This tale is co-authored by Alassiel and we both wish to acknowledge the high honor of being allowed to partake of the pleasure of entering into the world of Tolkien Elves to bring forth this story. We give all credit to JRR Tolkien and promise to treat his Elves with all the respect due them and keep with the high standards as provided by LaCE.

THE ENTREATY

In the vast gleaming hall sat the majestic Vala presence, arrayed in a hröa draped in shimmering shade-shifting blues, dark hair spilling unbound, face stern, sapphire-blue eyes alight with subdued flame; beautiful beyond the fairest of Elf-kind. Silently he awaited the arrival of the supplicant.

Soft as wind caressing leaves the Elf approached the Vala, dark head held high, gracefully treading the great empty length between door and throne; clad in rustic green and brown, without a single adorning gleam of jewel or precious metal, long hair in a single thick plait, an air of hopeless bravery in his every motion. He halted before the King, waiting a word, unyielding and defiant.

An age seemed to pass without either stirring until with a deep sigh the Vala stood to tower over his petitioner. The tall elf gazed up arrogantly to face his Doom and saw tears glistening unshed in the eyes looking down on him. Undone, Maglor dropped to his knees, head bowed, riven of pride, bereft of all hope of pardon.

The Power resumed his seat, endlessly patient with this broken one before him. At last Maglor raised his tear-streaked face extending empty hands toward Manwë, pleading silently for mercy.

In a voice deep and sorrowful he addressed the Elf, "Last of your house to return from self-imposed Exile, why come you here?"

Maglor shuddered, but gathering courage replied, "Only as a wanderer, long lost in wild lands, for rest and to find peace. Forgiveness I know is not so easily bestowed, yet would I ask it of those I have wronged."

Manwë: This you will find in the Halls.

Maglor hesitantly: Of a different kind I speak.

Manwë gently: There is yet another boon you would have of me?

Maglor dropping his eyes and speaking softly: That I not be un-housed.

Manwë: Not for any of the Powers to rend from you the hröa you wear. Though you are free to release the now translucent housing from fëa should you wish.

Maglor hopeful: Faded I may be, but to dwell till the end of Arda within the Halls as would be my fate, I fear above all things. Neither do I wish to return to the desolation of the lands of Men. Are these then my only choices?

Manwë: Unwilling you were to release the Jewel, yet release it you did, unwilling you were to seek mercy, yet seek it you have, forgiveness you ask and peace and rest, yet what of those from whom you rent unpityingly that which you seek?

Maglor in shame: The past I cannot undo, nor loss restore to those I wronged.  

Then in frustration he rose swiftly and turning strode down the long hall, only to hear from behind him the Vala speak.

Manwë: Easiest to lay down hröa and enter the Halls, Kanafinwë; uncertain the hearing and influence of those who would come on your behalf, MaKalaurë.

Maglor stopped abruptly and spun about to stare uncomprehendingly at Manwë.

Maglor: How can this be?

Manwë: Your arrival is known to many. Among the living and re-housed none have condemned; some few have asked pardon for your deeds. Wish you to hear their words?

Maglor stunned: Who would stand by me?

Manwë: They await. By neither word nor sight shall your presence be known to them, yet hear and see them you shall.

Unannounced the first Elf entered, silver hair constrained by a fanciful copper clasp, dressed in a mid-thigh length tunic of pale blue, barefoot and carrying a slender fishing spear. Though he appeared ill-at-ease in his surroundings he bowed deeply to Manwë and smiled tentatively.

Manwë: Speak, Sea-child.

Teler-elf: Heru Manwë, word came of the return of Macalaurë.

Manwë: Verily. Do you come to accuse?

Teler-elf: Nay, my Lord, but to bring to you his kindnesses to me.

Receiving a slight nod he continued: Among my kin, song and singing are high praised. On a time the Lord Macalaurë trod the shore near my home, and resting within my hearing put fingers to harp-strings, awakening within me longing to also bring forth such beauty.

Drawn I was into his presence, but not a word could I utter for the loveliness of his music. Seeing me enrapt at his feet, he inquired as to my wish to learn the harp. "And wilt thou add thy voice to mine harping?" he inquired. Nodding eagerly, I suggested a favorite song, of the passage of cloud shadows upon the ever-changing Sea. With harp and voice we wove then a net fair and lovely for the capture of our gifts.

A harp he brought to me, as he knew my wish to stay by the waters, and taught me the language of his music. Many times he came hence, bearing once another harp, the making of his own hands, saying my skill now deserved a better.

