1 | Isolde of The Mystic Arts

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Maglor Fëanorion | Lord of the House of Fëanor

Location: South-West Coast of Middle Earth, Arda

Time: 585 F.A

Grief.

It strikes all.

It bleeds and runs down, drains, and leaves the body hollow. What is left is a shell.

That was all Maglor Fëanorion was – a former shell of what he once was and perhaps what he should have been. There was an emptiness in him that kept him from tempting the dagger in his belt, or perhaps it was the fact that he couldn't kill himself without his hand burning in pain as he tried to hold the weapon that would soon be the reason for his demise.

He had been contemplating death for days, wondering how it could feel.

Would it be relieving, or would it be an agony that lasted forever?

Considering that he was all alone now perhaps it would not matter anymore how he felt. There was no one to confide to, no one to keep him from taking the step. A plunge into the utter abyss of the unknown. Would he enter the Halls like the stories they told him of his forebearers or was his fëa would be too tainted to be blessed by healing? Would he meet his brothers the moment he found himself lingering away, or experience loneliness as a punishment until the end of this world?

The dry tears cracked in the rims of his eyes, mixed with the salty taste of the spray of the sea. That was all he could taste, listen to, or feel ever since the flames which burnt him alive. His last remnant of an anchor, someone who was burdened by the mistakes – who also succumbed to the same misery and horrors he had gone through. Instead, there were not even the remains of his claim of death, only the memory and face as he apologized to him for leaving him.

His brother had left him.

He couldn't even call it selfishness, because no matter what: all their actions have always been that. Selfishness. Their curse-filled self-righteousness proved to be their stupid and high-levelled pride...which all left them to choose this path. A path that dug and engraved into his heart until it was burned scarred patterns of his hands or the tributaries and lines of rivers and streams.

Pride led to guilt. Guilt turned to self-inflicted pain.

He could still remember the face he betrayed. The faces who appeared too much to their family. Of the peredhel woman who sacrificed herself for the same jewel they killed for. Silver-greyish eyes that held nothing but disappointment and sadness, layered by a true simmer of anger at him. No matter how much they cried the name they called him, he would forever never call himself their own. Not after what he and his family did to theirs. Not even how much he grew to love them as his own...his children brought by war he bought upon them.

The sons of Eärendil would never understand or experience what it was like to have a mother who loved them or a father who would always protect them no matter what. All he did was nothing but an illusion of it all, forced by his guilt of ridding them of a childhood.

Then there was her. The young loremistress and advisor of once Turgon.

Those ocean blue eyes now taunted him as he stared out into the sea. Seeing her face filled with betrayal and anguish as she lost the only brother she wanted in the red-haired elf. The same one who fell into the flames, the jewel in hand as he finally accepted his death and embraced it. Even if he had never known her as much as his brother, she had been the one who altered their lives. The ones who saw through the many barriers fought to bear themselves. Away from the spitting glares and hatred and instead left them truly vulnerable by a simple acceptance of what happened.

The only one who saw them as more than just kinslayers.

However: even three people never could equivalate the centuries they endured. The burden that burnt in their chests.

The gallons of blood that bled because of them.

He couldn't remember the last few weeks. Not even realizing the shoes he had been walking for months had been torn and removed, his toes froze under the crunching sand mixed with the foaming of waves. The rocky shore and the horizon were where his home should be.

Aman

Eldamar.

Home.

There was no home for him. Not anymore.

He continued to walk forward, feeling the cold and dampness seep through his burnt and torn leggings. Now knee-deep, he began to wade, ignoring the numbing of his feet and the shivering of his entire body. His kind did not get cold, so it was far from that reason. He shuddered a breath, dark strands whipping his face as he tasted the salty water splashing around him. He was almost there, about stomach deep.

