DISCLAIMER: Definition of "Fanfic": [noun, Informal.] 1. fiction written by fans of a TV series, movie, etc., using existing characters and situations to develop new plots. 2. a work of fiction in this genre.

Any and all spelling errors are mine. I will fix them ASAP.

THE WANDERING ONE

by Nargothrond

He was banished to wander without purpose, forcing him to survive where no one roamed. For millennia he drifted along the shores of the world, singing laments over the loss of the Silmarils, over the desolation wrought by him and his kin, until he faded from memory. His heart ached to hold his wife in his arms, but that would never happen again. This was his life now, living among the wild and feral forests, wandering from land to land, hanging his head low from the sun and up in the rain. From distant coastlines, to treacherous mountains, from sea to shining sea. It was amusing in a twisted, ironic way. He who was once called the Mighty Singer among his kin, the greatest perhaps of all minstrels - silenced and forgotten. Cast away from all, be they man, dwarf or elf. He tasted fear and stomached pain, grasping the truth with what little emotion remained.

He was a wanderer; no more, no less.

-THEWANDERINGONE-

Along these remote coastal shores it was never a silent night. The frigid air swept across the sand dunes as waves hammered the coastline. A tall man, bearded, aged, garbed in ethereal white, gazed across the empty expanse devoid of life. There was not a gull to be seen, nor any sort of wildlife that one might expect to find. Nor any sign of the one he was searching for.

With a sigh, Mithrandir dug his staff into the ground and turned to go back the way he came, toward the high cliffs that rose out of the waters. Black and forbidding in the starless night, they plunged down to meet the swirling water below. White capped waves crashed mercilessly against the limestone, spurred onward by the whip of the incessant wind and foaming as angrily as a wild stallion foams at the bit; untamable by man or beast.

A cave could be found at the base of the cliff, not very large but deep enough to provide shelter from the oncoming storm. Mithrandir had discovered it earlier in the day. From the looks of it, it had already been used. The remnants of a ring of stones and a blackened pit were testimony to someone else's former presence. The cave's floor had been cleared of any flotsam the waves might have carried in. Upon a rocky shelf near the back, Mithrandir had discovered several items; a ragged tunic (neatly folded, of course) a crudely carved string of beads, and a tarnished hunting knife.

Yes, this was most definitely the place. But where was it's occupant?

A suspicion began forming in the Maia's mind. He'd been very quiet while approaching, which was no great trouble for someone with his abilities, but it was a distinct possibility that the one he was seeking had heard his approach and departed in haste, thinking someone had come to do him harm. Which was not so outrageous an assumption, considering the identity of the one in question. Nonetheless, it was making Mithrandir's task very difficult.

That foolish, pig-headed Noldo. I always knew dropping him on the head as a child was going to come back to haunt me, the Maia thought with a deep, frustrated sigh. He settled down on the ground with his back to the cave's entrance, taking out his pipe (old habits died hard, even for an Istari) and lighting it. He breathed in, then out, blowing colorful smoke-rings and watching them rise lazily upward. In all honesty he would rather be anywhere but here, but the Valar had given him a task and he intended to finish it, like he did everything else. Although why they had chosen him specifically was a point of confusion for the Maia of Manwë. They might have done better sending one of Irmo's folk.

But, Mithrandir admitted, if the Valar decided that he was the one to bring back the Homeless One, then who was he to question their judgement? If things went smoothly, he could be back in Valinor before dinner. If not... well...

Mithrandir blew out again and watched the shape-shifting smoke rise to the ceiling, flushing a deep magenta, before vanishing on a gust of wind.

He needed to practice his ships anyway.

-THEWANDERINGONE-

Mithrandir had been sitting in the cave long into the night, smoking, and waiting, until the very early hours of the morning. The sea's turmoils had calmed, and waves lapped peacefully now at the shore. The rose-pink light of dawn glowed on the eastern horizon, reflecting off the waters. Gulls began their daily excursions to find food for themselves and their young. The air warmed gradually.

Light seeped into the shadows of the cave, banishing most of the darkness. Mithrandir was seated in the same spot, still puffing away. Several times during the night he'd been tempted to get up and search the surrounding dunes again, but through great effort of will remained where he was. He didn't know exactly why, but some sense told him that waiting until the Homeless One approached him would have a more beneficial effect. Still, it was rather boring. But Mithrandir was patient. Years of experience had taught him to heed the voice of wisdom nestled within his consciousness, for Eru Ilúvatar did whisper to those who opened their hearts and minds to Him. The Maia had a feeling he would need all the assistance of the Father of All that he could get.

What am I supposed to do if he refuses to answer the summons? Mithrandir shook his head. He prayed it would not come to that.

