Oceanside by Fadesintothewest

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

Oceanside

 

The fire roared with a fierce intensity, casting eerie shadows into the darkened silver of Telperion’s weak light. Out here, on the coasts of Aman, the light of the stars yet shone, the light of Telperion tempered by the Pelori’s that rose to great heights.

 

A group of elves played a melancholic song, an old song, little changed from the Journey, though playing it on these blessed shores, the voices were hiraeth embodied: a deep longing for a home that for some was never home. But there it was, the vision of this place, a lake, a shore on the other side. The song expressed a yearning for those things of that land, for Endórë, places long sundered to the folks of the second and third clans that made the Journey and for those who had come to know it through story. In this yearning the Teleri and the Noldor found common ground, though the Teleri had a unique way of expressing it through music. It is why Makalaurë found himself studying for a time amongst the famed musicians of the sea, the Falmari, whose music had the power to seep into one’s bones like the cool air of the oceanside [1].

 

Hando, one of the original Lindar, played the typical Falmarin stringed instrument, strumming with his fingers, lifting his voice in prayer-like repetition, reciting the versus that described the heartache they faced leaving Endórë. Another fellow played a mouth organ, the ópasimpa*-- a typical instrument that was found in abundance as the elves journeyed from the Outerlands (it was small in size, fitting in the palm) to Aman. The Falmari gathered their voices like an incantation, accompanying Hando’s haunting voice. One of these voices was Makalaurë’s.

 

Findekáno loved the ópasimpa, loved playing it, though Indis frowned upon it, insisting to Nolofinwë that little Findekáno must learn a more proper instrument. Appeasing his mother, Nolofinwë subjected Findekáno to harp lessons, though he grew to enjoy playing the harp, no part in thanks to Makalaurë. It was the reason Findekáno found himself in Alqualondë for a season, studying under Makalaurë, whom was himself apprenticing with one of the great Telerin harpists. But Findekáno’s first love remained the ópasimpa, and he played it with the Telerin folk by the fire, but not with this song. Findekáno listened. He felt his soul begin to disintegrate, a dark yearning take hold of him, filling him. Visions of strange lands, larger than life rivers and valleys, materialized before Findekáno. He walked in Endórë, a dream like quality painted the visions as they slipped in and out of sight. His breathing became halted. But the enchanted music also cracked open a desire he kept hidden, secreted. He longed for something quite forbidden.

 

Findekáno forced himself to his feet, shaking away the visions, dismissing the yearning that settled on him like a well-worn cloak. He walked away from the group on the beach, growing the distance between himself and the music, keeping the arms of the enchanted melody from bringing him under the waters of memory. He’d not come after all. Maitimo had not shown up. Makalaurë had insisted Maitimo was going to grace them with his presence, but even Makalaurë showed disappointment when Maitimo did not appear at the intended time. “Something must have held him up,” Makalaurë insisted to the group that gathered in Alqualondë making ready for their trip to the deserted beach. Makalaurë’s disappointment ran as deep as Findekáno’s, but for different reasons.

 

Findekáno heard the surge of the waves breaking on the shore, whispering this is a good place to sit and contemplate. He laid back on the sand, not caring that the fine grains would get caught up in his hair and clothes. No matter, Findekáno thought to himself, but it was not as comfortable as he hoped for the gems strewn on the beach poked at his backside. Frustrated, he swept the gems aside, making his bed of sand more comfortable.

 

The melody drifted over the water. Findekáno sighed, no matter how far he traveled down the beach, the words reached him, the bay like an amphitheater specially designed to carry every sonorous detail. Despondent, he threw a hand over his eyes, trying to keep the tears that were staining his cheeks from falling. It was the song. It was stirring him.

 

 

The voice came to him singing:

 

“Oh Aman, we're going to Aman,

The angel Oromë is coming from the skies to your soul

He's going to ask you, ‘Did you pray?’

He's going to ask you, ‘Did you fast?’

He is coming to your soul” [1]

 

“A man, I am only a man,

We ran, we forgot and ran

 

No angel is coming from the skies to my soul

No angel’s coming from the skies to make you whole

 

I’m going to ask you, ‘Did you stray?’

