How long Maglor had been asleep he knew not, only that when he finally regained consciousness of the world it was to find that he lay upon a soft bed made of linen instead of sand, and his feet were dry, for he had not been resting beside the seaside shore as he had done for many years.
No, he was most definitely no longer outside but indoors, in someone’s house and on someone’s bed. He recalled being picked up by strong arms, and he did not fight back for no danger he could sense in the other. Maglor sniffed the pillow and gave a small smile, allowing himself to enjoy the long-missed sensation, but who had taken him in? He opened his mouth and called out, wincing at the cracked sound of his voice, which once was praised and regarded as one of, if not the most, beautiful voice of the Eldar.
“My friend, is something the matter?” he heard the reply to his broken question. Maglor turned his head, straining to see the tall elf who just approached him.
“Friend?” he asked.
“Aye, I am Gildor Inglorion,” the elf said, smiling. “Do you not remember me?”
“Gildor?” But all Maglor’s mind could conjure was images of Gondolin, or great warriors of the Noldor race. For indeed Gildor held the light in his eyes common among their kin, though his long hair could only have come from the Vanyar.
“I…but it was long ago…”
“Yes, and long I tarried in finding you,” Gildor said. “But I would not give up hope, not after I learned that you still lived, you alone among the sons of Fëanor. This cabin I built to shelter me when the storms hit or whenever I grew weary of my search. I intended to make this your home once I found you.”
Gildor slipped onto a chair next to the bed, surveying him with a eyes twinkling with affection, though for what reason Maglor could not explain. The years had destroyed Maglor’s body, rendering it weak and pitiful. He glanced about the cabin, taking in the inviting atmosphere of Gildor’s abode. Across from them lining the counter of the kitchen were jars filled with seashells, little souvenirs picked by Gildor to encourage him to further his search. He could still hear the waves of the Sea not far from the cabin, and he smiled, glad that Gildor took him not too far from the shoreline, not until he, Maglor, was ready to finally leave.
Something warm was brought near him, and he tilted his head forward slightly to drink from the cup Gildor held.
“Do you wish to eat more now or later?”
The thought of consuming more than this sip of broth somehow made him nauseous, so Maglor shook his head and rested back on his bed.
“I understand,” Gildor said. “Your body needs healing before we can get something in you. A massage would do for now to bring blood flowing smoothly again in your system, I think, unless I find any wounds. I did not want to examine you while you were unconscious, lest I startle you. Do I have your permission to touch you?”
Maglor smiled, the skin of his dry lips breaking in the stretch. “Yes, you may touch me.”
There was hardly any clothing on him to begin with, making the task considerably simple for Gildor. The elf brought his hands first to Maglor’s neck, his fingers pressing gently on his shoulders and his thumbs drawing circles at the base of his neck. The first touch hurt him for his body was truly frail, but Gildor was gentle and brought no more pain to him.
Up close, Maglor could study more of the elf who filled him with a sense of comfort and ease. He was rather bulky, his entire body bringing up the image of feasts and excellent health. Though a fat elf wasn’t common among the Eldar, such sight always roused awe and envy among the others. And to Maglor, he wished that beauty, that strength, could seep into him through Gildor’s gentle caresses.
Gildor’s hands moved from the neck to his shoulders and down his arms, turning them slightly every so often to check for cuts or bruises. Any injury was dealt with immediately, though thankfully they were minimal; Maglor didn’t much enjoy the feel of something against his wound which made him wince and bite his lip, drawing blood.
After deciding that there were no more cuts to need healing, he’d dip his fingers in a small basin of oil and rub against the skin he had just examined. His eyebrows knitted together in concentration as his great hands examined Maglor’s abdomen, tapping as if to test the internal organs underneath; but each time he caught Maglor’s eyes, his great smile broke through.
The attention he gave to Maglor was a little startling yet alluring at once for the broken elf, yet he appreciated it all the same. He rested back, sighing contently at the massage. Already his hröa was begin to heal under Gildor’s hand, and his fëa as well as he felt more of the other’s elf’s spirit trickling into him.
“I see that your cheeks are turning pink,” Gildor said, smiling as he massaged one foot. “It seems I am succeeding in bringing blood back into your circulation.” How long this session had went, neither knew and neither cared, both enjoying this simple act of pampering and massaging.
“Aye,” Maglor said, sighing. The ministrations were almost lulling him back to sleep. “Thank you, Gildor.”
Gildor shook his head. “It is the least I can do for you, dear friend.”
“Dear friend,” Maglor repeated to himself. He was uncertain who Gildor Inglorion was, for his memory was greatly rusty after so long being away from others of his kind, but he was ever glad to have met him - or reunite with him. Yet this was the beginning of a new era for him, he hoped. His body and spirit, under the careful attention of Gildor, would grow stronger, and he was eager to see what more he will learn of the elf who healed him.
I am uncertain if this story takes place centuries after The Tale of Melilaurë and Mélaurel or not, so I left that ambiguous.