For a second, he wondered if the Valar were watching him. Ulmo or one of his Maiar were. Watching him finally complete the poetic end of his family. Because that's all that they were, weren't they? Just a note in the great song of Arda, forever following the orchestra until they didn't need his part anymore. Not even with the praises of those who spoke about him. How his voice could move and haunt many. The blood of Fëanor and Nerdanel mix too well to create destruction and creation combined.

He clutched the jewel in his hand, covered by a cloth as he felt water finally hit his chin.

This was it.

He was ready.

Staring out into the ocean, he murmured: "I'm sorry..."

At that moment, he submerged. His head sank into the water. His ears could only hear the muffled noises of the waves and bubbles he let out. Sinking and sinking, he didn't resist the incoming burning pain surging into his lungs. Water filling him – drowning him.

He didn't move, allowing the force of the current to push and pull him until all he felt was nothingness and the relief of his body.

He was free...

...Until he heard a voice.

And the aching heaving of his chest.

Wait. He shouldn't feel anything, surely?

No...this was wrong. He could feel something beneath him. Something smooth and fabric-like.

A cot.

The sense of stagnant air began to feel his lungs and he began to force himself to open his eyes. And it hit him like a force of a wave, finding the blurry visions of light that sprouted into his sight.

Was this the Halls of Mandos? Where were the darkness and the cavernous rooms which grew endlessly?

He blinked several times, trying to replicate a groan or some sort of movement but all that was left was his mouth barely moving an inch.

Suddenly a hand was pressed onto his forehead. Cold and yet smooth skin touched him as he vaguely saw their dark silhouette hovering above him.

"There now."

Their voice soothed him, almost reminding him somehow of someone he knew.

"Hush now, you should not open your eyes."

Their voice sounded different. Neutral and calming which brought him to relax as he whispered out the first name he desperately hoped to be.

"...Ammë?" He whispered.

He blinked one more time, only momentarily seeing the icy blue gaze before him until he could not bear to look and closed his eyes.

The last words he heard had him complacent, letting himself let go once more and float into the darkness of his head.

"Rest..."

Only a distorted sound echoed into his mind along with the string of words.

"...You are safe."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

When he woke up, finally having the strength and will to do so, he found the same icy blue gaze meeting him a few feet before him.

The first thing he concluded the moment he sat up (apart from the splitting headache he wore) was that they were no elf, despite the clothes that appeared too Noldor for his liking. But the odd patterns in their clothes and the jewellery were too foreign for the Noldor traditions, even with the familiar patterns that weaved through the brooch that felt too out of place in their belt or the calculating gaze that seemed far from Edain.

Not to mention they spoke Sindarin, it all seemed so out of place.

This place felt too out of place, wherever this place was. The wooden room with similar patterns as their clothes. The odd scent that burnt around the room and the paper-thin flooring. He then noticed what he wore, linen that felt too thin for his liking – too scratching and yet comforting in a way. He didn't dare to stare down at his hands, ignoring at all costs despite knowing the only place he could look now was their face.

Not that they did not make him squint or glance away. It was just their gaze. If he had understood and paid attention to his mind-reading or telepathy lessons, perhaps he would conclude that the person before him could see through his mind.

If they did, they either equally did the worst deeds...or they were mad.

The second he saw the glint and the twitch of their lips; he knew easily then they possessed the said talent.

After several seconds, the silence by brought down by their voice.

The person in the burgundy robes introduced themselves, clear and confident, "I am Isolde." [1]

It was the voice he heard when he first woke up. The accent was so foreign and yet familiar to the dialect the Edain had. Taliska perhaps? [2]

He noticed that she was waiting, and he realised that she was perhaps expecting him to respond. His instincts quickly wanted to shield himself, wondering first if he could trust someone who had found him.

Then it hit him again.

The jewel.

Where was the jewel? Had he lost it into the sea? He could not remember if he let go of it.

His panic and quickened breaths must have alerted her and he had to stammer away the panic as he went to look back at them.