But he will ask you, “Did you make way?”

 

But he will ask you, “Did you reject your past?”

I’m going to ask you, ‘Did you repent at last?’

 

No one is coming to your soul

No one is going to make you whole”

 

Maitimo was supposed to come to Findekáno, come to his soul. Maitimo was going to ask Findekáno, “What have you studied? What have you learned? How have you been?” To which Findekáno would reply, “I’ve missed you.” The words of the melody undid him, ripped layer upon layer of doubt, exposing him. No angel was coming to Findekáno. Maitimo was not coming to his soul.

 

Was Findekáno supposed to repent? Hide beneath shame for his desires strayed from the blessed path, was disparaged in Elven society? But Findekáno resisted. He’d convinced himself he never wanted Maitimo to make him whole. Never had Findekáno desired Maitimo in that way. It reminded Findekáno that many misunderstood, indeed mistranslated that particular verse of the original song from Quenderin, the first language spoken at Cuiviénen, to Quenya. “…Coming to your soul” Findekáno whispered. It was not for your soul.

 

“No one is going to make you whole,” the singer repeated. But did Findekáno truly believe that he’d never meant for Maitimo to make him whole? He was deluding himself, Findekáno deliberated, feeling disenchanted with himself. His mother’s words echoed in his mind. He remembered that day. Anairë had come upon him while he sat wistfully playing the harp in the courtyard…

 

Of course Anairë recognized the first throws of young love, but she also understood--in that mother’s way--that much of young love was messy, uncomfortable to wear when it was your only companion. “First loves are funny creatures,” Anairë spoke to her son. “They come upon you so suddenly, fill you to the brim till your ready to burst. All you can think of is that someone and you feel your life will not be complete without her, and for a moment you are not whole.” Anairë sat next to Findekáno, holding her eldest hands. He was nearing majority. “But then love grows and you become familiar, comfortable with it, and you understand that to truly love you must be whole on your own, for it takes two committed and complete people to grow in the fullest of love.”  Findekáno gifted his mother a typical adolescent frown and proceeded to storm off.  What did she know of his loves! What did she know of his type of love? She could not know…

 

Lying on the beach Findekáno watched the stars far off on the other side through a gap in his fingers, unwilling to reveal his red stained eyes even though no one was around him to see them. He struggled with his own thoughts. He had convinced himself of his mother’s words for they were sage, something an adult- something Maitimo might say. Findekáno believed it for himself, tried to make himself what in his mind would be the emotional equal to Maitimo. But little did Findekáno realize that Maitimo was also young. Though Maitimo was well passed his coming of age, he was but the age Nolofinwë and Arafinwë were when they married, still convinced at that age that another would complete them. Yet for all of Findekáno’s turmoil, it was the deeper forbidden nature of his feelings that drove his grief.

 

Findekáno refused to allow the strict mores of Amanian society to narrow his path. He was his father’s son: he would not reject his people’s past nor his heart. He had to commit to that, otherwise he was a coward. In this way he was like Finwë too, but Findekáno was young. Always creeping at the edges of his thought, snaking into his deepest desires, was shame.

 

With a start, Findekáno sat up abruptly. He could not breath. Anxiety was coiling itself around his insides, taking up space until he found himself unable to breath. He was an abomination, a degenerate. He’d heard those words bandied about sometimes not so discreetly of those that were accused of deviating from strict social codes. The worst words were reserved for those who loved, bedded the same sex. He had to keep his love secret. He could never tell Maitimo. Maitimo would revile him if he knew his impure thoughts, his unholy desire towards him. But Findekáno could find the smallest of joys in seeing him, talking to him, enjoying the way Maitimo made him feel special. It had been too long since he had seen his cousin, half-cousin he interrupted his own thoughts, reminding himself that at least their consanguinity was not against the Laws. This helped him overcome the stranglehold of anxiety on him. At least that was not forbidden, he thought thankful that he was not an extreme deviant.

