Maglor Plays For His People After Doriath by Himring

Chapter 3

Maglor lays his hand across the strings and reconsiders for a moment. I am taking a risk. I may have misjudged. But then he lifts his head and begins to sing.

He does not praise the courage and endurance of the Feanorians. He does not spend a word on the failings of Dior. He sings a lament for Doriath, a song in praise of the lost glory of the Iathrim, weaving together all he learned from Daeron together with what he picked up over the years from others—northern Sindar, Falathrim and Green Elves out of Ossiriand—into a shining, shimmering tapestry of song. And he has not misjudged, for Maglor’s people follow him once again.

They have never seen Thingol or Melian. They have never seen Luthien, those that are assembled in the hall of Amon Ereb tonight. By the time they set foot in Doriath it was already broken, greatly diminished after the destruction wrought by the dwarves of Nogrod—and, to the Feanorians, the Thousand Caves of the Menegroth have become the stuff of nightmare, a labyrinth of never-ending skirmish and unavailing pursuit where death, threatening or inflicted, lurked around every corner.

But Maglor tells them that Doriath was glorious and beloved before it fell, its beauty unsurpassed, and they hear it as if they were hearing it for the first time. It unlocks their grief. They lament its loss together with Maglor. Tonight, the Kinslayers weep for Doriath.

In the centre of the Hall, Ceredir stands by himself, leaning on his crutch, tears running down his face. Nolemir, whose mother was a Sinda who died in the Dagor Bragollach, is curled up in a corner, sobbing convulsively like an infant. Turion stares grimly ahead of him. He blinks rapidly a couple of times; then he takes out a handkerchief and violently blows his nose. Beside Maglor on the dais Amrod weeps, leaning forward in his chair—and Amras, too.

Outside the walls of Amon Ereb, nothing is changed by those tears. On the banks of the Esgalduin, piles of bones lie mingled: those of the Noldor among those of the Iathrim. In a cart on the way to the Havens, a refugee dies of her wounds that night. In Angband, Morgoth—who knows everything about how Elves and Men crumble and break, except why some last longer than others—settles back on his Throne well satisfied to watch his game play out. But here, in the hall of Amon Ereb, the Kinslayers are returned a little to themselves, to who they were, by their tears, by Maglor’s song—ready, in some fashion, to go on living.

Night draws on to morning. In the kitchen of Amon Ereb, Naurthoniel stands, drags her knuckles across reddened cheeks and, looking at depleted shelves, wonders what she is to feed all these people. She will have to talk to Amrod about organizing a hunting expedition, she thinks.

On the dais, in the emptying hall, Maglor still crouches over his harp, silent now, his eyes gritty, his mouth full of lies and ashes. He remembers every sword stroke—all those singers silenced, songs violently cut off. To him comes Maedhros, suddenly appearing beside his chair—and Maglor, looking up into his brother’s still, haunted face, sees with a strange relief, mixed with intense regret, that this brother of his he has not been able to help at all, tonight.

‘Leave your harp now and walk with me, Kano’, says Maedhros, brushing Maglor’s shoulder with his fingertips.

At the foot of Amon Ereb, in the early morning, the two brothers Maedhros and Maglor walk through the snow. The ground is lighter than the sky, which is a dusky grey blue. The trees are black.

Chapter End Notes

With thanks to Clodia and Rhapsody for inspiration!