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The evening sun glimmers on the surface of the sea.
Too brightly, Maglor things, as he rapidly closes his eyes. He feels his right hand numbly tingling and aching, as the light penetrates his eyelids in striking iridescent rays. Like frost on a hot summer day; feverishly burning yet freezing cold.
The surrounding illumination is too familiar, too close, and his palm throbs. It is torment well deserved, he knows.
Maglor’s solitary sorrow is interrupted by a rich laugh somewhere on the left, and he opens his eyes. The blinding brightness causing him to blink multiple times, before discerning the outlet of the now quieting mirth.
On a grassy hill atop the beach, he sees an elderly woman sitting on a chair, with a younger girl standing next to her. She’s gazing and pointing at the sea, with another hand on the older woman’s shoulder, but the older woman is looking straight at him with glimmering eyes.
Maglor isn’t a stranger to looks directed at him, though he usually manages to remain unseen in the shadows and dark corners of Middle-earth. Turning his eyes, he starts to walk away, pushing his head low, so that his hair falls down as a dark curtain around him. But something compels him to look up.
The elderly woman is still looking at him curiously, with a smile on her face and something burning in her eyes. Her left hand lies on her lap, but her right hand is up and she is waving at him, her hand enthusiastically moving in the air.
Maglor is puzzled at the Secondborn's greeting, that of course he has encountered before, but hasn’t been on the receiving end of from men themselves. The girl is looking at him too, still gently holding the older woman by her shoulder. Perhaps, she is afraid she might run away, Maglor adds as an afterthought.
She says something to the older woman by leaning close to her ear, but Maglor can’t discern what was exchanged. Yearning for isolation and fear of recognition (or perhaps, of receiving kindness) gnawed at Maglor, as he feels a pull towards the warm winds of the hill. The way the older woman’s eyes twinkle at him, and her kind interaction with a total stranger, beckons Maglor to stride steadily towards them.
And so he does, his feet silently dragging along the grass moving back and forth in the wind. The sea looks vast and never-ending from up the hilltop. He can imagine Valinor on the far side; home, where to never return. Naneth, that he forsaked, for the only place waiting for him is the void.
Maglor discerns the older woman's obvious whispers to the girl's ear as he gets closer, their secrets blowing away with the breeze. He stops a few steps away from them, as they all take each other in.
An elderly woman, wrinkled and bent, and a girl, barely an adult. The young girl is looking at him warily but kindly, yet the older woman is gazing at his eyes intently, glistening emerald meeting his silver fire, now burnt out.
She helds out both of her hands, expecting for him to offer his own. And he does, for her mirthful smile urges him so.
Her fragile and bony hands wrap around his scarred right hand, as he lowers his hand down, bending his back to reach her level. She is feeble and slight, with her cheeks hollowed and bronze skin wrinkled, yet in her eyes is unwavering joy and her mouth is open in a wide smile, curling upwards, showing a mouthful of yellowing teeth.
Sorrow fills his mind. For if there is grace in withering, in mortality, I cannot see it, thought Maglor. Fleetingly, he recalled his brother and his sorrow caused by the death of his Edain companion. Numbly, he thought that soon this woman too would perish. Though he also knew death as a blessing; a blessing he would not be granted.
Her hair was delicately curly, thin and white as snow, and a small yellow flower was tucked behind her ear. It fanned abruptly in the wind, and Maglor longed to grasp it so it would not fall.
How can she embody such joy and kindness towards a stranger, Maglor wondered in slight awe, his brows furrowing. His hand had begun to tremble and the familiar ache of smouldering fire was returning, but the older woman held his hand and gaze tightly, her thumb slowly moving against his skin.
“How nice to finally meet you!” She declared with mirth, and shook his hand up and down in an warm iron grip. “Look, look Halda, he is just as she described him!” Maglor frowned and looked confusingly at the younger girl, Halda, yet she seemed to be contemplating something, with her hands still on the older woman’s shoulders.
Before Maglor could conjure up some kind of answer, the elder beat him to it. Her neck craned to look at the younger girl, as she released her right hand from Maglor’s and pointed it towards his hair, her hand dramatically flapping in the air.
“The same ebony hair. Look how long! And those red cheeks. Oh, isn’t he handsome, Halda.” Maglor blushed, and his cheeks did indeed turn rosy, whilst thinking, how low he must have fallen to be blushing at elderly woman’s rambling. Nevertheless, a small smile tugged at his lips, over the woman’s shining enthusiasm, and he placed his left hand over their twined hands.