 

Maitimo had left with his father on one of their journeys. Though their people made the Great Journey many whispered that Fëanáro was still searching for that perfect place promised to his father, to their people. And Findekáno had been away from Tirion for an entire season studying music. Findekáno was destined to be apart from Maitimo for a time and tonight was intended to be the night Findekáno would once again be reunited with his cousin--half-cousin, but at least Makalaurë was here with him. Findekáno felt his breaths coming easier, the burden of his emotions subsiding like the tides. Findekáno felt assured when he thought of Makalaurë. He was a comfort to Findekáno, a reminder of his ties to Maitimo. Both deeply loved Maitimo, though Makalaurë simply took Findekáno’s love to be the same as his. It was a strange bond they shared, understanding Maitimo was not just any elf, but Nelyafinwë! And truly, Findekáno enjoyed Makalaurë’s company. Makalaurë tempered Findekáno’s rashness, his impatience. It was why Findekáno became more than proficient with the harp and sang well. Makalaurë alone, apart from Maitimo, could instill that patience.

 

“To the void with it!” Findekáno announced to the receding waters, standing defiantly. With much resoluteness Findekáno turned and marched back to the group, deciding he was going to enjoy himself, Maitimo or not.

 

)()()()(

 

Makalaurë sat cross-legged on the sand, his eyes closed, the music growing about him. Music was like meditation for Makalaurë. He played it, he became it, sat in the middle of it, seeing in his mind’s eye: song become like color, have a weight. He could shape it, contour it, create from nothingness. So lost was he in the music, singing, that he did not notice that a pair of elves had joined the group on the beach. The pair tread quietly through the sand, pulled by the melody, overcome by a sense they did not want to disturb the visions conjured by the music.

 

Makalaurë sensed a warmth grow in the energy he pulled from to create and shape his music. It was a familiar color, the ember of a fire, warm and comfortable. Maitimo! Makalaurë opened in his eyes and gifted his brother a broad smile in between versus. Maitimo winked at his brother in reply. Maitimo was accompanied by another elf, a maiden Makalaurë knew not well. Makalaurë raised an eyebrow looking at Maitimo. Maitimo ignored his brother’s question, turning away from him, but his smug smile betrayed him. Continuing with the song, Makalaurë reached over and offered Maitimo a bottle of wine, the latter enthusiastically palming the bottle and proceeding to uncork it.

 

The last verse of the song concluded the musicians continued to softly strum the melody, though now quiet voices began to speak with one another. Makalaurë crawled over to Maitimo, “What kept you Nelyo?”

 

Maitimo rolled his eyes. “One of the carriage’s wheels broke. We had to stop and fix it.”

 

“Its what you get for being miserly with your coin,” Makalaurë replied, knowing Maitimo’s thrift conscious ways could sometimes lead him to spend his capital in other ways. Makalaurë glanced over to Maitimo’s companion, who was speaking to some of the other gathered elves, pushing on Maitimo to reveal the reason for the maiden’s presence. Maitimo was not one to bring around maidens he was not courting and those were few and far between.

 

Maitimo laughed, causing Airosseldë, the elf maiden that accompanied him to turn to look at the brothers. In fact the group turned their attention to Maitimo. Everything about Maitimo was contagious. His laughter rose like the gathering ocean, his deep voice rumbling in a captivating way, causing others to join in his mood. Maitimo shook his head at Makalaurë unwilling to share any detail with his younger brother, choosing instead to lean back onto his arms on the blankets strewn over the sand. He stretched out his long legs letting them fall on Makalaurë, earning him protests from Makalaurë. “Get your muddied boots off me!”

 

Maitimo shook his boots in Makalaurë’s face, offering a sweet, “Please?”

 

“Very well then,” Makalaurë harrumphed, removing his brother’s boots and stockings. Makalaurë pinched his nose, eliciting protestations from Maitimo. “My feet are not pungent, brother,” Maitimo insisted, wriggling his toes in Makalaurë’s face. Fed up with his brother’s typical teasing, Makalaurë slapped his brother’s feet away, though he was truly happy to have Maitimo with him. It had been too long since Makalaurë had seen him, spent time with Maitimo.

