‘Alatar, Lothíriel, you must save Alatar, find the Palantir,’ he rasped struggling for breath.
‘No, no, Maglor. Where are you hurt? What must I do? You can’t leave me, not like this. You were to take a ship to be with Irielloth and your son, no, Maglor, not this,’ she cried in desperation and disbelief.
‘Save Alatar. I am not worth saving, Lothi. There was never a ship for me, there was only ever the Halls of Waiting and a deserved punishment. I cannot escape my Doom and nor should I.’ He moved himself slightly to lessen the pain in his crushed body. ‘Please, save Alatar and I will be able to leave in peace.’
Radagast was already at the water’s edge, speaking under his breath to the water. A porpoise appeared with the orb balanced on its nose and offered it to Radagast. He took it to Lothíriel.
‘No,’ she whispered in tears, ‘I cannot lose you,’ she stroked his cheek and rested her forehead on his. ‘This is not what you deserve. It is not fair.’
‘What I did was not fair, the Kin-Slayings, Lothi. They cannot be forgiven, Nimloth, Dior, Elwing’s twin brothers lost. Why should they all die and I endure? No. Do not wish me to live any longer with my shame.’
Her face crumpled in grief. Radagast was holding the orb out for her to take. She shook her head and without looking at it, she held out her hand and placed it on the stone. Her mind reached out to Alatar and finding him easily within the stone, she made her request.
Manwë, first among the Valar, answered her. He spoke through Radagast and Mithrandir.
‘You dare to call me to plead for his life,’ his voice boomed out for all to hear. Galadriel took a sharp intake of breath, Arwen and Elrond looked aghast. Lothíriel stood her ground.
‘I would offer you my life in exchange, but I know that Maglor would find that even more difficult to bear, so I cannot.’
‘You were offered eternal life and refused it. Why do you wish this for Maglor when you did not wish it for yourself?’
‘Love, my Lord Manwë. The love I have is for a mortal man and where he goes, so will I. Maglor’s love is with you in Aman. I have felt their love. When I dance, Irielloth dances through me. Maglor is not asking for forgiveness, he seeks it not as he feels he must still atone. But I am asking it for him. And not just for his sake, but for all those remaining on Middle-earth once the Elves have left us – to give us hope.’
‘Hope? Explain.’
‘May I ask you how much suffering do you need to endure to prove repentance of your deeds? How much atonement, how much valour must you show to attain forgiveness? My heart tells me that Maglor has earned at least for this to be considered. If you would look into the hearts of all those who are watching, all those who have known him over the centuries, you will see their love for him. Even those who have had cause to hate him the most have forgiven him. Irielloth, Ëarendil, Elrond to name but a few.’
‘Ëarendil?’
‘Yes, my Lord Manwë, it is through Ëarendil, my ancestor, that Irielloth and I find each other. I dance for him and he shines the light of the Silmaril on us both, and Maglor sees her through me, through the light of the Silmaril.
His body is broken but it can be healed. The Silmaril can heal him. Even if it is just to take him to the Halls of Waiting, please let him go whole, not with his torments still etched on his body. I know he still must pass judgement.’
‘This is not for you to decide.’
‘No, it is not,’ she answered humbly. ‘Might I ask, who does decide? Who decides whether to leave mankind with hope… or none? For if we do not have hope that we can earn forgiveness, what will inspire us to do better? To be better?
You sent five Maiar to us, to help the Elves be brave, to be wise, to be better. And yet two of them failed and were corrupted. If even the Maiar can fail and if the Valar do not inspire us to have hope, what future can Middle-earth have? The balance between good and evil fluctuates in all of us. If we do evil and cannot repent and be forgiven, why turn against it? Without forgiveness, evil will surely win.
So yes, it is not for me to decide. But I can ask. And I am asking… for him, since he will not ask it for himself.’ Lothíriel paused to allow the consideration of her plea, yet was met only with silence. She tried a different approach.
‘My Lord Ulmo, you have the Silmaril Maglor rendered unto you. I beg you, let Maglor take it back to Valinor, so you may all have the light of it again. He covets it not for himself.
Neither Maglor nor Maedhros wanted the Silmarils for themselves. It will not just bring healing to Maglor but to all the Elves. It will bring the evil perpetuated in the name of the Silmarils to an end and heal the bitterness and pain that still afflicts the Elves, even those who remained in Aman.
Only through forgiveness can you all be at peace and we, of Mankind, we will have hope that there is light at the end of a dark tunnel, that truly love is valued above all.