“Well met.” He said, giving their hands a light squeeze. With her free hand, the older woman beckoned the girl closer and whispered in her ear, giggling amidst.
“Grandmother would be in such glee, to see her grandmother’s tall blushing friend finally here. And he came to see me, of all of us! She would be filled with such envy.”
Without giving anyone else more time to speak and or react, the older woman waved towards the young girl, or more specifically, towards the blanket spread on the ground.
Maglor had evidently heard her whispers, and was in deep wonder of the description of his likelihood. For only one person conjured in his mind.
“Come, sit, sit. You’re so slender and tall, you must be tired too. Oh, finally you came to see me.” Her hand kept pointing towards the blanket, and Maglor gazed questioningly at the girl, now pulled from his wanderings. She waved her right hand in an invitation, now away from the older woman’s shoulders, and beckoned him to sit down.
This was not what Maglor had planned at all. Not that he planned for anything anymore, just wallowed in his sorrow by the sea. In his mind, he made a note to wallow more and harder on the morrow.
“You may sit here, if you will.” Said the younger girl with an amused smile on her face, and pointed at a space near to the grandmother on the chair, who still beamed at him. The amusement of the young girl didn’t seem to be directed towards him however.
Thus Maglor sat down on the indicated spot and crossed his legs, on what appeared to be a blanket consisting of variously coloured and textured textiles hastily stitched together.
Some of the fabrics felt rough on his skin, like linen that hasn’t ever softened nor bent in the flow of time. Different than the silken fabrics Caranthir used to weave with deft hands, and of which he once sewed flowing robes decorated with golden embroideries for his brothers.
The girl sat on the other side of the blanket, near to a woven basket, and turned to gaze at the sea and the beckoning setting of the sun. So seemed to do the older woman, who was now fumbling the yellow flower from behind her ear in her lap. It must have fallen, Maglor thought haphazardly.
He looked at her wrinkled hands for a while, before turning his gaze to the orange glimmer in front of him. This far from the sea the sharp shimmering waves didn't pain him so. He hadn't been this far away from the familiar sting for as long as he could remember.
The older woman was now quietly humming a tune, completely disinterested in him, merely looking at the flower in her hands with absent eyes.
Dazed by the woman’s slight song, Maglor closed his eyes as sorrow pierced his mind at the yearning for his voice, for the voice to sing, he had lost alongside his adaneth’s Silmaril. All that was left was a piercing echo, that cut and bled his throat as it rose.
A trace of piercing fire lingered on Maglor’s palm, and he shifted, squeezing his right hand with his left. His movement seemed to draw the older woman’s attention, and her eyes filled with surprise sought his.
“Oh, you have finally come!” Her hands enthusiastically reached for him over her chair, a wide smile on her lips, and the yellow flower forgotten on her lap.
To say the least, Maglor was confused. He knew of the fragilities of the Secondborn, of the various mortal illnesses that beckoned them, yet he didn’t know of such an utterly short memory or what could cause such ailment.
“Aren’t you handsome! And finally you came. Look Halda, it’s him!” She reached even lower towards his hands, genuine joy, fascination and somehow, recognition, flashing in her bright eyes. Maglor looked at Halda, not caring to hide his puzzlement.
“Yes grandmother, they do share a resemblance.” She answered her grandmother, and now turned to Maglor and smiled apologetically, adding, “She has a short memory, and such a one that forgets the past and conjures it’s own recollections, my lord. It’s sometimes easier to play along.” Maglor nodded, but wondered if she had meant the latter as a suggestion for him to act upon, or if she was speaking of herself.
Memory is both a blessing and a curse. Maglor felt his deeds weigh heavy on his shoulders, and his sharp memory pulling him underwater inside the too sharply glimmering sea, where he ere should burn and suffocate. His palm throbbed and ached, yearning, pulling, a reminder.
Movement in front alerted him, and seeing the older woman’s still reaching hands, Maglor brought his right hand toward hers. Before she grasped his hand, she suddenly stopped and lowered her eyes, appearing taken aback. Maglor’s mind still circled amidst his heavy thoughts, and with her reaction his confusion grew, hand still lingering in the air, waiting for something to grasp onto.
“What has happened to your hand, my dear child?” She questioned, eyes round and directed at the deep black marks littered within his palm, authentic worry and distress flashing in her expression.
Child? Maglor stared at her with furrowed brows. There were not many in Middle-earth older than him, if there were any. Child, he rolled the word on his tongue, and echoes of innocence and naivety filled his mind. Those which he hadn’t embodied in a long, long time.
