Epilogue - A Fairy Story by Lipstick

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Chapter 4: Return Journey

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Return Journey

"You old now

As the years reckon, but in that slower

World of the poet you are just coming

To sad manhood, knowing the smile

On her proud face is not for you."

R.S. Thomas.

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As the line clears the hills, Makalaure starts investigating the brightly coloured packets before us. It appears the past ten thousand years have done nothing to diminish his sweet tooth. I still have no appetite, but I am rather glad he has found something to amuse him. He will need all the strength concentrated glucose can give.

The river we have been following has broadened out now. It is fat and brown and lazy, and on its sides are mud banks. It is becoming tidal. On the north sides of the floodplain rise the real mountains. They are high enough to trap the clouds on their peaks, to hold their own weather system. They glisten blue in the wet air that clings to them, blue as rooftops, for they are slate mountains.

We are very close now. We have only a few more miles to go along this estuary. Then the train will cross the river on the squat black viaduct, and we shall be in another country. We shall be in the past.

The air is already damp from the uplands. The same damp air I woke to for centuries in Himring. It is a chill air, keen, clear beyond the words of mortals to describe. Although, I held my mountain home out of strategic necessity, I have to admit, I grew to love it. I even managed to behave myself well enough while I lived there.

This breeze also carries upon it the ammonia smell of sheep. It may be the past we are headed for, but it is not our past alone. Mortals have made their home here too. By any standards except the modern, they have fair over run the place. There is no returning to Beleriand, for myself, not even in dreams.

They still speak a language remarkably similar to Sindarin in these upland territories. They tell stories too, of the drowned lands beneath the sea, although none of the stories I have heard match my own history. I assume this little leathery people are confused in their memories, mixing the tales their land tells them with those of the wild countries eastwards from whence they came.

I am rudely woken from my reverie by filit standing up and looking for all the world like he is trying to flap his wings.

Sedative drugs and food do not mix well, I should know that. I drag Makalaure to the toilet compartment and hold his hair off his face while he vomits.

"That was horrible," he said afterwards, as I clean his face with some wet tissue.

When we emerge, we are by the sea. We stand in the doorway, and I pull the window down so Makalaure can get some fresh air.

After a while, the ticket inspector notices us standing there.

"Is everything alright," she asks rather shyly.

"Yes," I say, then "Wait, do you have a pair of scissors?"

"I think there's one in the driver's cab," she pauses. "Do you want me to get it?"

"Please," I say.

When she returns, I take the scissors and cut the plastic tag from my brother's wrist. He looks shocked. I do not suppose it was so easy in his nightmares. I throw the bloodied plastic in the bin, while he stares at his hand until I kick him. I hand the scissors back.

"Do you want the next stop?" she asks. That must be the usual reason for people standing in doorways.

"Yes, why not," I say. Here is as good as anywhere.

I help my brother down as the train stops. I do not know if it was the sleep, or the removal of the final symbol of his time in captivity, but he appears stronger. He can walk unaided. So we turn our backs on the little station on stilts, and walk out onto the marsh.

This is intermediate land. Not so long ago it was beneath the sea, and something in the thin soil still remembers its blanket of waves, and wishes to revert. There is something unsettling about this, as if, if we stood here too long the incoming waves would rush in and sweep us away. It still happens, during spring tides

Long ago, too long ago for human memory this sea was land. Then there were no spring tides, the salt marsh was lush green woodland, and the soil was thick and fertile.

I do not know how to begin, so I sit down on the marram grass. Makalaure does the same.

"Do you know who I am?" I ask.

"You are my brother," he replies.

"How do you know I am your brother?"

"I recognise you".

"What do you know about me?"

"I do not know, I do not remember. I thought I had memories, but I was told they were wrong."

"Did you want them to be wrong?"

"I do not know. I am sorry; I am confused, have I done something wrong?"

"No filit, you haven't done anything wrong. "I realize I am lying.

"Yes," I continue. "You did do something wrong, you did something terribly wrong. As did I. But we are still here and we cannot change it now."

"What did I do?"

"You killed other elves, other people like us. For a Silmaril."

"Oh."

I do not know what I expected him to say.

"You are an elf, you know that, don't you?"

He hugs his knees.

"I am scared."

"I know, I know, shush. We do not have to let anyone else know that. It is better if we do not. But you must know what you are, or you will be lost forever. Just tell me you know and I promise I will not let anyone hurt you for it."

He nods. I think that means he accepts his immortal status.

"When you see things that aren't there, what do you see?"

He talked a little then, and it was not the blood red nightmares of a kinslayer I had been expecting. It was mostly, us, Atar, Ambarussa bursting through the woodland on to a London hospital ward. Me, teaching Ereinion how to jump of a wall in Himring, in the brief summer before the Dagor Bragollach. Findekano throwing a fit when he found us. Makalaure and I arguing over what was to be done about Carnistir, that could have been on any number of occasions. Rather mundane hallucinations, all in all.

