always stayed near bodies of water rather than remaining solely by the sea therefore he was able to travel inland up rivers and such. There was a message at a forum I visit asking what the inhabitants of Rivendell were like after Elrond left and the Last Homely House was deserted, and I also read that it is believed that, after a while of being King of East Lrien, Celeborn grew weary of Middle Earth and finally traveled west after an unnamed number of years. I perceive him, in this instance, to have recently left East Lrien and is making a stop, even though it is quite out of the way, in Rivendell before continuing his final journey West. Perhaps he was led there by the Valar for their purposes, or was just visiting the city for the last time before leaving, reminiscing would be a good term, I guess.
Added notes: It has been brought to my attention by a reviewer that I screwed up on the hair-color of certain elves. I had thought that sort of like in Lrien that most elves in Doriath would have blonde hair (and that is what I have written in both of my Silm fics that have any Doriathrim in them). I believe I have fixed most of the problem
. Please dont count my excuse that its been about six months since Ive read the SilmSummary: One stormy night, many years after the passing of Elrond, two strangers paths converge in Rivendell, leading one to Valinor and the other to a long-awaited death.
**
The elf observed from a remote cliff as the stranger strode stealthily down the dirt and gravel path towards the entrance of city. Upon reaching the iron gates, he finally turned to look around him as if suspicious of someone one watching him before turning again. The gate creaked on its lone hinge when it was pushed inward by a wraithlike arm; much of the eerie noise was drowned out by the roar of the nearby falls. Once full of life and cheer, the spirit of the Fords of Bruinen seemed to have left with the Last Homely Houses great Master. The river was now dark and forlorn, just as nearly every other thing that resided in the valley was.
A foreign rumble sped through the sultry air, sounding rough and metallic. The elf glanced skyward, a silver-blonde lock of hair falling from his hood. He quickly lowered his face as the sky began to cry from sorrow over its lost cousins. Overhead, the clouds had changed to a sickly green, warning that those without shelter might do well to find some soon.
By the time the elf looked back to where the stranger had been, it had disappeared into the mazes of Rivendells roads. The elf shuddered remembering how beautiful the cold, stone-paved pathways and overgrown trees had once been. Green and luscious gardens filled open space, while colorful mosaic-tiled roadways wound through the city, majestic fountains and statues interspersed throughout.
Moving swiftly, the elf slipped out of his hiding place, down a separate path of jagged stones, and under a small archway. He paused at the foot of a small bridge, which had obviously fully crossed the river many years ago, even the broken ends had worn down with the years. He wondered briefly whether this had originally been intentional. Very few in this day and age could make use of the bridge in its current condition, the span of the hole nearly thirty feet, such a length that no living Man could cross. He smiled sadly.
How Elrond must have fought with Glorfindel and Erestor about this. He would never have wanted to bar Men from his home. He thought, retreating far enough to give himself enough space to prepare for the leap. It had indeed been a few thousand years since he had attempted a jump of that extent.
Once he had landed lightly upon his feet on the opposite side, the elf kept beneath the eaves for the light, misting rainfall had increased to a steady downpour. He stepped through a doorway into a small, relatively open gazebo that (like everything else) had seen better days. Ivy had grown through the lattice walls, its tendrils grasping anything within reach with amazing strength.
He gently trod between the vines, being mindful not to disturb even a leaf. Rivendells floors and walls were their home now; he was the trespasser on their habitat, not the other way round. The door opposite him led to a covered hallway that terminated somewhere nears the bowels of the city. He was stopped in his tracks as the putrid smell of rot wafting in the calm breeze from the second doorway struck his senses like a hard blow.
The elf had not smelled such stink in many years, not having been in a library for nearly a century. From the size of the room, he could tell that this had been one of Elronds smaller libraries, possibly even his sons library. The previous room had presumably been a reading room of sorts.
His head spun and he reflexively reached for his ages-old sword as a shadow sped towards him. His guard raised, and adrenaline coursing through his veins, he forced his head to clear as he felt nothing attack him.
He grinned at his own sudden foolishness; on the far wall, many such shadows fought with one another, all bathed in an orange glow that of a fire. His restlessness decreased, he now understood where in the House the prowler had settled.
Startled once again, he shrunk down behind a desk as someone else entered the room. Through a crack in the wood, the elf observed the stranger. He had removed his cloak, as well as any ungainly weapons he may not have wanted to carry about in a cramped space. Even without his cloak, his face was still veiled by the darkness of the room. He walked to a shelf and grabbed an armful of the disintegrating books and left again.
The shadows from the fire leaped up higher on the wall, taking the elf a moment to see what the other was doing burning the priceless and inimitable tomes. He felt a flash of anger, but then remembered how many people would take the time to read such books. A long time ago, had he lived in this place, or had indeed visited more than once a century, he would have. But that was a very different time, and he was now a different person. He stood and crept to the lighted doorway, and was mildly surprised at what he saw.
The stranger, instead of mercilessly throwing book after book into the fireplace, was seated in an armchair, his booted feet on the hearth with a large book opened in his lap. A sword had been leaned against a nearby table with a strange bow and quiver of arrows.
Come sit, friend, and warm yourself by the fire on this wet night. He did not look up from the book as he spoke in a low, cracking tone that hinted that his voice had once been melodious and flowing. This was probably some outcast troubadour or traveling minstrel from the realm of Gondor.