"I...I am Makalaurë." He responded quietly. [3]

Makalaurë was the only name that never seemed to have been tainted by his mistakes and choices. The only name which he was blessed by his mother and would always be honoured upon his heart...who is perhaps in mourning of knowing now all her children as gone.

Not dead, however. He knew he wasn't dead, which confounded him more as questions filled his mind.

How did he survive? His lungs would have fully caved at the moment he floated to the bottom of the sea.

Or perhaps Ulmo thought this was the Valar's way of punishing the last Fëanorian from peaceful death. What a rather lovely present from the only Ainu that cared of the children of Eru more than any of them.

Thankfully, the buzzing and muffled voices in his mind muted when Isolde spoke once more, "A name I have not heard of. Is it Latin perhaps?"

He had never heard of such a tongue before, especially with how it sounded. "It is Quenya." Makalaurë answered before he asked in return, "You do not have Quenya? Or Taliska?"

Isolde shook her head and responded, "None to what I have learnt."

He hid his frown, ready to ask once more but clamped his mouth shut. It would be pointless to spit out more questions at them, knowing what he would get would be more meaningless answers. And Isolde seemed to be a smart woman, someone who had the guts to even be in the same room as he was let alone be only a few paces close to him.

Instead, he cut to the main question. "And what am I speaking?"

"We call it English," She responded sincerely, which sounded rather odd in the accent and tongue she spoke in. How would this person know of what he believed to be Sindarin and yet sound and speak so foreign to the quendi? [4]

The more common conclusion he could grasp (or more likely forced to accept) was that he was not in Middle Earth. Or perhaps this was an unknown land beyond the known world? Perhaps he had been washed up and swept up far to the Southern parts of Middle Earth...or whatever there was South of Beleriand and the eastern parts.

The only way to figure it out was to ask.

He took a small inhale before he turned back to her, asking quietly: "Where am I?"

"Kamar-Taj," Isolde replied.

Even more new names. He paused for a moment before he carefully began, "This...Kamar-Taj. It is your realm?"

Her eyes seemed to gleam a little before she quirked her lips and answered, "More of a sanctuary." She continued, "We often find those who seek us to be invited in, though, to your circumstance, The High Lama had me find you."

Maglor widened his eyes in surprise before he warily narrowed them. How in Arda did this...person know him? How would they know of his name when he did not know his? His brothers would immediately conclude that this may just be a trick and that the enemy captured him. Though from how they had 'saved' him and simply brought him back to health and answered his questions freely, it was far from the torture Morgoth and his armies did during the wars.

"The High Lama," He hesitated. [5]

"He has many names, though through the ages it has faded, and the title now stands like that." From her voice, Isolde held some respect to the person. Though intrigued by this...High Lama. A person who has lived longer than Man? She spoke, "You may be ancient too. Your eyes speak easily of it."

Something pierced his heart and he immediately flinched, sensing the flurry of his pain surging from his chest and down to his hands. His eyes gazed down at his lap, seeing them wrapped up in the same-coloured linen and bandages. Flexing his fingers, he hissed before he silently bit away from his pain.

His mind recalled the screams and cries. The burning of fires around him. The smell of ash and flesh.

Two pairs of young, haunted eyes.

His brothers' dead faces.

Maglor closed his eyes and looked down, whispering back, "You do not know me."

"No, I do not."

He glanced back up to the woman, seeing her face still bring a neutral façade, protecting herself despite her curious gaze that bore through him.

Isolde spoke seriously, "But it is to no fault that you are among those that wish you no harm. There are other dangers beyond this material plane. More than you can imagine."

Peering back with a frown, he said, "I do not understand."

Instead of an explanation, Isolde pursed her lips before she replied simply, "One day you will understand." With a wave of her hand, it felt as if the air shifted as something appeared on the small table next to his bed. Maglor's eyes widened when he spotted the tray of what seemed to be food.

Magic. Ingolë.