“I need something to tie it with.” She hastily declared whilst turning away, perhaps to herself, frail hands now fumbling around her many pockets, as she mumbled soft words directed at no one.
Maglor could just stare at the older woman, who was so intent in her rummage, yellowed handkerchiefs piling on her lap, yet she seemed unhappy with her discoveries. Finally she seemed to come to some kind of realisation, and her hands grasped at the red scarf that was wrapped around her neck, pulling it off.
She didn’t look at him, but seized his waiting hand in a tight but gentle embrace, whilst tying the scarf around his palm. Her hands trembled, all bone and withered skin, but her hands were warm. Like a flickering candle, warming those around, until blown out by he wind.
“You finally came.” She said once again, whispering; a secret only for the two of them. Maglor couldn’t help but wonder if somehow he had stumbled into kinsmen of Haleth, and if they indeed had stories circulating of his brother. He thought of Moryo, and how he had failed to protect him. How he had failed all of his little brothers.
A deep red scarf, with embroidered flowers, now covered his burned and scarred hand. The hand that proved his complacency; and the dark abyss, that awaited. His hand trembled too, and she began to move their joined hands rhythmically up and down, as if calming a restless child. The ache in his palm ceased.
The movement of their hands calmed his trembling, and Maglor noted that giving comfort and care seemed to come naturally to her. He thought of his little brothers, and how after each’s birth, had he learned how to hold a crying babe best, how to sneak them treats whilst they anger, how to put them to sleep faster than before with his Song alone.
Their eyes found each other once again, dimmed silver meeting the shine of emerald.
“Here grandmother, take some biscuits.” The young girl said from her seat, and brought a small basket filled with biscuits towards the older woman.
Maglor jolted slightly, movement only visible to trained eye, and the grandmother let go of his bandaged hand. His right hand fell to rest on his lap, with his left hand now tracing the red scarf relishing on the well-woven soft fabric, and the memories that rose to his mind.
“Are these all for me?” The grandmother whispered with a horrified smile decorating her wrinkled face, whilst looking up at her granddaughter, and Maglor couldn’t help but feel yet another smile tug at his lip.
“Give the young man some biscuits, he’s all skin and bones.” She added hastily, as her hand suddenly waved in Maglor’s direction, strongly indicating his need for the baked goods.
A full smile blossomed on his face, as he is named a young man and a child within few moments. And offered biscuits, by a frail grandmother, centuries younger than him. He is a feared son of Fëanor after all, and more ancient than the elderly woman can count. A kinslayer. Doomed for eternity for his and his family’s deeds.
A tight squeeze brought him back from his dark thoughts, and he looked at the fragile hand that was once again grasping his. He must have lifted his hand up without noticing.
Her hand was wrinkled and slight against his, all bones and loose skin, but so young, a mere flicker in time, compared to his everlasting fire, that has now dimmed into suffocating ashes.
Her grip on his bandaged hand is tight and reassuring, and Maglor found himself softly wrapping his other hand on top of hers. He had come to enjoy her flickering warmth. She looked at him with absent emerald eyes, as if looking through him, but her hand was telling another story.
Maglor noticed the girl watching their exchange, as if echoing his thoughts. She must have felt the same when her grandmother grasped her own hand. That she is still there, amidst the wandering and disappearing thoughts. Fragmented; but capable of giving and receiving care. So close to death; but choosing to live and to feel joy within the time that is given.
He gave her hand a last soft squeeze, and reached into the basket the girl had been holding this whole time, offering one biscuit for her grandmother and keeping one for himself. The girl grabbed a biscuit for herself as well.
“We shall eat together.” He declared, lifting the biscuit as if giving a toast, as the grandmother started happily nibbling on the round biscuit given to her.
The biscuit was slightly sweet and grainy, if a bit dry, but a welcome taste nonetheless. They finished eating in comfortable quiet, that was broken by the grandmother eyeing the basket curiously, her own biscuit long gone.
“Oh, are these for me?” She asked, and her hands extended towards the biscuits, shaking slightly in their wake. Maglor was again surprised at her capability to forget, but the girl just nodded and laughed softly, bringing the basket towards her grandmother's reaching hands.
“Yes, they are all for you, grandmother.”
Finally, Maglor let out a small huff of laugh, that he felt like had been building inside him for a long time.
The older woman started drifting off after eating a large handful of biscuits, absentmindedly fumbling the yellow flower with her fingers, having completely forgotten their unexpected quest.
Maglor wondered if she still remembered eating so many biscuits or his presence, decided it doesn’t matter, and smiled softly whilst looking at the fading sun.