A gull screeched nearby. The noise was shrill, but not enough for Mithrandir's keen hearing to miss the whisper of feet upon the rock, elven-light and nigh soundless. But hear them he did.

The Maia sucked in deeply, then puffed out. He made no move; remaining still as a marble statue. The presence behind him also said nothing nor advanced. Mithrandir could feel a gaze boring holes into his back, calculating and uncertain. He could sense the confusion, gut-wrenching guilt, and fear rolling off the figure in waves. Still, he refused to be the first to speak and continued puffing away on the old wooden pipe. Patience, patience.

Mithrandir had waited this long already. If the figure thought he could out-stubborn this old Maia, then he was sorely mistaken.

At last, a voice—raspy, as one who'd not spoken for countless years—spoke.

"I see you let yourself in."

The Maia withdrew the pipe and blew a smoke ring. It floated lazily upward, it's shape transforming into that of a three-masted ship before being blown away. "Indeed I did. It is a nice place you have here. A bit out of the way for my taste, but the view is quite lovely."

"Why have you come here, Olórin?"

He replied in a firm yet gentle tone, "Why do you think I have come, Makalaurë son of Fëanáro?"

The voice laughed once, hoarsely. "It... has been millennia since I heard that name."

"There are many who still speak it."

"Are there?" A slight shuffling sounded as the figure came closer. He was almost directly beside Mithrandir, and the Maia could hear his faint breathing and hear the wind rippling through his clothes. "I would think my name would be spoken only in condemnations, along with curses to the Void with that of my father and brothers', where I belong."

The utter self-hatred and despair was plain as daylight. Not for the first time, Mithrandir felt a rush of pity for the elf he had once known as a joyful child. "Some yes," he said, "but not as many as you might think." He grew silence for a moment. "I presume you know why I have come here?" He asked this again.

Silence, except for the crash of waves and cry of the gulls. Then some more shuffling, and the figure appeared directly beside the Maia.

Who, for the first time since the Second Age, beheld he who was Maglor Fëanorian, one of the greatest of poets and bards of the Elves, and disgraced prince of the Noldor.

Despite knowing that millennia of exile would have, of course, changed the Elf he once knew, Mithrandir was having difficulty reconciling this emaciated Elf to the proud prince he once had known. Maglor's boots had been near worn through; his feet appeared to be bleeding from a walk of many leagues. The grey, tattered cloak he was wearing hardly offered any protection from the elements. A noble face, handsome, thin, and pale as freshly fallen snow, was framed by a curtain of thick black hair, unbound.

But what stood out the most was his eyes; huge, dark grey, burning with the inner flame of one born under the light of the Two Trees. Also a desperation. And fear.

"You intend to bring me back."

"The Valar have commanded it," said Mithrandir.

"Why?" Maglor whispered brokenly. "I do not deserve mercy, not after what I have done. Not even after all these millennia. Not now, not ever."

"If that was true, I would not be here."

Maglor lowered his head and took a shaky breath.

Mithrandir sighed. His voice grew softer; the sadness in it seeming to linger on the air. "Would you dwell on this shore, alone, forever?"

"I would," Maglor answered, barely audible.

"Why?"

For a moment, the elf seemed to struggle with a response. "Why? Would the Valar break their own law to see me punished? Have they not decreed that I am forever exiled from Valinor, never to set foot on its sacred grounds lest it be sullied by the blood that stains my hands? Is this not my punishment?"

"It is not." Mithrandir answered.

A line appeared between Maglor's brows. His breath caught suddenly and he squeezed his eyes shut, bowing his head. "Of course it is not," he murmured, mostly to himself. "This is too merciful for one such as I." Through the concealing curtain of his dark hair, his gaze was haunted as he continued in a dull, resigned tone, "I will share the same fate as my brothers and my father before me. To the Void my fëa is damned, as we swore. The Valar will make this certain. How could I have expected anything less," the last part was a mere whisper.

Mithrandir stowed away his pipe and rose. Elves were tall, especially the Noldor, but he easily stood half a head above the thin elf, who in turn refused to make eye contact with the white-garbed Maia before him.

"You, Makalaurë Fëanárian, are a Kinslayer. You swore an Oath that put your soul in peril. You defied the will of the Valar and of Eru Ilúvatar." Maglor dark head remained bowed, but the tension across his shoulders showed that Mithrandir's words were having great effect upon him. "Under duress of pain you relinquished your Father's Silmaril to the Sea. You were exiled from the company of your kin, and forswore that of Men to wander alone. For thousands of years you wandered the shores of Arda Marred. For thousands of years you have mourned the lives you so callously took, the Oath you so foolishly swore. At times you rage against the Valar. Often you rage against yourself."