Having now given up on having the element of surprise, the elf stalked wearily towards the fire, his hand on his sword hilt.
I am unarmed, and more in want of a friend than an enemy. Certainly you are also wet and chilled. He commented, his voice already improving from the use.
The elf trusted the other, seated figure, and snuck a glance at him. He untied his drenched mantle and hung it from the corner of the fireplace to dry in the heat.
The dark haired stranger seemed not to have noticed the further movement as he flipped through the pages of the large book in his lap.
The elf let his silver-blonde hair down from its loose braid, sitting on the hearth and combing his fingers through it to work out whatever small tangles that might have lodged in it. Rain drummed loudly on the ceiling, giving the room the sound of a beehive.
When his hair had at last dried to his liking, the elf reached for his travel bag, rifling through it until he pulled out an item wrapped in a dry greenish-brown leaf.
He cleared his throat. It is not much, but if you wish, we may share this waybread. The elf offered, wistfully thinking that it was his final Lembas cake from the Lady Galadriel.
The other looked up, his eyes glittering slightly at the mention of food. With his left hand he pulled the leather bookmark into the book and set it down on the dusty floor. I thank you for your generosity, but if it is your last, then you need not share it.
The silver-haired elf smiled lightly, No trouble. This seems to be a time to share. Being careful to not remove the entire leaf wrapping, he broke off a corner and offered it. Besides, it lasts longer than it looks.
The other took it in his left hand and hungrily bit off a hunk of the bread, his eyes glassing over as he chewed.
A flash of lightning illuminated the chamber and the silver haired elf got a good glimpse of the other enough to see most of his features.
A pair of shimmering light grey eyes stared back past a long, sloping nose. The high forehead and nearly flawless skin perhaps would have given away what he was, had he not seen the tips of the elfs ears. This was definitely not a traveling minstrel of Gondor, but nor was he an elf of this city.
The reclining elf saw his companion for the first time, also. He gazed into the silver-haired elfs dark eyes whether they were blue or black he could tell not and recognized his features from somewhere. The silver-blonde hair dictated he was of Lrien descent, but as the lightning again flashed, he could see the subtle lines on his face, and the wisdom in the silver-haired elfs eyes that said he was much older than the dark haired one had at first thought. The Moriquendi of Doriath also had light hair that shone as moonlight. Thunder rumbled in response to the lightning in the distance, though it sounded less threatening than it had earlier.
You would be of the ancient realm of Doriath, I imagine?
In the darkness, he could now almost feel the Doriathrims eyes search his face questioningly.
Yes, I too was alive then. He smiled, a lilting grin that must have been handsome to many elleths in days past.
I was born in Doriath.
I thought so-
But from the light burning in your eyes I can tell you were not. The other added.
It is merely the glow from the fire. The same is in your eyes. He was beginning to become uncomfortable, and he hid his subtle shift in position by throwing another book on the fire with his right hand, not realizing what the others eyes saw.
If you say so. He paused, pondering the others words, as well as his mangled hand. Then you are an exceptional Moriquendi, for none of us had dark hair. You have lied somewhere. He bent his gaze to the fire and forced himself to watch the pages of the newly added book to the fire blacken and curl as they burned. Without looking away, he spoke.
You are Maglor, are you not? Hearing no answer, he turned to gaze at where the elf was, but found that he had been temporarily blinded by the bright firelight. When his vision once again returned, he could not believe what he saw.
The Noldo had disappeared.
**
The next morning, the silver-haired elf awoke unaware he had even fallen asleep to find that although Maglor had not returned, he had left a piece of parchment on the arm of his chair.
I am indeed Maglor, though I suppose in return I have to venture a guess as to who you would be. Your name is Celeborn, true? I thought I recognized your face and accent. You were one of the Moriquendi who Maedhros and I first taught the High-Elven speech, if my memory does not yet fail me.
When you travel to Valinor, which I assume is soon, I would that you offer this sword and this bow to my Mother, Nerdanel. Let her think that the last of her sons has joined their father in Mandos, so that she may finally be at peace thinking I am, even if in all reality I am not.
Thank you.
In the brilliant morning sun, Celeborn glanced at the book, then to the pile of ancient weapons now neatly piled on the chair. He nodded apparently to no one while reverently taking the sword in his hands.
**
In Valinor a few weeks shortly afterward, a crimson-haired elleth dried her eyes as she accepted her sons sword from the silver-haired stranger. She later thanked the Valar for their pity on Maglor, second son of Fanor.
The End.
A/N: I know that the end is sort of corny, but I thought it somewhat fitting. I realized that Maglor is asking Celeborn to become a liar and to live with that lie until the end of time but I believe that Celeborn could partly understand Nerdanels plight, though in a different scale. I think he would have wanted to know through some sign that Celebran was happy in Valinor, but would have also wanted to save her the pain beforehand, for he also suffered emotionally from both her injuries and departure. Nerdanel can now believe that her second son has been absolved by the Valar of his sins, and Maglors fa is now happy in Mandos (as happy as a fa can get being houseless, I suppose) compared to what he was during the thousands of years of wandering and mourning both his own faults and those of his father and brothers. That must have been a nasty thing for Nerdanel to picture.
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