How in Eru—

"Now eat. It is fortunate for you that one of us could speak your tongue, for I am the only one other than the High Llama who is in the sanctuary that could." The now magic-user nodded her head to him before she stood up, slipping a slight light tone in her voice as she said, "Either that, or you would have been maimed the moment you appeared."

She left before Maglor could even clamp his mouth from shock and swallowed his breath back. Out of all things he experienced, he had never expected a secondborn to have ever possessed magical abilities.

As he slowly picked up the bowl with what seemed to be steaming broth, Maglor looked back at the closed door before he shook his head and inhaled. As much as he wanted to go and run and catch up with Isolde, his stomach said otherwise the moment he began eating.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Location: Norway, Earth

Time: August 2027

In his long and tiring life, Maglor had experienced almost everything the multiverse have him.

But being at the end of a sorceress' stick was perhaps the hardest thing he had done.

And by that, having to watch his reincarnated friend (captive? Daughter in law?) grow as hot as Mount Krakatoa to as cold as the Helcaraxë. Of course, he expected some backlash in this unexpected, and unpredicted, meeting. Though he forgot about the personal additions to this reunion...if he could consider it a reunion. [6]

Fighting against an Ainu attempting to one of the most powerful singularities of their universe, preventing half-aini anomaly from killing the Ainu alongside a time-displaced elf sorcerer (who is also his brother). All whilst making sure they didn't break reality, destroy Isengard and its surroundings and make sure said singularity could not be in the wrong hands.

Yes: definitely a reunion of the millennia.

Not to forget that he had to make sure the timeline was intact.

Also: an angry half-aini anomaly wanting to kill him. Kill him very slowly if he had to be clear as the lake before them.

Overall, he knew he was very much done for.

They had been walking, with the red-haired elf walking behind him as they trekked through the densely packed woodland. It was not long before they arrived at a familiar cabin. Just on the outskirts of the surrounding woodland that stretched for miles, the small wooden cabin appeared intact. It had been some years since he had seen it, though, with the wards he saw and felt, nothing seemed to have altered or changed from the previous visit.

After making sure to check the surrounding wards as well as the borders of the lake, Maglor allowed them to pass through the wards by tapping into the Gem before inhaling at the sight of the cabin. He could sense even unconscious the half-aini's reaction through the passage as well as the questionable expression worn on the one carrying them.

Up the small steps onto the patio, he opened the wooden door and stepped aside – gesturing to the red-haired elf to follow through. After a moment of hesitation and more like calculation, he stepped through and entered followed by himself. He looked momentarily at the landscape, seeing the visible transparency of the wards throughout the radius of the cabin before finding himself inside the joint living room and kitchen.

The second he did shut the door, the awkwardness seemed to have seeped in. He wasn't sure where to look, other than to pan himself to check the rest of the cabin itself. The ancient stove and cupboards seemed to have maintained themselves. The old sofa, armchair with the old iron fireplace as well. As he heard the floorboards creak underneath their feet, Maglor turned to hear a grunt from the living space.

The red-haired elf placed the half-aini down, her head tilted at the side as she laid on the sofa. Even with the cold weather she had not reacted, remained limped and sprawled over as he saw him brush her hair back before placing his finger at the side of her neck.

Maybe he should be doing something. Perhaps get the fire going or see if there was any food.

However, all Maglor could do was stare blankly at everything around him.

In truth: the shock had not left him at all. Even when he knew or perhaps should have known.

But to live it in the present. In his reality...this all felt like every vision and universe he had seen countless times.

As he watched the elf remove his outer robe, draping it over the other person's body, it was there Maglor finally spoke.

"She exhausted herself," He paused for a moment, immediately finding similar eyes back to him. "She would be out for a few hours."

All he earned was a hum before there was a grunt. His eyes already turned to the red-haired elf's sleeve, seeing the dark patch on their lower arm. Pulling the sleeve up, his brother's arm had quite a cut. Shallow and thankfully not too fatal.