For long a time I did see him but rarely and, though tales spread of unrest and bitter words spoken, he seemed unchanged until the terror of the Dark came, and following swift on its winds, the time of blood on the waters.

Holding up his spear he continued: From fishing I came in haste toward the terrible sounds at the Harbors. Madness filled the air like smoke, choking reason, smothering the senses; through this cloud of unreason a tall, dark Elf strode toward me, clad in gleaming metal, an unbelievably long, silvery knife in one hand that dripped red liquid from its length.

Frozen, I awaited this strange being until he stood before me, proud and fell, glittering blade cleaving the air as it arced to meet me. With a mighty wrenching twist he turned the death blow from me, crying out my name. Staggering he drove the point of his over-long knife into the wooden deck, leaning upon it and sobbing. Overcoming my fear I went to him.

It was Macalaurë; splattered with the blood of my kin, eyes wild with anguish. Grabbing the pointed end of my spear he placed it against his own breast, asking for release from his madness.

Perhaps the other thought I threatened him, perhaps the lust of blood too powerful, but ere my fëa fled to the Halls I saw my harp-master send my slayer before of me. He held me till sight and breath failed.

The Teler-elf paused: For my part I hold Macalaurë released from guilt and would welcome him to share home and hearth with me if he so wills or others deny him.

Manwë: Generous heart you have, Sea-child, your tale a measure in full for the weighing of deeds fair and foul.

With a graceful, sweeping bow the Teler-elf departed.

The next to enter was one clad in muted grey, silver and charcoal; tunic, leggings, boots, hair and eyes blending together like soft shadows.

Manwë: Twilight-elf, why come you?

Sindarin-elf: Lord Manwë, the return of Lord Maglor has reached my ears.

Manwë remained silent.

Sindarin-elf: Could pardon from the Doom be given were my tale retold?

Manwë: Oath-bound, kinslayer thrice-times, Doom-spoken; this one you would bespeak kindly?

Sindarin-elf: Aye, from my heart I forgive his misdeeds.

Manwë: Speak then.

Sindarin-elf: Six there were sent, charged to entreat the Lord Maedhros to call to heel his errant brothers and to release the Lady Luthien, were she held captive; five seasoned warriors, the sixth, my brother, warrior-trained, but yet untried. A roving orc band nearly three times our strength we slew, but the victory dear bought. Two brave warriors slain, the novice pierced by a cruelly barbed orc arrow, and though removed and carefully tended, he did not heal.

Upon reaching Himring, the hold of Maedhros, with message delivered and our duty done, we sought a healer. Poison from the arrow now burned fiercely in him; known cures useless.

Then came a very tall Noldo dressed in fine raiment and much bejeweled and we bethought it strange that such a noble one would enter the healing house. Called he then for harp, cool water, drawing herbs and poultices, and opening afresh the wound, cleansed and covered it lightly. Taking harp in hand a song of healing he began. On through the night by gentling hand and harp and song he wove a fair dream about him.

Yet it was for naught, as ever stronger burned the poison in the young one, his mind seeming bent to the will of the Dark Power in the North. Deeply troubled was the lord, now shed of his finery and jewels which lay heaped and forgotten at the bedside. My part to cool the greatly heated flesh of my brother as all the while a song of mighty power and shielding the noble one wrapped about us three.

Uncounted time passed with little rest and less food, the battle relentless between the Dark and the Light, poison grasping and song warding, as one against the other they strove. Then fell a sudden silence.

Slumped across the legs of my brother the lord lay unmoving, spent and wearied beyond measure. Ai! In vain! Grief-laden I barely felt the touch of his hand and looked up into the face of my brother, weaken, pale, fever-ravaged, but healed! Two others came to tend the lord, half-carrying him from the room, calling him Macalaurë, Maglor in our tongue. Swiftly then my brother regained health, the lord seeing to him twice more ere we departed.

Though the elf spoke no more, neither did he depart.

Manwë: So ends your tale?

The elf hung his head and in a bare whisper said: Nay, Lord, the end is not glad.

Manwë said not a word and at last the elf raised a stricken face to the Vala. In a voice of intense sorrow he reluctantly continued: The next time I saw Lord Maglor was in the halls of Menegroth. No longer was he the gentle healer, but now become an Oath-bound kinslayer with the light of his Doom in his fire-bright eyes.  Sword a blazing trail of death, he turned and cut me down without remorse or pity. So my end I met on the edge of his blade.

