Volwë fought back the first urge to correct him only with great effort.
It was everyone's well-intentioned instinct, he knew, to try to awaken someone to reality when confronted with...whatever this was. He had heard no name for it, but he had seen it happen among Men, when they arrived in Beleriand, and grew elderly and weak of mind before accepting the Gift; he had seen it, too, among elves who had lost everything and whose fëar refused to accept the truth. Whatever caused the loss of memory and the delusions was a mystery to him, but he had seen that always, always, it was better to be gentle, and not contradict.
He had seen, too, the way those who were contradicted could grow violent. An elderly atani was easy to reatrain; a calaquendi warlord, however, who was quickly regaining some of his former strength…well. He would prefer not to find out. There was a distinct possibility he would have no option to restrain Maglor, only to kill or be killed.
All these thoughts passed through his mind in the space of a second or two. Then he was on his feet, at the door before Maglor so he could open it for him. He must think he was a highborn servant, for why else would a white-haired elf be in their company? Only the noble houses of the Sindar and Teleri looked like him.
“Yes,” he said. “He won’t return for a few days, my lord.” Perhaps the lapse in memory would pass by then.
(Volwë mentally apologized to his father for deferring to anyone but him, Ingwë, or the Valar as his lord, but sure Olwë would understand that circumstances were dire?… No, he wouldn’t, Volwë thought. He didn’t even like his children to pull rank on one another, which Volwë had weaponized against his elder brothers often. No, Olwë would have a fit over it, and another fit when he found out his son had been speaking to a kinslayer at the time.)
“Perhaps you would like to go for a walk?”