Maedhros looked at him for the second time the moment they landed here. His first reaction was to freeze, to finally see his older brother's face in quite a long time. His voice echoing in his mind caused him to blur until Maglor snapped himself out when his brother asked him a question.

"First Aid kit?"

Blinking, he nodded and cleared his throat, turning his head towards the other doorway, "Just down the hall in the other room." As he watched him already head there, he added with a strict tone, "Don't touch anything else please."

'Or question about it,' Maglor thought to himself, knowing how many there was perhaps already prepared for him the moment the time was right.

Once the half-aini woke up, he would never escape from the questions fired back at him. Maglor should be used to it; many had questioned him before. Even from the half-aini herself.

As soon as Maedhros disappeared into the other room, he let a small exhale and looked back towards the sleeping half-aini. Never would he dare to step any closer, remaining on the kitchen side of the cabin unless he liked to be surprised with either a force constricting his throat or a large hole in the wall. He had to be careful no matter how deeply asleep she was, knowing exactly even unconsciousness she was as powerful as she was awake.

Instead, Maglor thought ahead, nudging himself to get a fire going from the stove whilst checking what was in the cupboards.

Unfortunately, there was not a lot left. Some empty containers, jars, plates, bowls, and cups. There was even a metal teapot for the stove but there was hardly any firewood yet to burn from the box outside.

'Next time I should add a note on the door to restock,' He thought, using a spell to warm the room instead and preparing to head back outside to get some water.

When he returned from the lake with a bucket and teapot full of water, he conjured some fire into the stove and began to heat some water, bringing his hand to a small gesture. Three cups levitated from the cupboards along with what remained to be some tea leaves (quite dry and past its expiration date, but it will do). He would have to head out and perhaps trek to the nearest village for some supplies.

One thing he was not sure of was how long they had to stay here. And as much as this reunion had been inevitable it did not mean he knew how long it would last. There were always things in the visions and timestreams that never made much certainty for him, and Maglor always frustratingly had to let fate and time itself do its job and allow things to flow by their own accord.

They could be here for days or even weeks.

Reason for it? Well: it all had to do with the Silmaril around his neck and the half-aini anomaly sleeping.

Isolde would probably scold him for lounging for too long in one place, telling him that there was no time and even if he attempted to make time – reality itself would continue for them either way.

Time was an illusion for them either way. It never mattered in his entire life as a sorcerer and especially when he became who he was now.

As he busied himself, gently seeping the tea leaves, he saw the spot of red enter the room once more. Maglor had been turning off the stove, ready to pour the water into the cups when his brother asked him a question.

"Care to ask about the scorch marks?"

In the glint of his periphery, he noticed that Maedhros raised an eyebrow at the walls. Of course, it was hard to miss the large burnt marks slashed across the wooden walls. Thankfully the entire cabin was enchanted to not be flammable.

For a moment he could recall the sight of the familiar red tint of magic. The swirl of chaos within the darkened gaze fighting against the blue-golden sparks of eldritch magic.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

"I thought you wouldn't come near me," She said coldly at him, breathing heavily as she flexed her wrists.

Lokachari eyed the walls, several of the runes he had made within the very material of the house around them had chipped off. He would have to put them back on again no less one of the rogue sorcerers, vampires or covens of witches discovered where she was.

He blinked back to stare at her, unfazed by how much power was manifesting within her very person. He was not afraid of her, no. More like afraid of how much the power could hurt her if she couldn't control it. Lokachari began to speak, "I needed to make sure you were safe with the book." He paused, watching her face flash with a warning look. "I'm not here to take it. But someone will."

"Who?"

He recalled the green robes. The glint of ambition and determination in their dark eyes the moment he sent him through the rift.

Lokachari answered carefully, "Someone who wants to rid sorcerers and witches of magic." He added, "Strange is keeping tabs on them to make sure you are safe. But in time he will get to you."

