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Road to Redemption by Gwaelinn

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Table of Contents

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Story notes:
Beta: the wonderful BookofNicodemus

Type: FPS

Pairings: none for a while but many to follow!

Rating: (G) NC-17-R overall for later chapters

Warnings: (none now) Slash (m/m)

Time line: AU

Disclaimer: All characters and locations are the sole property of Professor Tolkien’s Estate. This is written only for pleasure and not for profit.

Author notes: The little plot bunny popped up while listening to Loreena McKennit’s The Old Ways. Somehow, the song just screamed ‘Maglor’. Knowledge of the The Silmarillian might be helpful, but not necessary.

Feedback is greatly appreciated!
Chapter notes:
Quotes were pulled from the Silmarilion.

A candle lit, a goblet of wine poured and he was ready to settle before the fire to read.

“…The seven sons of Fëanor were Maedhros the tall; Maglor the mighty singer, whose voice was heard far over the land and sea; Celegrom the fair, and Caranthir the dark…

…Of the Kinslaying at Aqualondë, more is told in that lament which in named Noldolantë, the Fall of the Noldor, that Maglor made ere he was lost…”

The elf closed his eyes, he knew the lament well. He was not a Noldo, but of Teleri descent and both peoples knew of the tragic incident. Calmly opening his eyes, he continued to read from the ancient tome as the hours passed.

“…Then Maglor desired to indeed submit, for his heart was sorrowful, and he said: ‘The oath says not that we may not bide our time, and it may be that in Valinor all shall be forgiven and forgot, and we shall come into our own peace.’

But Maedhros answered that if they returned to Aman, but not the favor of the Valar, then their oath would still remain, but its fulfillment be beyond all hope; and he said: ‘Who can tell to what dreadful doom we shall come, if we disobey the Powers in their own land…’

Yet Maglor still held back, saying: ‘If Manwë and Varda themselves deny the fulfillment of an oath to which we named them in witness, is it not made void?’…”

Here he took another break and stretched. Rising, he walked to the balcony doors and took in the glorious sight Ithil created in its fullness. This reading was beginning to drain him; however, this was something he had to complete if he wanted to make an informed decision. With a sigh, he returned to his reading.

"…And it is told of Maglor that he could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him; and he cast it at last into the Sea, and thereafter he wandered ever upon the shores, singing in pain and regret against the waves. For Maglor was mighty among the singers of old, named only after Daeron of Doriath…”

He put the book carefully on the end table. Rising, he saw that the candles had burned near down to the base. Making his way to the wardrobe, he selected a warm nightshirt. Extinguishing the remaining candles and pulling down the bedding, he crawled beneath to seek what reverie he could. Tomorrow he would make his decision.


Waves crashed mercilessly against the stone jetty. A lone figure stood at its point, praying for all he was worth…

“I will not call for you.” The lone elf whipped around at the sound of another’s voice. The sight before him was astounding. A tall elf with charcoal hair, and eyes the color of wet slate, dressed in crimson robes, had appeared out of nowhere. The lone elf fell to his knees before the Vala.

With a bowed head the elf spoke, “I know I do not deserve a place within your halls. But I beg of you, why will Ilúvatar not let me fade into nothingness?”

“You wish to fade into nothingness?” Námo questioned.

“It is no more or less than I deserve for my crimes.”

Námo came forward. Using his finger to raise the bowed head, he pinned the other with a compassionate gaze. “So say you. However, it is not you who makes such a decision. Nor is it truly I. The Creator alone knows all the harmonies in His music. Nevertheless, whether you belong in my halls is not the point. Your time on Arda is not over; there is more for you to do.”

Tears slipped down pale cheeks. Maglor knew he deserved his extended torment for all the foolish things he had done in his life. How could he even think that he deserved death?

Námo took in the sight before him. Though the children of Ilúvatar believed him to lack compassion, or any emotion, this was a huge misconception. The Doomsman of the Valar cared deeply for every good soul. He took pride not in their judgment, but in their redemption. Still, it was not for him to offer forgiveness. Gently grasping the distraught elf by the shoulders, he helped him to his feet.

“Look at me, Son of Fëanor.” The elf lifted his eyes, not wanting to anger the Vala anymore than he already had. Námo sighed, “You remain on Arda, not to prolong your punishment, but because your part in the Great Music is not over. You still have things that must be done.” With a small smile, the dark vision turned toward the shore and vanished.