Maglor fell heavily to his knees, head bowed, readying for the accusation and anger from the re-housed elf as all that was due him.

Sindarin-elf quietly: Yet that was no more the true Lord Maglor than my brother was when tormented by orc poison. Unbearable must be the pain for a healer to take life. Long ages has he endured loss, despair and sundering. Friend, I would name him if it please him.

With a respectful bow he turned and hurried from the hall.

Maglor lifted wonder-filled eyes to meet those of the King, but no words passed between them.

Several more elves shared their tales of compassion, kindness, sacrifice, friendship and healing.

A Noldor-elf in elegant attire then came and after greeting the Lord of the West began his tale.

Noldor-elf: My coming is on behalf of one who cannot bring his tale to you, for he has long gone beyond the confines of Arda.

Manwë: Speak you for a Man?

Noldor-elf: Aye, yet never the name of his benefactor did he learn.

Manwë: Say on.

Noldor-elf: Our patrol was many days yet from Himring, when we came upon the small band of Men, among them women and children. Far they had strayed from their kin, now lost in the wilds in mid-winter, supplies of food dwindled to naught enough to keep strength and health in already weakened bodies. Fear was on them at our appearing, and though of warding us off there was but small hope, the men stood firm.

Lord Maglor spoke, but they knew not our tongue. Waybread he then offered which was gladly taken, our company following his lead. Several days some of our patrol hunted, gleaning also such as was to be found of nut, root and plant. Others aided the building of rough shelters and the preserving of the provender, spare clothing and all bedding given to the ragged group.

The leader, a Man stern and proud, tall, lean with dark-eyed bearded face, still distrusted us, ever keeping keen gaze upon our deeds. Males only he allowed near to us, wary lest a child or female be drawn to our strangeness. Though grateful for our aid, at our leaving he seemed pleased.

Our lord sent further provisions and, unbeknownst to them, a patrol for their protection and, with the coming of Spring, riders to seek their kinsmen. Deserting the encampment, behind they left a circle of smooth stones; within it a bowl of polished wood containing a single, rough-worked gem, glinting colors within the clear orb; a generous thanks-gifting. Not again did we cross paths, nor hear of them further.

The Noldor-elf bowed deeply and departed in a swirl of silken robes.

Manwë studied the faded Elf thoughtfully.

Maglor smiled slightly, for the first time thinking back to the chance encounter.

Maglor: Not a word did we speak, nor trust did he learn, begrudged was the aid, yet for his people he cared deeply.

Glancing up he looked into the troubled face of the Vala, eyes distant and grave.

Maglor: Have I said aught, Lord, that displeases you?

Manwë: Nay, but only the next in your behalf.

Maglor: May I know the name of the one who causes you unease?

Manwë gave no heed to the request, then spoke as to himself: I would have it not, though at the behest of others it shall be granted.

Maglor faced the great doors, waiting for this unwelcome Elf to enter. To his surprise the doors remained fast shut and turning toward the throne his gaze was caught and held by a dark grey mist at the foot of the dais that coalesced into a vaguely elven form, speaking words unclear and in a voice awkward with lack of use. Pausing, the shade began again.

Elven-shade: For Macalaurë I would speak.

Manwë sternly: Say your peace and return to your place, un-housed fëa.

Shade: Would I could tell him of my love returned for his love given.

Manwë: Tell then for he will hear you.

Shade: When mine fëa and hröa dwelling in utmost discord all but yielded to unbinding, gentle hands, quiet voice, restful harping, reshaped my thoughts, gave worth to the abhorrent one I had become.

Liquid clean, pure and cool in single droplets the first kindness to throat parched and swollen near shut, soft honeyed-fruits and grains to remember swallowing, tender meat to strengthen, warmth from living flesh shared dispelling agonies of coldness long endured. His the tears and laughter calling to one who had neither, and had forgotten their gentle pleasures; his the arms holding close the battered, frail thing rescued from endless torment and shame, till peace in dreams of Light restored senses deadened by long disuse.

First he was to wrap clumsy fingers about quill and sword-hilt, urging practice, watching health and fire for life flare forth from smoldering ashes. His portion to bear coldness, railings, black-minded rages, scorn, mocking words from the one he so tended and loved. Never though did heart turn nor was pain returned in answer to grief given.

Stretching forth both arms the ghostly form was seen to be one-handed.