 

)()()()(

 

Findekáno heard Maitimo’s distinct laugh. There was no mistaking Maitimo’s deep voice. Findekáno waxed poetic at times, considering Maitimo’s voice melodious like the deep roar of a river, the sound of a fire trapped within a forge. Findekáno’s own voice had dropped several octaves, now settled into manhood. Yet he did not hear it, the depths of his own voice. Indeed, Findekáno did not see himself as he was, a young man come of age, though his formal introduction was postponed while he was away in Alqualondë.

 

Findekáno felt a sudden urge to run to the group, but he stopped himself, choosing to walk over. His eyes were focused on Maitimo, who appeared resplendent, like a god. His hair reflected the firelight, his tall form stretched out lazily, though to Findekáno’s eyes Maitimo’s pose was sensuous. It was as if Maitimo was announcing to the group: “Here look at my beauty, luxuriate in it. Let your eyes travel the lengths of my long legs and torso. I am well made, strong of muscle. Do not worry, you can observe, you can desire. I know too well the beauty that stretches over me, the chiseled features, the full lips.” In truth it was Findekáno’s estimation of Maitimo.

 

Findekáno paused before he broke the plain between darkness and firelight, smiling, taking in the banter between Makalaurë and Maitimo. Gathering his courage, Findekáno stepped through the darkness and into the light.

 

)()()()()(

 

Airosseldë gasped. Not only did Findekáno startle her, but he materialized out of the darkness as if from nothingness. He was beautiful. Who was he, this dark, mysterious elf who shimmered? Was he some Maia unknown to her?

 

Maitimo too was caught by surprise. There stood Findekáno, glowing like the faerie in the old stories. His hair was alight, like the skies far way, darkness woven with star brilliance! On his head it seemed he wore a crown of stars. The gems caught up in Findekáno’s hair from where he laid on the beach caught the light of the firelight so he appeared to shimmer, his fine youthful beauty accentuated. Maitimo sat up, at a loss for words. Where was the youth he had left behind a couple of seasons ago? How, who was this man before him? Maitimo studied him closely, his thoughts interrupted by Findekáno himself who crossed the space between them, coming to stand before him.

 

“Nelyo! How I have missed you!” Findekáno finally broke his silence, hesitating, keeping himself from collapsing into Maitimo and throwing his arms around him.

 

Maitimo leapt up, embracing Findekáno, his own enthusiasm less encumbered. “And I have missed you Káno!” Maitimo stood back, openly inspecting Findekáno. “Look at you! Why you have become a man overnight,” Maitimo offered, placing his hand on Findekáno’s shoulders, feeling the strength that lay in them.

 

“Not over night,” Findekáno replied, grinning like a mad man.

 

They had spent much time together before Findekáno was shipped off to Alqualondë and Maitimo followed his father into the wilds. Maitimo enjoyed witnessing the world through Findekáno’s eyes, so different than him. Findekáno so bright and impetuous, bold and temperamental! That quality they both shared, the temperament of their grandfather, of their fathers, but where Findekáno was impetuous, Maitimo was restrained, wanting to know every detail of what lay ahead. Really it was a product of being the eldest, the eldest of five energetic and vastly different brothers. Though truly it wasn’t as if Findekáno was always impetuous, it seemed that in an instant he could feel a situation for its rightness or wrongness, though that was a quality that was growing, moving him from impetuousness to boldness. Maitimo lacked that, what many referred to as foresight. In Findekáno it was like a quickening.

 

Makalaurë, who was now standing, kicked Maitimo in the shin, “Does a brother not deserve an equally enthusiastic hello?”

 

Maitimo turned his attention to Makalaurë. “Of course!” Maitimo answered, picking Makalaurë up in a tight embrace, making to spin him around.

 

“Enough!” Makalaurë shouted, afraid that his brother would most certainly spin him around the small space and inadvertently hurt a nearby elf.

 

Maitimo set his brother down. “I would have tackled you Cáno, but when I came you were under one of your song spells.”

 

Makalaurë shook his head. He truly was not jealous of his brother’s greeting of Findekáno. Of course Maitimo would be surprised to find Findekáno so changed.

