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Maglor walked the line where the water met the shore, a delicate tightrope on an ever changing pattern so difficult to tread. His throat was silent for now, too torn and bleeding to do more than whisper or breathe.
Long had he lost what Age had passed. Long had he lost how the stars turned, how the nations of Arda rose and fell and rose again. Step by step, gaze on the silvery sheen of the shore, waiting for the water and the wash of it over his feet. As if it could wash away the stains still so stark on his fëa.
But with the next step, the wave did not come.
Maglor tripped, landing hard on his knees. His palms pressed against broken shells, bright blood the color of pitch in the light of the moon. How fitting. He blinked and blinked again, waiting for the water, for the wave, for the battering of salt and regret that had consumed his life for years beyond count.
But no wave came.
Maglor raised his head, gaze drifting, staring out over an empty beach, the water receded, the bed of the ocean exposed to the cold night air.
A shadow fell over him. Maglor flinched, a broken piece of memory flashing through his mind, of a wind, the scream of the gulls, a wave so tall it blocked out the sun.
“Maglor, son of Fëanor,” the voice shook the night. Maglor flinched again, for many reasons this time, too many to count. He turned is head, looking up and up and up, staring at Ulmo, Lord of Waters, risen up out of the sea.
“My lord,” Maglor managed to whisper. He bent over his hands, about to press his head to the wet sand below.
“Stand, Maglor son of Fëanor. I need no such groveling from the Firstborn of Eru.”
Maglor paused, unsure what to do. He sat back on his heels, uncaring of the blood that still seeped from his palms. “My lord,” he said again. “What would you have of me?”
The sea surged about Ulmo's feet, frothy foam and the sparkle of droplets catching the light of the moon. “Long have you wandered,” the Vala said. “Much as come. Much has gone. Still you lament. Do you still seek redemption?”
Maglor stared. “Always.”
“The Curse of the Silmarils was one of pride. You have crafted your own out of grief. As your judge I tell you thus: Enough!” The word rang like thunder over the shore. Maglor flinched yet again, shoulders hunched, heart thundering. “A price overpaid is a debt that lingers, causing grief of its own. Lift your head, Maglor son of Fëanor.”
He could do naught but obey.
Ulmo's eyes shown with the power of the sea. “I say this again. Enough is enough. You have paid the price of your father's pride, of your own pride, of the grief you caused in your Quest that changed the very shape of the world. It is time to let go of your sorrow. It is time to be free of your grief.”
Maglor felt tears streak down his face. “I do not know how.”
“A ship I will bring. To Mandos you may go, to cleanse your fëa of all sorrow and the evil that you believe remains.”
Maglor closed his eyes, feeling fresh tears drip from his chin. “I do not deserve to return to Aman.”
“Doubt my word, my judgment, do you?”
“Never, my lord.”
“Then where do you wish to go?”
“I wish...” The words felt like a sin, yet another to add to the list that stained his fëa. “I wish to help, to put to rights all that I can, to create something beautiful from all that I have ruined.”
“Much importance you put on your own deeds.”
Maglor winced and lowered his head.
“Not all that ails this world was wrought by your hands,” Ulmo's sigh whispered grains of drying sand over the empty shore. “A darkness is growing in Arda. A power once of Aman grows unchecked in the wild lands that he has twisted to serve his own needs. Since you desire to be a helping hand, to right the wrongs done here in this land, then I charge you thus.”
Maglor jerked, sitting straight, his shoulders square for the first time in an Age.
“Go from this place, to the East, where the mountains rise like teeth snapping at the sky. Find you your foster son, forgotten in your grief, in your desperate repentance. There you will stay, offering council, offering help, until that Darkness makes such a move that you alone will know how to respond.”
Memories thundered through him. Of Elrond, of Elros, two sweet boys who had once been so afraid, so shy. Those same sweet boys who had learned to laugh, to dance to the music from his lyre, who looked at him with love in their eyes. Memories of losing them, to the madness of the Curse, of trying, clawing at his own skin, unable to stop himself from drawing weapons against the boys he regarded as his own sons. He remembered the way Elrond cried for him, even as Maglor turned away, seeking salvation at the sea. He had already lost Elros to the fate of Men unknown to all. But Elrond... Elrond ...
“My lord,” Maglor bowed low. “I will go.”
“You will not be alone,” Ulmo's voice was fading. The rush of the sea was sweeping toward the shore. “Remember my words. To Imladris you shall go. There you will wait.”
“I will guard them well,” Maglor vowed. “The Darkness will not evade me.” The water rushed over him, so cold it shocked the breath from his lungs. He rose, arms laden, the gift from Ulmo squirming in his arms.
“My child I send with you,” Ulmo's voice was faint, hidden in the crash of the waves, but still Maglor could hear him. “Guard him well, Maglor son of Fëanor.”
“I shall,” Maglor stared down at the babe, dark hair and dark eyes, a child so like himself he could claim him as his son. “What is his name?”
No answer came. The lonely cry of a gull echoed in the night. The babe stared up at him, eyes shiny with tears as his skin grew damp and cold. The child did not cry, just shivered, and Maglor wrapped him in the remnants of his own robe.
“Erestor,” Maglor named him, striding away from the sea for the first time in Ages unknown. His sorrow was not forgotten, but the shiver the child was more important, more pressing than singing laments to the shining sea. Each step bought clarity, brought a list of things that needed be done. Not for him, but for the child in his arms.
By the time Maglor arrived in Imladris, taking a knee before a shocked Elrond, Erestor was grown to a solemn child, slow to cheer but each smile more precious for each that was coaxed out of him. Elrond celebrated Maglor's return with great fanfare. Erestor he embraced as a brother finally found. Maglor did not correct him. The wisdom of Ulmo ran deep in his new son. If Erestor chose to have all the world believe Maglor was his father, then that was what Maglor would honor.
Still, when an Age had passed and Erestor was fully grown and when one Glorfindel of Gondolin entered Imladris, shining and beautiful with the Light of Aman on his face, Maglor was not impressed when said Glorfindel took one look at Erestor and walked right into a wall.
“Absolutely not,” Maglor told a smiling Erestor, who also seemed as though he could not look away from Glorfindel, bloody nose or not on the stupid oaf. “You are far too young.”
“Absolutely not,” said Elrond, hovering behind Erestor, even as his children hung onto Erestor's robes and glared at Glorfindel as well. “He's more than an Age older than you!”
Erestor said nothing. But late at night, when Glorfindel sat up late, penning poems he cast aside, the water in his wash bowl rippled in time to laughter unheard.