Maglor stunned, anguished reached for the shade, impacting a shielding between them and staggering back.

Maglor cried out in desperation: RUSSANDOL! Maitimo! Maedhros!

The voice of his brother unheard, the shade continued: May it be one at the least of us be spared the Doom. Ever he was harping-healer first, warrior only at need.

Kneeling, with bowed head he pled silently for his brother.

Manwë, impassive as stone, sat unmoved.

As fog in a sudden breeze, the shadowy spirit fled back to the Halls.

Maglor wept bitterly, turning from Manwë in his own dire agony, thereby unaware of the echoing sorrow revealed on the face of the King.

Slender arms gathered the grieving Elf, sheltering him against the storm of longing. His tears fell heedless as he repeatedly cried out the names of his elder brother. Softly She-who-shares-sorrows sang, her tears bejeweling his dark head, stroking his back and hair; casting an unspoken, beseeching plea to her fellow Vala.

Rising from this throne he went to them, placing one great hand upon Maglor's shoulder.

Manwë sadly: Scorched he was with the possessing of the Jewel. Still bound to the 'having'; re-housed he would but seek to reclaim that costly treasure, mayhap from the stewardship of The Mariner, deemed foe and thief would he not loose it from his keeping. Alone of your brethren, at the last you cast it from you, freed yet tormented by the loss. Would you see Maitimo burnt still in fire-hot desire unassawaged?

Maglor raised his tear-streaked face to meet an answering regret in the deep-blue eyes of Manwë.

Maglor: Nay, Lord Manwë. Dear my brother is to me and I would not have him suffer…yet unending parting, grievous.

Manwë gently: For you the choice, Firstborn.

At last Maglor relaxed fully in the enfolding arms, head leaned against soft shoulder as a child might, comforted and safe. The song continued, tender and consoling, drawing his wounded heart to rest for a time.

Waking as from an elven dream he gazed into a feminine face, luminescent, pale and fair, smiling tentatively down at him.

Leaping to his feet he stared at her.

Maglor shocked: Lady Nienna?

Nienna softly: Yes, child. Mourning of fëa calls to me and yours troubled beyond ken of most to long endure.

Maglor bowed low and offered his hand for her rising, which she gladly accepted.

Nienna: Fair harper-singer, your music amid peaceful Lórien in my heart lingers still. Glad would be the land for your return.

Maglor: My thanks for your heartening words, Lady.

Nienna: Lose not hope.

Turning she glided from the room. The Vala and the Elf stood together motionless for some time.

Manwë: Would you hear another?

Maglor: Aye, my Lord.

Hooded and cloaked the figure approached the Vala, who had resumed his seat. Bowing deeply the petitioner waited patiently.

Manwë gently: Speak what you will.

In a voice of honeyed silk the hidden one began: Beyond all hope, hope is yet renewed in my heart. Word of the admission of the last of the sons of Fëanor unto these shores has been told me. I come to plead forgiveness on his behalf.

There was a longish pause, then: From his youth he was ever the dreamer, harp and voice his art, tender of heart, fierce in defense of those he loved. Oft time was he peace-bringer betwixt his younger brothers and their cousins.

Manwë: Fear you to address me without disguise?

With pale, trembling hands the hood was drawn back to reveal a fair female face and a tumble of hair, a shimmering red fall to spread over the emerald green of her cloak.

Maglor gasped in astonishment, momentarily frozen in place.

Maglor in a nearly inaudible whisper: Amil!

Nerdanel softly: Even his begetting a moment of gentle beauty, easy he grew within my body, his bringing forth a release rather than travail.

Lonely has been my life since the sundering from husband and sons, first of my doing, then more grievous, their betrayal of all our peoples, Noldor and Teleri alike.

Her voice went suddenly ragged: Fëanor, my beloved, my dearest childhood friend, companion in adventure and craft, journeyed afar to return no more, six of seven sons Doomed and bound in the Halls; for this, the surviving son, I beg you give pardon and permit his return.

Falling to her knees before Manwë, hands extended in supplication, she bowed her head and wept. Raising her forlorn countenance to the King, all pride swept aside she begged wordlessly that her last living son be spared.

Descending the steps Manwë grasped her trembling hands and raised her to her feet. Bending down he placed a tender kiss on her brow, then with infinite sadness wiped away her tears.

Manwë: Your loss is grief to all. Doom nonetheless presides, but may yet be set aside for this son who comes asking forgiveness.

Nerdanel departed without another spoken word, the grief eloquent in her tensed body.