A scoff left her lips as she dismissed it. "I can handle one sorcerer." He wouldn't call it arrogance, but admittedly, Lokachari knew it was not entirely from Wanda Maximoff's own opinion feeding out of her.

As much as he loathed what was now in her possession, he had to trust the strength and will of the Scarlet Witch and the choices she would make soon.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Pouring the made tea, Maglor eyed him and the wall for a second before he answered truthfully, "I had someone use this place quite a while back." He paused, remaining vague in his answer. "Someone came here and they had a misunderstanding."

"And where are we exactly? And when?"

Internally he smiled sadly. Trust his true brother to now understand after spending a couple of years with the Sorcerers of the Mystic Arts.

'At least this Maedhros had not entirely forsaken his mistakes into a bitter life...' He sadly thought before dismissing it away. Placing the kettle down, he then took the two cups and headed to where the red-haired elf had sat on the armchair.

Maedhros gazed up at him, lingering his gaze at the cup outstretched before he muttered a thank you in their secret tongue. Well, at least that was progress in Maglor's mind, considering he hadn't refused or doubted that he poisoned him. Though now he moved away to bring the third cup onto the coffee table, Maglor paused to see that he hadn't sipped anything yet.

Still the suspicious and vigilant elven commander of a brother. Sometimes he forgot that this Maedhros left the war so recently, unlike him where the war had been...quite a long time ago from his perspective.

So for assurance, Maglor took his sip of tea and hid back his disappointment. Quite bland and almost bitter, but it was better than nothing.

Finally from his gaze still from the kitchen side of the room, Maedhros drank – scrunching at the taste before he raised a brow back at him. Well, what could Maglor possibly do with the lack of things they had here?

They shared a moment of silence for a few seconds, until his brother said, "You still haven't answered my question."

Oh yes, of course. Maglor hid his sheepishness and swallowed the warmth down his throat. "For one thing, I see you have learnt." He twitched his lips slightly before he responded, "Somewhere in north Norway and it must be around 2027...summer according to the plant life around here."

Maedhros must have finished his drink quite quickly, setting it down onto the table as he plainly stated in return, "You took us back to the present then."

"Yes." He admitted, "It was the only way before something bad could have happened." More like breaking reality at a cosmic scale or perhaps destroying the only most powerful being in their universe.

Scoffing, his brother retorted, "I would believe the bad thing already did. Before him trying to murder me and her."

Inside, Maglor found himself twitching his lips. "Yes." He replied simply, "That it did."

Even when time and space separated him from his true oldest brother, there was no hiding in the fact that there was something aching and heart-wrenching to see in Maedhros. Maglor always knew deep down, Maedhros was always the best of them, out of all the sons of Fëanor despite all the mistakes and choices he made. It was why he always trusted him with Illyria Strange. Why he knew there was a reason why their fëa were fated to meet.

Though it seems it was yet something Maedhros understood. Maglor knew to expect the distrust, the hesitation. And as much as he prepared, his shattered heart ached in his chest.

He straightened himself before Maedhros revealed plainly, "No words could describe yet how I feel about this...háno."

For a second his heart panged the moment he said that word.

Maglor whispered before he sipped his drink, "I know."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Location: Kamar-Taj, Earth

Time: 1338 C.E

Maglor – or now named (and pronounced awfully by others) Makalaurë to those around the Sanctuary – had been staying in Kamar-Taj for perhaps a month now. Four weeks, or according to how they measured their time here which felt a little far from what they had back in Beleriand, seemed to go as slow as a Valian year. And Valian years tended to be rather long for the race of men.

Though ever since the destruction of the Two Trees and the rise of the Sun and Moon, time seemed to have altered and accelerated. Days lasted only for hours whilst months could even be considered days for them. Perhaps it was because their concept of time was warped by their longevity, considering they were immortal and spent their moments elongated anything they wanted.

