no rest for the wicked
(I was inspired by this picture of Maglor by @tanjashu and the idea of him still being hated and shunned by the elves in the Third/Fourth Age sparked this little fic in my brain)
Once a week, Fingon makes a trip to the docks to meet with the newly returned. He is greeted with cheers and smiles, an ancient hero to young elves, a beloved once-king to older ones. He shakes their hands and lets them marvel at the golden ribbons in his hair and then, when some of their curiosity has been sated, asks one question of his own.
“Maglor Fëanorian has not yet appeared on these shores. Have you seen him?”
Sometimes they shake their heads, the name only one of many villains from their campfire tales. Other times they grimace, hate - old and earned, or new and learned - taking root into their words. They saw him along the shoreline, hiding amongst the dunes. They saw him resting beneath a great oak tree. They saw him bartering clams for a needle and thread in an Edain village, the black burn on his left hand giving his true identity away.
“Black as Morgoth’s own hands were,” they say, shuddering.
The stories always end the same way: “We gave him no peace, no rest. We chased him back to the shores, back to exile. Have no fear, my lord, we showed the monster no mercy, gave him no welcome. Not after all the evil he has done.”
Fingon hides his heart; thanks them for answering his question. Then he walks back to his home, far from Tirion’s busy streets: a small estate bordered by green fields and lazy sheep, a place of warmth and comfort. A home.
Maedhros greets him right as he steps through the door, hope bright in his eyes. “Well,” he asks. “Any news?”
“No,” lies Fingon. “None.”