"Do you know where those people are now?"

"No."

"They are gone Makalaure. They have all passed in to the West a long time ago, one way or another."

"We are in the West."

"But this is as far as we can go. They have returned to Valinor, and we did not."

"Why not?"

"Because we stole the Silmarils."

He looks like he is taking that in, at least. Then I remember something, too.

"You wanted to go back, but I forced you to stay and redeem the oath."

If it had not been for me, Makalaure could have been back with those he loved. So, guilt caught up with me, in the end.

"No," he said, after a while. "I was not a child and you did not force me. It was my decision."

"How so?"

"Because I am a poet, Maedhros."

"I do not understand."

"What is the point of pretty words if none can hear them? What is the point of words that change nothing? Because that is what would have happened had I returned to Valinor, I would have become a memory, and I could not do that."

He pauses.

"Call it the vanity of artists, if you will."

I smile.

"And you brought me here to show me the sea that was once our home."

"Yes."

He looks out over the waves. The sky has darkened again, it must be close to sunset. He sits in silence for a very long time, staring out.

Finally he says:

"It is just .it is just like holding a Silmaril."

"What did you feel when you held the Silmaril?"

"Nothing."

And that's the truth of it. It was the same for filit as for me, then.

I held the Silmaril in my hand and I felt nothing at all. The stone was useless. Not worth a kingdom, not worth murder, not worth the lives of the two children left to perish, not even worth the life of Tyelkormo's hound. It changed nothing. It was worth nothing.

That was my inheritance. Do not think it did not burn. It burned so hard it was nearly an end of me. It was unbearable.

I was shocked to find myself still alive. I was more shocked to find myself still in possession of enough sanity to go on. Still, I suppose I had practice in coming back from the dead, and filit did not.

He is shaking now, sitting on the rough marsh grass with his arms round his knees, rocking. I think I have taught enough lessons for one day.

"Come on," I say. "Let's get you somewhere safe."

He looks at me blankly. There is nothing in those eyes at all, not even the question of where safe might be. I certainly do not know. But he lets me help him to his feet, and lead him inland once more.

He is deathly cold. For the first time, I am afraid for him. I realize now his madness may have been the only thing that made life after Silmarils bearable. Without it, it may go badly for him.

Not while I am here, I say to myself. Besides we Feanorians are remarkably hard to kill. I know, I tried to kill one once.

As we walk back toward the station I find what I am looking for. At the end of a field stands a deserted trailer. The owner must rent it out during the holiday season. For now though, it is empty. It is also padlocked, but even I can make short work of that simple device. A few choice words and the lock falls into my hand.

I drop my brother on one of the seats. He looks eternally grateful just to be lying down again, in fact within moments he is asleep. I am not so easily satisfied. It is almost as cold in here as on the marshes, and I wish to give Makalaure something better than a tin shed. So I search every cupboard for remnants of habitation, and inspect every crude appliance for usefulness.

The heater and stove are in working order, which is good, although the heater mists up the windows in minutes, advertising our presence. I hope darkness falls soon. These farmers are apt to guard their petty possessions jealously. There are blankets and pillows in one cupboard, some crockery and saucepans in another. Water comes out of the taps on command. I feel rather delighted with all of this, in fact it reminds me of nothing so much as being back in Tirion, the first time I had a house to run and brothers to feed.

In Tirion I had seven brothers and we lived in a palace. Now I have only one and am in a camping trailer. We who chose to remain are all in reduced circumstances now. Tonight I count myself as one of the more fortunate ones. I feel I have done rather well.

I did choose this fate. I could have gone back to Valinor. It is as my brother said, we did not return because we were not ready to become obsolete, a memory. We were not ready then and we are not ready now.

At least, I am not ready now. As for Makalaure, I do not know. I wish he did not sleep so much. Even that terrible medication the mortals gave him could not do this. I cover my brother with the thickest of the blankets, and sit down on the floor beside him. I stroke his hair, as if I could stroke the will to live into him.

Return journey, this has happened before. Except our places were different. Makalaure, stroking what hair was left to me, lifting me up.

"Drink this, come on. It will not make you sick, I promise. Please try."

I can still remember the taste. He gave me milk, like an elfling. Which I suppose is what you give those who return from the dead, who have to learn, like an elfling, how to live all over again.

Maybe I should give him the same now. It must be better than sitting here doing nothing. I give my brother a final pat, and stand up again. I pull my coat shut against the cold night, then head out the door.

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Chapter End Notes

 

Maglor's sweet tooth is another invention of Ithilwen's that I have pinched.

Yes, I am going with the Silm version of events in this story. Which means Maedhros has no Quenya name to give Ereinion, as he only got the one given him as Orodreth's kid.

Carnistir - Caranthir

Tyelkormo - Celegorm

Findekano - Fingon (Ereinion's dad)