It all changed when they chose exile. Life in the dangers of Middle Earth, infested by Morgoth's creatures of evil, had shortened their lives – even by all means of death or life. They were constantly fearing for their time and most of it consisted of protecting themselves and fighting against their cause of bringing back what they deserved. What his family deserved.

It wasn't long since he woke up when he was introduced to the High Lama, an elderly man wearing eerily red and gold robes that reminded him too much of the Fëanorian colours. However, he was far from Fëanorian, perhaps even greater when he introduced himself as the High Lama, or the Spirit Leopard (or so what the other sorcerers in Kamar-Taj called him).

The High Lama knew he would come, and Maglor was struck with shock and questioned how a sorcerer would know such a future. Not even Elrond had grown accustomed to his abilities but even then it was because of his Maiar blood that aided his foresight.

Maybe it was his stubbornness that caused the next bit.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

In a quick motion, the High Lama grabbed his wrist and placed his palm against his chest. He planted a finger upon his forehead and suddenly Maglor was thrown back with a scream.

He was falling through a kaleidoscope of colours. Prisms and motions of abstract shapes and motions. He felt his mind was being torn, his soul being pierced by the exposure and sight of it all.

"His heart rate is increasing too quickly."

Maglor felt his back thud against something, finding himself back in the large square room of the Sanctuary – his eyes turning to a smiling sorcerer.

The High Lama stared at him and replied, "He appears quite alright to me."

Wanting to argue and scream back, telling him to stop whatever this madness was, Maglor was again torn out of the room and back into the world.

Tessellation of Silmarils.

Flames constantly dancing in unnerving colours.

Eldamar mirrored from all dimensions.

A figure in navy robes, with blue glowing eyes.

His own face mirroring his; holding the jewel in his hand.

"You know who you are, Makalaurë Fëanorion." The High Lama's voice echoed around him as he was floating in a void of coloured spheres and bursts of stars and colours. "But who will you become once you enter the Multiverse?"

As he flashed his eyes once more, he found himself on the floor of the Sanctuary. He achingly pushed himself up, staring at the stern and blank face of the Sorcerer Supreme.

Maglor breathed in, "What was that?"

"That..." The High Lama spoke, "...Was the Multiverse. And you have a remarkable open mind for such a stubborn soul."

Watching him, the sorcerer kneeled before he eyed him.

"However, why should I teach someone such as you?"

Maglor physically flinched. He knew obviously what this was about. This man knew the darkest parts of his mind. His atrocities.

He gulped and spoke, "I..." Maglor paused, trying to maintain whatever composure he had. "I know I do not deserve to live, nor to even deserve what you did and offer me." His eyes investigated theirs, glancing momentarily to where Isolde and another sorcerer stood in the outer edges of the room.

No. Maglor didn't deserve salvation or redemption.

But something deep in his fëa was pulling into those words. He had seen something no one had experienced within his life and those he knew. He had seen what was beyond anything he could comprehend, what only perhaps a Vala could achieve.

Maglor had been opened into the entire possibilities of reality.

And perhaps there was a small possibility – very small – that he could change.

"I want to learn," Maglor stared at the High Lama, raising his voice. "I want to heal and atone for the mistakes I made."

The High Lama peered at him for a few seconds before he hummed and curtly nodded.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It daunted him for the first few days that there were worlds beyond the one he knew. Worlds that were perhaps similar and different at the same time. Such as this world, which had no elves or dwarves or Ainur. There was no Eru in this world, only beings called Celestials who had created these worlds and the beings living here to testify and experiment on them. He guessed they were the only beings that he could compare to the Ainur.

And beyond that, there were worlds even between the world he was in. Things he read in books and scrolls as he began his training as a novice with the Sorcerers of the Mystic Arts. In such a way, it felt a little amusing and odd for Maglor, treated as some young ellon and apprentice and not a Lord of a House of an infamous family. In a way, it sort of soothed him, not being judged by his name.

