A Song of Staying by Himring

Dear Tetra,

I finally made it to Old Terra, almost—it involved taking three slow freight ships, one after the other, criss-crossing the galaxy, and I got told twice that there was no conceivable reason for going there, gaining the distinct impression that other planets close-by are inclined to resent all that history! But when I got to Luna, in the end, I was told that the whole planet was under quarantine and none of us was allowed farther than the lunar base. I could have howled with frustration, after all the effort I had put into getting there, but even more for your sake. I had wanted so badly to report to you from there, knowing what study you had made of the literature of the place. Apparently, the problem was some sort of local flu that the Terran physiology lacks resistance to…

There was nothing to be done, unless I wanted to wait for an indeterminate period until the quarantine was lifted. And I’m afraid, my dear, not even for you would I spend that amount of time on Luna—not my favourite place by far and very much not my idea of fun.  However, I had apparently made enough fuss loudly enough that I got several illegal offers, while I was staying in rented premises, waiting for passage to Betelgeuse. I rejected the one that involved being smuggled onto the planet—I didn’t think you’d be happy if I wiped out the Terrans by giving them a cold, apart from the suspicion that I was not intended to make it down there alive, anyway, once I had paid the smugglers the fortune they were asking.

I did buy the ancient artefact. Please don’t yell, will you? I know, I know! Such things should be handled by experts and within legal channels, only. But I wanted to have something to show to you for my pains. And I’m pretty sure it is genuine. At least, this way, it will end up in the collection of someone who actually knows what it is they have. Maybe you can even decipher it! It is a detached page from a typeset book, made of wood pulp, very quaint, unfortunately in very bad condition. I’m taking steps to preserve it better so that it doesn’t fall apart entirely before I can get it to you.

Happy second Pronoun Choosing Day, my dear! Please accept this gift in lieu of my presence at the celebration, for now, but I will be coming home before too long, I promise.

Your loving third-cousin,

Zeeza

[..]sisting, battling against [..]

[..] secrets kept, strength [..]

[..] broken traps,

[..] prison opening, the chain that sn[..]

[..]

Backwards and forwards swayed their song.

[..]

[..] Felagund fought,

And all the m[..] and might [..]

[..] into his words.

Softly in the gloom they heard the birds

Singing afar in Nargothrond,

The sighing of the Sea beyond,

Beyond the west[..]

On sand of p[..]

Tetra picked up the ancient Terran poem and sighed. Those had been carefree times: Zeeza exploring the galaxies, while he remained in his cubbyhole, as she called it, at the academy, musing on the history of opera and musical theory. Now the fragile page remained, despite its antiquity, securely encased in its see-through protective covering, and went with him wherever he went, while so much else, so very much else, was lost and broken.

And soon—if he failed—so much more, maybe! Although he would hardly live to see it… Who would have thought, once, that musical theory, so high-flown and impractical-seeming a subject, would turn out to be so important to the war effort?

The Terrans perhaps—in Nargothrond, wherever that might have been. He had never found any records of the place in what was known of early Terran geography, although he was almost certain it was not anywhere near New York, at least. It had frustrated him greatly, once, that he could form no idea of the inhabitants of Nargothrond or what manner of being Felagund might have been, exactly. He was not even entirely certain about the birds, although he had heard claims that such life forms still existed on Terra.

Now he was almost glad that he had never been able to find out more. It made it easier to imagine that Felagund had been just like him, short, squat and six-fingered, with a purplish tinge to his skin and a fuzz of pale golden hair. And he could imagine the sound of the birds singing like the sounds the qeetals made in the gardens at home, with the yellow waves of the sea sighing on the sand in the background… No, better not to go there just now, perhaps.

Did you win your battle, Felagund, hm?

Perhaps best not to know that either.

Tetra eased the poem gently back into its container. The count-down was about to begin. Time to go up to the bridge deck and try out his new composition against the Enemy. All traditional weapons had proven unable to achieve much against the invaders’ terrifying technology, but an avantgarde symphony, it had been discovered, could blast the Enemy’s ships right out of space, if the composer-musician got the harmonics just right… Only the Enemy was clever and the parameters kept changing.

Well, Felagund, we won’t know until we try, will we?

With that thought, Tetra took the lift to the bridge deck of the good starship Wizard’s Isle.

Chapter End Notes

I assume it's obvious, but the title and the text of the "damaged page" are taken from the verses in The Silmarillion describing Finrod's song battle with Sauron.

The name of the starship in the third chapter alludes to the setting of that song battle.

Word-building note (with teal deer warning):

Tetra and Zeeza's society is meant to have a number of ceremonies in which people may decide to retain or switch pronouns for the following period of their lives. The pronouns denote social roles (somewhere between goals, career choices and gender, but distinct from sex; the latter being highly private, in this society). The  English pronouns adopted in the text follow antiquated translation protocols; their choice is meant to highlight the emotional attitudes of Zeeza and Tetra to each other and of Tetra to Felagund. 

Also, third cousins are close kin in this society and denoted with a single word; the hyphen in "third-cousin" is meant to suggest this.