Maglor stared at the shore. He did not like being left in the dark. He had been that way for too long already. What could The Powers That Be want of him? He was sorry beyond measure for his part in the Kinslaying and Silmarils hunt. He knew there could be no forgiveness, so what was there for him do to? With slumped shoulders, the ancient elf returned to his cave at the base of the cliff. Sleep was no friend to him, but perhaps in his troubled reverie, a clue might unfold.

Chapter 1

“I will, and thank you m'lord.”

“We will be sorry to see you go. Your song has lifted many a heart.”

The minstrel nodded graciously to his lord. It had taken every trump card he had to make Lord Elrond agree to his plan. Meeting in a small conference room just after the morning meal, Lindir had asked his Lord to release him from his duties to Imladris for an indefinite amount of time. Lindir was young by elven standards, and still felt there was still to learn about his craft. He proposed to Lord Elrond that as a minstrel, he'd travel Arda to study and learn all he could from all peoples. At first Elrond refused, but the minstrel persisted and had some powerful support with him.


“How can I take an escort for an indefinite period? It is not fair to the guards.” Lindir had argued.

“He has been training with us and Glorfindel, Adar. He is proficient at both bow and knives. He can keep himself safe,” Elladan pleaded the minstrel’s case.

Elrond had looked to Glorfindel only to find him nodding consent. In a last effort to sway the lord of the valley, Lindir had enlisted the support of Lord Erestor, the Imladrian Chief Advisor. “He has learned all that is available to him here. There is not an instrument, piece of music he has not mastered; nor book on music that he has not read countless times. He should be allowed to pursue his studies. Furthermore,” here the advisor had paused and pinned Elrond with ‘the stare’, “having reached majority long ago, Elrond, he does not need to ask your permission. He does so because he takes his craft seriously and would like to have your blessing.”

Lord Elrond sat silently. He could not argue with that. Of course, Erestor never left room for argument. With a sigh and a smile, his Lord had conceded.


Lindir rose from the table, thanked all present and headed to his rooms to pack.

Steepling his fingers, Elrond waited till Lindir was gone before speaking again. “There is something that he is not sharing. That is what truly concerns me.”

“You only worry Adar,” Elrohir said, resting a hand on his father’s shoulder.

Glorfindel stood. “He is right, meldir. I know you feel responsible for the penneth, but Erestor is right. He is his own elf now.” With that, the golden lord left for the barracks.

Elrohir and Erestor left, ignoring the wink coming from the elder twin. “Come Ada,” Elladan said, “You may help me with the inventory in the healing house.” Elrond laughed, “I feel so privileged.” With that the council room was empty.


Lindir did not know what to pack. For a long trip, he would usually have a pack animal. This time he had only Hithlain (Mist). He would have to travel light, yet have everything he needed. The minstrel figured that should he need food or lodging, he would simply ‘sing for his supper'. A gentle smile crossed his fair features.

Just before noon meal, Lindir went to the Harper to have his harp restrung. Usually he would do it himself, but he was a bit pressed for time. He then hurried to the hall of fire to be sure that Celairel understood her new duties as head minstrel. He decided to take his meal on his balcony rather than in the main hall. He really did not want a fuss made. His plan was to leave at dawn, quietly. The only ones who were aware of his plans, unless the gossip-mongers got wind of it, were Elrond, the twins, Erestor and Glorfindel, and of course Celairel. He never was one for goodbyes.


He awoke with a groan. Maglor was used to fitful nights, but last night had been the worst in centuries. Having a visit from a Vala, especially the Doomsman, is enough to make anyone uneasy. He had something to do. His time had not come. What in all of Arda could he have yet to do? Sighing, he headed out to wash up. As it was, there was a nice little freshwater spring near by, perfect for drinking and for washing. Maglor stared at his reflection in the pool. He felt so terribly old, and looked it too. There was a haziness to his eyes and worry lines across his forehead. Truth be told, if it were not for the pointy ears, he would easily pass for an Edain. The Noldo then munched on a modest meal of nuts and berries. Having finished, he took up his usual spot at the tip of the jetty. From here he could look over the vast ocean and, for a spell, get lost in it. Unfortunately it never lasted long, and today he had much to ponder.
Chapter end notes:
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