My Lord Ulmo, Alatar served both you and Lord Oromë. What he valued was that you, through fresh water, gave life, when hunters usually only bring death. He revered the balance you both brought to the world.
It is through him that I am connected to the water of the rivers and streams, through his love for you. It is his love which moves the water. Let me dance for you to reveal the power of this love. Let me dance for Maglor one last time so he can show Irielloth the depth of his love, for it is the same as Alatar’s for you.’
With that, she withdrew her hand from the Palantir and started to dance. Night had just fallen but it seemed to those watching that it had become much brighter on the quay. Maglor was unable to move, his legs and lower part of his body had been too badly crushed. Tuor was cradling him keeping him upright as Maela nuzzled the back of his head with her nose. Gallend stood beside Maela stroking her to calm her in her grief and they watched Lothíriel dance.
Radagast held the Palantir aloft so those in Minas Tirith could witness the beauty of it.
No one watching doubted that Lúthien was Lothíriel’s long distant ancestress as none since had danced with such majesty and grace. It inspired Maglor, broken as he was, to find his voice. If his last breath on Middle-earth was one expended in song, then it was a good death in his eyes. And he added his great gift to the dance.
At what point Irielloth joined with her, only Maglor knew, but his song became stronger and the waters swirled around Lothíriel as she danced. He knew she was dancing with Ulmo, spiralling above the water, through its cascades, twirling elegantly over the rippling waves; the onlookers could only watch in wonder and awe as the water itself joined her in the dance.
A bright white light was moving towards the quay from the mouth of the estuary. Galadriel was the first to understand what it was and gently touched Mithrandir’s arm to draw his attention to it, he merely smiled. Elrond held his breath in hope. Of those on the quayside, only Legolas and Radagast had the eyes to behold its significance. While the others on the quay might not see it yet, they were becoming aware of the light around them brightening as Lothíriel’s dance reached a new intensity. A wave flashed a surreal light, catching Lothíriel up with it. All on the quay except Legolas and Radagast were blinded for a moment until she was revealed, standing in front of them on the quay, bathed in a glow of white radiance unimaginable in its beauty, holding the lost Silmaril in her hands.
She knelt down in front of Maglor to offer it to him. He shook his head and rasped out, ‘I am not worthy of this, Lothi. Give it to Amrothos, let him heal, bring all those wounded here.’
Tuor stood and shouted out to his men to quickly bring all those injured to him. As Erchirion carried Amrothos’s unconscious and broken body to his sister with Ottakar’s help, Lothíriel reached out her hand to her brother, taking his limp hand in hers while she gently held the Silmaril onto Maglor’s chest. Unlike the last time he held it, his skin did not burn to its touch, he absorbed the light as it coursed through his body. Lothíriel felt Amrothos stir back into consciousness, as the light spread beyond Maglor to all those who deserved healing, and a calm descended on Sennebar. Those in the Throne Room in Minas Tirith allowed themselves to relax.
None saw the large wave approaching until it was upon them. Maela whinnied. The wave disappeared as fast as it had arrived, darkness descended and both Lothíriel and Maglor were gone from their midst. Éomer cried out and grabbed at the Palantir searching for her within it until Mithrandir gently prised it away from him. He shouted her name into it over and over. Her face appeared. ‘Irielloth,’ cried Elrond, himself reaching out to the orb to try to touch his great aunt, who had been as a mother to him. They could see her, still holding the Silmaril in one hand to the chest of a chiselled dark-haired Elf of great beauty, Maglor as he had been when she had last caressed that beloved face as she did now with her other hand. They were surrounded by swirling water, lit up by the Silmaril. He took it from her and drawing her close to him, kissed her intensely. And then he was gone. Her face desperate with longing, uncomprehending in the face of oncoming grief.
‘Lothíriel,’ Éomer cried out again.
She looked down, she could see him.
‘Éomer,’ she cried back. ‘Come to me,’ she pleaded, as the wave delivered her gently back onto the quay, no longer holding the Silmaril but instead a stone slightly smaller than the Palantir Radagast was still holding aloft. A much larger stone had also been deposited by the wave onto the quay and was rolling from her feet towards the wizard.
Aragorn gasped. They could only be the two lost Palantíri of the Northern Realm, lost at sea with the last King, Arvedui. She looked back into the stone she held in her hands. She could still see Éomer staring back at her in desperation.
