Maglor Plays For His People After Doriath by Himring

Chapter 1

He walks into the chilly hall, carrying his harp, and they all turn to him expectantly.

Amon Ereb seems a much gloomier place than Caranthir’s house in Thargelion used to be. Perhaps that is because Caranthir who built it is now dead or perhaps it was so even to begin with, Caranthir having built the fortress on Amon Ereb after his defeat and the loss of Thargelion. Or perhaps the death of Denethor, who died on this hill before ever a Noldo had set foot in Beleriand, has left an indelible mark on the surroundings that Caranthir failed to erase.

It is likely, though, that Amon Ereb would be a less gloomy place if it were not newly overrun with bewildered Kinslayers. The hall is packed with followers of the Sons of Feanor: those who are not on duty—those who can walk, those who are still alive—have foregathered here, huddling together for comfort and support as they once did in the icy winters of Himring during the Dagor Bragollach. It is a smaller hall, this one. There are not so very many of them left.

But still they turn to Maglor, with all the force of old habit, expecting to see themselves in the mirror of his song, as when he sang of their courage and their endurance, their fears, their grief and their hope, and they found the strength inside themselves to mount the walls again and beat off yet another attack. And yet tonight is not the same. Tonight Maglor is playing for them for the first time after Doriath.

Here is Ceredir, from Himring, and Turion from the Gap, who twice faced Glaurung at Maglor’s side, and Nolemir, who followed Caranthir from Thargelion and lost his lord in Doriath... The faces turned towards him are haunted, disturbed, restless, their eyes filled with doubt. But, at the same time, he sees an alarming readiness to clutch at straws in those faces, a desperate wish to credit whatever he is going to say.

Explain things to us, Makalaure. Tell us what we did. Tell us who we are, now.

Their need presses on him and he wants to absolve them, to tell them that all that happened in Doriath was his fault, his and his brothers’ only.  Let the Sons of Feanor take the responsibility for everything and the blame, for after all those who followed merely did what they were told to do.  Surely Maglor owes his people this; surely it is the least he owes them.

But it would not be true, if he told his people that. Because the truth is that none of their oaths—not one of the oaths they swore to the Sons of Feanor—was intended to be unbreakable. To be sure, they were not consulted before Doriath or, individually, asked for their consent. But they could have turned aside. They could have refused—no, not easily, but they could have. And still they followed.

And if he tells them that it is only the Sons of Feanor who are to blame—if he hands them that handful of straw, they will clutch at it, he is certain. But is that what they truly need of him? And if he tells them that Dior brought his own death and the destruction of Doriath on himself, by refusing to listen when he should have known better? They will clutch at that, too, but is that what they need from him tonight?

His people—Turion, who twice faced the Father of Dragons at his side and went on to survive the following siege and the Nirnaeth and the years in Ossiriand, Turion and all the rest of them—it seems there ought to have been a moment he recognized when the time was right to turn to them and say: Do not. Do not follow. Do not do as I say. Have you not heard the words of the Prophecy of the North as well as I? How can you not be better anywhere else than under my leadership?

He never said it. And it is not only because it would have seemed profoundly disloyal to his brothers if he did that he did not say it. Those people who have been following them since Losgar, since Araman, since Alqualonde—with each step they took together in Middle-earth, all the way across Beleriand, it became less possible to abandon them and never was there a safe place, never a safe time to leave them, never safe hands to leave them in. And now there is less safety than ever for them, outside these walls.

Makalaure Feanorion, whose ambition once was to sway hearts only with music, neither less nor more than that—what did he know of unbreakable bonds, when he swore the Oath, and how they break? There are fewer of his people now, so many fewer of them, but for the most part it is not because they left, not the Noldor among them. And here they are, those who remain, and here is Maglor—battered and shaken and burdened, all of them—and what shall he sing for them tonight?