A sense of shame emanated from Maglor's hunched form. Mithrandir paused, softening his tone. "These are not the actions of an unrepentant criminal. The Valar have seen this. Eru Himself, I have no doubt, has seen it." He caught the elf's gaze, his tone now low and gentle. "It is time to come home, Maglor."

For many long minutes, Maglor had no response. Only when Mithrandir began to wonder if he would ever speak again did he ask grimly, "What peace can a son of Fëanor find in the West?"

"Forgiveness," the Maia answered solemnly.

"I do not deserve forgiveness."

"You stated this before. But you wish for it."

Maglor was silent again.

This time, Mithrandir refused to allow him to retreat into his shell. He firmly touched the elf's chin, tilting his face upward. Maglor stiffened and shied under his touch, like a dog that expected to be beaten. When he met the Mithrandir's gaze, the Maia's eyes were so full of sincerity that it caused Maglor's weary heart to clench. "Dear Child, the Valar have always loved you and always will. Eru, above all, loves you. If that is so, how can we do any differently?"

"And those felled by my sword?" His tone was harsh. "What of them who never saw the healing light of Mandos? I do not think they will so easily forgive."

"I can not promise you an easy path, Maglor. You have yet to face proper judgement in the Máhanaxar. You will face hardships on this path, but I am confident you are strong enough to follow) it."

The wind howled as it swept over the dunes outside the cave. The sky was choked with dark angry clouds promising rain. A storm was brewing. A low rumble to the east broke the quiet, growing louder to a booming roll before fading away.

"Come, Maglor. Return with me to the land of your birth," Mithrandir urged. "There you will find forgiveness, and from forgiveness will come the healing you so crave."

Maglor squeezed shut his eyes. Indecision warred within him; millennia of unacknowledged emotions fighting for dominance. His lashes fluttered, lips parting to speak but unable to form any more than a shaky hiss.

He nodded once. Just once.

Mithrandir felt as if a great weight was lifted from his shoulders. "Excellent!" he grumbled, half-hearted gruffness born from the pure sense of relief he felt. He picked up his staff and gestured to the meager items on the shelf. "You might as well take what you have here, if it means much to you." He walked to the cave entrance to give Maglor a few minutes to gather himself.

The road ahead would not be easy for Maglor. Not in the slightest. Mithrandir did not know what judgement the Valar would render on the wayward soul, but he was comforted in knowing that whatever it was, it would be just (he hoped, at least, the Valar had been wrong before, but he was confident they knew better this time) and merciful. No, it would not be easy, but Mitherandir knew Maglor would eventually find peace in Valinor where he belonged.

"And if we hurry, we might get there in time for dinner," he muttered.

THE END

Hello, y'all. It's me, Nargothrond (yes, I changed my name, how do you like it?) presenting to you a oneshot of Mithrandir and our favorite wandering minstrel, Maglor. Since I was last active on , and trust me, it feels like centuries ago to me too, I know that I was working on a couple of stories, mainly Remnants of Shadows and Where No One Goes. There's a note about their updates on my profile.

About this oneshot: it literally wrote itself. I'm not kidding. The idea had been sitting in my head for a couple of days before it wrote itself out in a matter of hours. I'll be honest: its been a long freaking time since I last updated anything, or wrote anything, or had a life (I'll spare you the details) but basically what kind of happens is that I'm not able to use my main computer for recreational purposes anymore. Add that to the fact that I was experiencing serious writer's block across all platforms (not just fanfiction, my original fiction was affected as well) it led to me abandoning everything for awhile. And it wasn't just that. I'm always worried that whatever I write is going to be seen as total crap and stupid. But I guess that's natural for some writers. *sheepish grin* I have an old laptop that I'm using now, by the way.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! I like Maglor as much as I like Elladan and Elrohir (at this point I might even say 'more than' but I think that would be blasphemous O.o) and I hope I did him justice. Feel free to tell me what you think! Constructive criticism is appreciated. This is my first time writing him and Mithrandir for that matter, so any advice you guys can give would be mightily appreciated! ^_^

Also, this was un-betaed. Hence its terrible-ness. :P Would anyone like to fill that position? I could really use the advice of someone more experienced than myself. O.o Please PM me if you would be willing to share your wisdom!

HAVE FUN STORMING THE CASTLE!

(Quick note to reviewer: No, I am not unnecessarily fishing for compliments when I call my work "terrible because its un-betaed". That was more an inside joke on my part, so please don't take me too seriously when I say that. I know my work isn't that bad, although I have no doubt it could use some sprucing up. :P)