Manwë resumed his throne, closing his eyes and sighing deeply.

The doors opened again, this time admitting two Elves, the first a dark-haired Elf clad in elegantly flowing robes of rich crimson, lavishly embroidered with shining gold thread, who came forward to face the mighty Vala; his companion, plainly clad in silver-grey cloak, a pace or two behind him. Stopping at the foot of the dais he inclined his head, then in a deep melodious voice spoke without hesitation.

Elf: Maglor, son of Fëanor, son of Finwë, has come at last from his long Exile?

Manwë: You speak truly, Elrond Half-elven.

Elrond: For his sake I come to you Lord Manwë.

Manwë: Pardon or accusation; which bring you?

Elrond: Pardon, my Lord.

Manwë nodded and sat back pensively.

Elrond: Lord Manwë, for my part, I claim Maglor the adar of my youth. Of his deeds both fair and foul much acknowledged among the Eldar, I am aware, but gentleness alone we received at his hands, my brother, Elros and I. Helpless children, witness to merciless kin-slaying, hostage-captives ensnared in the unyielding web of the Oath-forsworn sons of Fëanor. Calming the hands and voice and harp-songs wooing us back from the edge of grief-fading; Maglor our protector, friend, teacher, peace in the midst of war, to him we clung and love he returned.

Were we blood-kin his fostering would not have differed; of healing, harp, sword, bow, lore, dancing, hunting, strategy, to each of us those which suited best each temperament.

Though underlying all his thought was a relentless brooding of Oath-seared fëa hungering ever for the Silmarili, driving both brothers near mad. Fierce desire overpowering him would he flee our presence till abated he would return, spent and defeated, that he not misuse his adopted sons, whose mother deprived them of possession of the lone rescued Jewel of Light.

Compassion his great gift, to blend with healing hands and song, encircling love warding away all minded to harm young lives innocent of betrayal or fell deed as by healer-song and healer-touch the terror of the Rape of Sirion he muted to little more than a sorrowful dream.

Of his utter love he restored the sons of his heart to the keeping of the remnant of their people, all strangers now, and we grieved the loss of our gentle adar. From him I learned the role of father to child, peace-maker, open-hearted benevolence; so I come now to offer love anew in thankfulness for love given in ages long past. Would he chose to dwell under the banner of the House of Elrond, his welcome is assured.

With a deep reverent bow he stepped back to allow his companion to approach. Manwë inclined his head in assent to the unspoken question of this last petitioner.

Kindly the voice, yet steely with regret he recounted the hopeless quest he undertook in behalf of all Beleriand and beyond; to beseech aid from the Valar in defeating the Dark Enemy. Westward searching, he long was sundered from wife and sons; at last despairing, homeward turning to be met by a dazzlingly radiant light borne by white bird, his wife in form of fair sea-bird adorned with the Silmaril.

Eyes kindled in concern the Elf cast back his cloak to reveal upon his breast the Living Light of the Silmaril.

Maglor gasped in shock, eyes blazing with answering fire of their own, standing tall, intensely alert, poised to spring; Manwë and Eärendil unmoving awaiting his choice.

Eternal minutes washed over the frozen tableau, while Maglor fought the raging lust awakened by the Oath. Taut with unrelieved tension, breathing hard in suppressed longing, he battled the unfulfilled Oath, weaponless, unshielded…alone, his ruin nigh at hand. Nearly yielding, he struggled to clasp his right hand across his eyes, shuttering them from the pure Light so cruelly impaling his heart and fëa; his left hand he flung before him to ward the blow that never came.

To the amazement of all present an answering gleam shone from the marred palm of Maglor, who was now revealed as a shadowy figure to Elrond and Eärendil. The rigid strain melted from his body as he slumped to the ground, not in defeat, but surrender; the Oath renounced, his freedom unconditionally declared.

Manwë smiled through his tears and bade the others depart.

Manwë spoke softly: A place is prepared for you in the gardens of Lórien to await our decision. Namárië, Returned One.

Notes:

[Maglor] Kanafinwe -'strong-voiced or ?commanding'. (Kano) (58)

[Maglor] Makalaure  - Of uncertain meaning. Usually interpreted (and said to have been a 'prophetic' mother-name) as 'forging gold'. If so, probably a poetic reference to his skill in harping, the sound of which was 'golden' (laure was a word for golden light or colour, never used for the metal). HoME Vol.12 pgs. 352, 353.