 

Findekáno spied a maiden standing next to him, watching him curiously.

 

“I’m a boor,” Maitimo declared, “Airosseldë let me introduce you to my cousin Findekáno, Nolofinwë’s eldest. Findekáno this is Airosseldë, daughter of Astarno.” Findekáno drew a blank look. Maitimo reminded him, “Astarno, one of my father’s liegemen? You met him when you visited us in Formenos.” Findekáno had no memory of Astarno. Strange, for Findekáno always remembered a face.

 

Airosseldë curtsied. She’d only seen Findekáno on the few occasions she’d visited Tirion and the few times she happened to travel to Formenos and coincided with Findekáno, but she spent most her time out of Tirion. Her family resided in a village that stood half way between Tirion and Formenos.

 

Findekáno greeted Airosseldë, placing his hand over his heart, “Well met Lady Airosseldë. But all formalities aside, are you here with my cousin?” Findekáno hoped he wasn’t being too obvious, but his heart dropped when it became apparent that Airosseldë had traveled with Maitimo to Alqualondë.

 

“I am Lord Findekáno,” Airosseldë answered, prompting Findekáno to remind her, “Please, Findekáno.”  Airosseldë blushed, acknowledging Findekáno’s words with a nod of her head. “Nelyafinwë graciously offered me to companion him to Alqualondë.”

 

Makalaurë interrupted, “Welcome Airosseldë,” he added a bit too cheery for Findekáno’s liking. “Though our paths did not cross as often as I like, I am glad you have accompanied my brother.” Makalaurë was also curious, but for different reasons. “Did you travel with my brother from Formenos?”

 

It was Maitimo’s turn to interrupt, “-From the village. After spending a few weeks in Formenos, Astarno suggested Airosseldë accompany me to Alqualondë. After all,” Maitimo continued, looking at Airosseldë and offering her a warm smile, “she had not seen the sea in quite some time and I was certain to enjoy her company.”

 

“I am glad for it,” Airosseldë added, more enthusiastically than Findekáno cared for. Maitimo took Airosseldë by the arm, turning to the rest of the group that politely watched. “I am afraid we have also been rude in letting you all gawk at us while we chatter away. May I say I am pleased to make your acquaintance thought I would like very much to know a name.”

 

“Forgive me friends for not introducing my brother and his friend,” Makalaurë added, “but now all of you know who he is so please spare him your name or I will never hear the end of it for being a poor host.”  The group laughed and were soon introducing themselves.

 

Findekáno moved to stand at the edge of the circle, no longer smiling, his arms crossed in front of him in displeasure. A million questions rushed through his mind. Was Maitimo courting the maiden? How come he had heard nothing of it? Surely, if they were courting Makalaurë would have known.

 

Maitimo sidled up to Findekáno. “Why are you pouting?”

 

Findekáno’s bit his lip. “Habit,” he responded.

 

Maitimo’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “I dare say cousin that you pout to show off your full lips, let the maidens dream of kissing your lips puckering as their eyes close to feel your lips upon theirs.”

 

Findekáno’s eyes widened in a look of utter terror. “I do no such he thing!” he retorted.

 

Maitimo couldn’t contain himself, doubling over laughing. Findekáno turned to study Maitimo. “I find that you are changed, my normally reserved Nelyo.” Findekáno remarked, his eyes studying Maitimo’s quivering lips. While Maitimo was not reserved, he was not usually as boisterous and mischievous as he was behaving on that dusky, silvered evening.

 

Maitimo sighed, collecting his wits, turning to study Findekáno more intently. “I am surprised myself. Maybe it was the joy of seeing you that has moved me so. You are a vision with gems and sand caught up in your hair,” Maitimo replied more earnestly.

 

Findekáno let himself smile, unconsciously reaching out to touch Maitimo’s hand. Findekáno’s fingertips brushed Maitimo’s hand, which felt like he was kindling fire with his touch. Findekáno quickly withdrew his hand. Maitimo’s eyes reflected the smallest surprise. Findekáno chided himself for forgetting himself. “Gems in my hair?” Findekáno remembered, his hands searching his hair and finding the gems caught in his thick raven locks.