‘Ride to me,’ she repeated and almost throwing the stone at Legolas, she began to run as Maela broke away from Gallend to follow her and as the horse overtook her, Lothíriel jumped from a small stone pillar onto Maela’s back. They were gone.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
At that same moment those in the Throne Room were disturbed by shouting and a clattering of hooves. The last time a Mearas had entered the Throne Room was when Shadowfax brought Mithrandir to save Faramir from burning on a pyre of his father’s making, and the guards were not going to argue with another Mearas. Geldsheen burst in with Genting on his back. He jumped off and handed Éomer a travelling sack to ride with.
‘My Kings, Queen Arwen, Lords, Ladies, my apologies. Lothíriel?’ he asked quickly for confirmation she was safe.
Éomer answered ‘Aye. Hadán too,’ he added. Genting looked mightily relieved as he watched Éomer leap onto Geldsheen and take off.
He cried out after his King, ‘I put in clothes for Lothíriel too, just in case – and food and water.’ Éomer made a mental note that Genting deserved more than the honours he had already decided on awarding him.
In the sudden hush that had followed Éomer’s departure, Genting turned to the gathered dignitaries somewhat overawed by the occasion. As he bowed to make to leave, Aragorn called over to him to stay. The King was curious.
‘Tell me, Genting. Do you have any knowledge of how the Mearas can do this? They are leagues apart and yet they seem to be able to communicate. When did Geldsheen appear to you?’ he asked Rohan’s Master of Horse. The others gathered round with interest. Genting examined the expectant faces and thought about his answer.
He nodded his head and smiled, ‘I’d been called down to the stables. The horses were restless. They are only restless like that when the Mearas are coming, so I went out to the west paddock to wait for him. I thought it was most likely Geldsheen, but it could have been Shadowfax coming for Mithrandir. I knew if it was Geldsheen, he would be coming to take Éomer to Lothíriel. As for how they communicate, I have often wondered, but having seen what Lothíriel did in The Wold, I have begun to think that they also communicate as she did at that time with you, through water.’
Elrond and Mithrandir nodded their agreement. Elrond spoke, ‘You may not yet have been told the full story of Alatar, Genting, but I believe the Mearas are the direct descendants of Alatar’s own horses. Maglor told me that he left them to roam free amongst some hardy people in the far north, who seemed to revere horses above all. He feared Pallando’s control over them or worse, his vengeance if he found them with him and Alatariel. He has long believed that the Mearas all came from these three. I think they sensed Alatar in Lothíriel, which is why they respond to her.’
‘That would explain much,’ Genting agreed. ‘Thank you, Lord Elrond,’ he said solemnly while bowing. Addressing Aragorn, ‘May I ask what happened? Amrothos, Gallend, all the others?’ he asked urgently.
Aragorn nodded to Faramir, who, with Éowyn, took Genting away privately to describe all they had witnessed. Mithrandir was studying the Palantir intently and Aragorn could sense that he was communicating with Galadriel through their minds. He thought they remained worried. Mithrandir hovered his hand over the Palantir to speak silently with Radagast. Aragorn felt he was giving him instructions. Mithrandir observed Aragorn watching him and just smiled, a smile which did not reach his eyes. Aragorn was not fooled; he knew he needed to speak with the wizard later.
Imrahil went to question Elrond, ‘Lord Elrond, if I may?’ Elrond inclined his head. ‘When was my daughter offered the gift of the Elves? It seems there is too much about my daughter I have not understood.’ Elrond looked at Imrahil in great sympathy and considerable pain. Elrond sighed and took Imrahil aside.
‘Lothíriel’s Maian and Elven heritage is unusually strong in her. It had to be for her to withstand the power of Alatar within her. Had she wished it, she could have joined the Elves in Aman, and this offer was made to her when Pallando’s staff was broken, and again today. She has made her choice, as my own daughter made hers.’ He looked over to his only daughter in such sadness that Imrahil could not bear to think of his pain. He knew how much it would cost him to lose any of his children but for an Elf, the grief could only be more intense, as death was not a given fate.
‘What will happen to Maglor? I know my daughter does not suffer loss well and his loss to her will be as great as losing her mother. My only hope is that Éomer’s love is enough to fill the void Maglor will leave,’ he confessed.
Elrond looked thoughtfully at Imrahil. ‘I loved Maglor too, Imrahil, as a father. I have two fathers, although I know Maglor far better than my true father, and both will be in Aman if Maglor is accepted back. That my father helped Maglor find Irielloth was unknown to me and I was even more surprised than Manwë himself. I have no answers for you. He will be judged, and we must all accept the decision. I think only Lothíriel could have succeeded in doing as much as she did,’ Elrond said somewhat in surprise. Imrahil raised one of his fine eyebrows in a questioning manner. ‘No Elf would have dared,’ Elrond continued with an admiring smile.