It didn't mean he was not judged. Those who looked at him seemed to eye him more cautiously, wondering why someone with pointed ears was able to be accepted in their school. Though from what he noticed, those who were training here had all been from different backgrounds themselves. People who were brought in to discover their potential, those wishing to be healed from various things and those who accidentally stumbled upon the world of magic.

Isolde was quite busy despite him often seeing her around the Sanctuary but being a new Master of the Mystic Arts she was tasked to assist the novices and acolytes between her research and missions. He knew this because she was the only one who could speak to her in English. The others did not understand him, preferring to speak their relative languages which span across this massive world. Maithili, Oriya, Telugu, Khmer, Persian, Norse, French, Nubian. Though whenever people conversed, it seemed everyone preferred speaking in either Latin, Sanskrit or Tibetan, the native language to the region Kamar-Taj situated. [7]

Their scripture was rather different as well, like Tengwar but completely different as well with how they were written and how they read. Sanskrit seemed to be a prominent language that was written, mixed with the Tibetan language along with even older languages the librarian spoke of. Chinese, Arabic, Greek, and Latin tended to fill those gaps, all with various writing systems of their own.

Don't get him started on Egyptian, Babylonian, Sumerian, and Coptic. [8]

Maglor did not mind it, considering he compared himself to the rest of his brothers who loathed learning languages, but the years in Beleriand had taught him to learn languages at quite a rate. Thankfully his mother's secret language seemed like those of the Slavic region and perhaps it would eventually come.

He noticed that certain languages did fit what Quenya sounded like (his little diversion when he wasn't learning spells or training to wield magic as a defensive object), particularly Gaelic, Icelandic and Norse. [9]

However, the more he read, the more he realised there were more dangers than just orcs or humans or the Valar themselves.

And all of that caused Maglor to somehow feel as if he was a speck within the entirety of reality.

____

[1] - Isolde: Meaning Ice Queen in Brythonic, I chose this name for the Ancient One to give her exactly her own origin story and how she grew up to become the Sorcerer Supreme. I always thought of her much like how she brought up the Mystic Arts, coming to be healed and be with people who were outcasted and wanted to protect a world she came to understand.
[2] - Taliska: A Mannish Language spoken by the Edain of the House of Beor. I would assume Maglor would speak various other Mannish languages from other houses as well as those of the March of Maedhros from the East.
[3] - Makalaurë: Means forging gold in Quenya and is Maglor's mother's name. I chose this because I would believe he would be called Kano and Maglor too many times and he would choose at such a fragile part of his life to dissociate with who he was.
[4] - Middle English: Of course, people won't call it middle English at that time but it's very different to modern English. Much like how Sindarin and Mannish develop as well (well in my headcanon, Sindarin would probably be less medieval-styled talking and simpler to match English's evolution).
[5] - The High Lama: A title of the Ancient One in the Marvel Comics, I decided to bring him to be the previous sorcerer supreme of Earth and a mentor to Isolde and Maglor.
[6] - Mt Krakatoa: A known volcano in Indonesia which is known for its eruption in 1883 and one of the deadliest events in recorded history.
[7] - Middle Languages: Languages which are around the 9th to coming of the 15th century.
[8] - Ancient Languages: Languages predating the 9th century.
[9] - Languages Inspired to Make The Elvish language both Quenya and Sindarin and other languages placed in the world of Tolkien.

____

A/N: AAAhhh I'm so excited writing about Maglor and his life. It's going to be the main thing about Part 3 and how much it affects everyone else. 

What I also added was to finally bring out a name for the Ancient One and Isolde just made sense to me. A way to show that despite name and status: she is still human and still just once like Stephen Strange.

That's why I want to explore not only Maglor's story...but also his relationship with Isolde and how much they both sort of share a deep connection. 

And why they reflect Illyria and Maedhros' own relationship (in a platonic soulmates way).

____

Edited: 14/09/2022