 

“No leave it,” Maitimo supplicated, drawing Findekáno’s hand back with his own. Maitimo did not release Findekáno’s hand immediately. “It is becoming,” Maitimo added, his voice soft with intimacy.

 

Findekáno found he was mute. Was Maitimo being flirtatious?

 

“You are training regularly with a real sword,” Maitimo observed, passing over Findekáno’s callouses with his thumb.

 

Findekáno stuttered, Maitimo was undoing him with his touch. “I, I, yes, the sword and the bow.” If this was not flirtation then he must be the densest elf in all of Arda, Findekáno’s thoughts burned within.

 

Without dropping Findekáno’s hand, Maitimo looked back up to Findekáno, catching his eyes, “Of course, archery.” Maitimo’s voice dropped to a whisper, “I will have to test your skills with a sword.”

 

Findekáno gathered himself, “I look forward to that,” he answered, relishing the feel of Maitimo’s hand continuing to explore his hand with his thumb, tracing over the contours of Findekáno’s hand. No Findekáno was not dense.

 

Maitimo gifted Findekáno a small personal smile, “How have you been?”

 

Findekáno squeezed Maitimo’s hand answering, “I’ve missed you.”

 

)()()()(

 

“And that was the night I witnessed the love blossom between Nelyafinwë and Findekáno…and that was the night I fell in love with your father,” Airosseldë whispered as the waves crashed on the empty shore. Jewels sparkled with the light of the sun, but they were no longer splendorous. They were cruel reminders of a once promising past that now reflected emptiness.

 

Two maidens watched the waves retreat and return, the sand shifting beneath their bare feet.

 

“Do you think he’s out there nana, out there on the other side?”

 

The elder maiden held her hands up to her eyes shading the sun trying to look over to the other shores, the Outer Lands, the Lands that called and pulled her love away. No, it was the oath she reminded herself, not the place. Though try as hard as she could she could only see the vast ocean before her. This journey to the sea was a ritual of hers, that became a ritual of her daughter’s; and so the two would journey to this particular beach on the anniversary Airosseldë found herself falling for Makalaurë on that special night so long ago. Though she had traveled to Alqualondë with Maitimo that fateful night, she was not a fool to set her eyes and heart upon Fëanáro’s eldest who was notoriously miserly with his love. Not miserly, Airosseldë, reminded herself silently. No Maitimo’s love was imperishable, his heart spoken for since the secret fire breathed Maitimo into existence. “Yes,” she spoke, no hesitation in her voice. “Our love is out there somewhere.” Airosseldë looked out over the waters, feeling the subtle fire that was Makalaurë alive, not dead.

 

“Why has he not returned to us?” Airosseldë and Makalaurë’s eldest inquired. A sob escaped her lips, “Does he not love us enough to return for us?”

 

Airosseldë turned to her daughter, “Oh my love, no, no. Your father, he…” she paused to look across the sea again, “the Doom. It is his mistress and he is the last of the sons to bear it.” The two fell silent. Both mother and daughter contemplated their love for Makalaurë--a husband, a father, a brother-- and remembered their joys. But that was before the Doom. The Noldor that remained in Aman marked the period after that as the Post-Exile. While the remaining Noldor endeavored towards remembrance their other kin insisted upon banishing the Exiles from the from the memories of Elvenhome. The Post-Exiles found joys, but the news across the sundering seas only deepened their griefs. The exiled Noldor fell like falling stars across the night sky exploding with a brilliance of light and then fading, fading into nothingness. Except for their Makalaurë, he endured and so did they, never missing that anniversary; always traveling to the oceanside to remember, yes remember!

 

“Do you think Findekáno and Maitimo have found each other in the Halls of the Dead? Do you believe that Mandos will release them?”

 

Airosseldë turned to face her daughter, her thoughts returning to that silvery evening long ago by the oceanside. “I know not my love, though I can say that the Valar are indeed cruel if that love is not allowed to be reborn.”

 

Airosseldë’s daughter spoke, her face a blank canvas, the post-exilic façade, “The Valar are cruel. Yet as much as I want to cross the ocean and go to him, I know it is he who must come to us.”

 

Airosseldë kissed her daughter’s hand. Together they turned their back on the ocean and made their way across the sandy beach, towards the path where a carriage awaited them to take them back to Tirion until they returned again to wait for their beloved to return. But as they made their way across the sand a voice from memory resounded around them, reminding them all was not lost.

 

“Oh Aman, we're going to Aman,

The angel Oromë is coming from the skies to your soul

He's going to ask you, ‘Did you pray?’

He's going to ask you, ‘Did you fast?’

He is coming to your soul” [1]

 

“A man, I am only a man,

We ran, we forgot and ran

 

No angel is coming from the skies to my soul

No angel’s coming from the skies to make you whole

 

I’m going to ask you, ‘Did you stray?’

But he will ask you, “Did you make way?”

 

But he will ask you, “Did you reject your past?”

I’m going to ask you, ‘Did you repent at last?’

 

No one is coming to your soul

No one is going to make you whole”

 

 

)()()()()(

---

Chapter End Notes

 

 

[1] Hiraeth: “The Welsh word hiraeth has no equivalent in English. It often translates as ‘homesickness,’ but the actual concept is far more complex. It incorporates an aspect of impossibility: the pining for a home, a person, a figure, even a national history that may never have actually existed. To feel hiraeth is to experience a deep sense of incompleteness tinged with longing. The only living language with an exact equivalent is Portuguese, through the term saudade, which refers to an impossible longing for the unattainable. Other languages, however, hold terms that come close in meaning: dor in Romanian, Wehmut in German, kaiho in Finnish. In some cases, the term refers to issues of national history and identity. In Wales, for example, hiraeth is tied to the national loss of self-determination in 1282. In Portugal, saudade emanates from the Age of Discovery, when Portuguese explorers set sail for the east and west, many never to return. Sometimes these sentiments are yoked to scientific discovery and the disorientations of modernity. In her book, Brilliant: The Evolution of Artificial Light, Jane Brox notes that each technological step forward in erasing night’s darkness has carried a price—personal isolation, disruption of animals’ nocturnal rhythms, and other responses that have caused people to feel both gain and loss at the same time…a form of global hiraeth.” (from www. smith. edu /kahninstitute/ shortterm_projects_hiraeth. php)

 

There are songs famous that describe this longing, this sense of forlorn nostalgia, which I know through the Portuguese form, saudade. Though, I think the Welsh word here is more in keeping with Tolkien’s vision for elvish languages, in this case Quenya. Of all the peoples of Middle Earth, I think the elves would have many forms of hiraeth, saudade, as a long-lived people, and the Noldor…forget about it!!!

 

 

*ópasimpa- literally mouth pipe/flute, a type of harmonica. Of course, why wouldn’t the elves have these and guitars, and other string and brass instruments.

 

[2] The first verse is actual lyrics from the song Tajabone by Senegalese musician Ismaël Lo. Tajabone is festival/celebrations that is part of Tamkharit, the Muslim commemoration of the Day of Ashura in Senegal. On this day, the Day of Ashura, Sunni Muslims celebrate the liberation of children in Egypt from Pharaoh’s oppressive rule. During the celebration of Tajabone in Senegal, women dress as men and women as men.

 

Wish I knew more about the origins, meaning, nevertheless these are the English translation of the lyrics (the other versus are my own):

 

“tajabone we're going to tajabone,

abdou jabar he's an angel coming from the skies to your soul,

he's going to ask you did you pray,

he's going to ask you did you fast,

he is coming to your soul,

he's going to ask you did you pray did you fast.”

 

I chose to use the term angel rather than ainu as it flowed better.

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*There are many great fanfic stories/authors who have portrayed the “declaration/discovery” of love between Fingon and Maedhros. I think there are tropes that have developed within the fandom. At least that I have come across. In this case I use one of them: that Maedhros and Fingon declare or allow their love for one another to blossom just before or after Fingon’s coming of age. Oshun’s Maitimo and Findekáno is one of these, and one of the best in my mind.