Emotions-- A series of vignettes by MisbehavingMaiar

Hiraeth (Forge Songs)

The Zigur rises in power, but disguises are wearying; songs have power to heal or reopen wounds, reminders of all that is lost forever. 

(This is still one of my favorite drabbles) 

The amount of time Men spent eating, drinking, sleeping, defecating, and fornicating was incredible. Their lives were pieced together by a thousand rituals, broken up by shifts of the sun and moon, constantly interrupted by bodily necessities and desires. That they managed to get anything done in their short lives was a miracle.  

Everywhere was the reek of impermanence; they feared change and they also feared stagnation. They built to be remembered, because they themselves would not last. Even the long, slow lives of the Dunedain were suffused with subtle panic. Every vase of flowers painted contained a wilting leaf, on every bowl of fruit, a fly. 

The rhythms of mortal life he could not adjust to, even when he willed himself to inhabit his human body fully, up to the last fiber. He tried to make his experiences as authentic as possible, so as not to shock his followers into remembering what he truly was (except when it suited his purposes).

There were certain aspects he greatly enjoyed: the strange tactility of pain and pleasure; the uncontrollable dictates of mood and fleshy function; the allure of mystery caused by incomplete senses; and the novelty of sleeping (though sometimes inconvenient) was acutely satisfying.
But the pace—! The pace was exhausting. 

When he found the frantic skittering of humanity too much to bear, he would lock himself in his forge and let his body remember itself for what it was. He would focus on his work in his usual mode, and emerge to find concerned faces surrounding him.
“You were gone for weeks, Zigur! The smoke from the chimney never ceased, and yet you never called down for food. We did not know what to think.” 

This he would wave off and explain away as a priest’s ascetic practices, or with private stores of rations.  But he would be careful afterwards, to reinforce his mannishness to his following. And this charade tired him anew. 

At times he would be called upon to sing for the pleasure of Ar-Pharazon and his court— for the king still enjoyed the thought of making his captive sorcerer perform at his bidding (though his power as Zigur grew, this practice fell away). 

He would sing songs in ancient Mannish tongues, some of his own invention, and these were greatly admired by the court. However, the queen, claiming dissatisfaction with a hint of mischief on her lips, demanded a different song— one in Quenya, she said, or if he dared, in the speech of the Valar. 

He would have refused this self-proclaimed blasphemy, except for the challenge in her eyes, and for the strange burning tug in his breast (his breast that felt things so differently now that it contained a beating heart). 

So he sang the oldest song he knew; and all around him, hairs stood on end and eyes grew wide. It was his forge-song, that he had first been taught to sing over Aulë’s anvil; the song that kept the hammer pace steady and even, and imbued the work of the smith with his will. This song had never been sung before by human mouth, and he found the syllables difficult to maintain. 
He felt the buzz and hum of the primordial sounds shake his frame and suddenly every inch of him longed to be free of flesh. He felt a pull on his heart so strong and so sharp that tears came to his eyes and spilled over hotly upon his dark cheek— for the pull came from his very center, and it led to nowhere he could return to. 

Nothing was uttered after his performance. Slowly, he put a long sleeve to his eyes, once, twice, and raised his head with dignity.  “Does that satisfy you, my queen?” 

"It does." She lowered her lashes, content with his humiliation. 

That night he locked his body away and flew, disembodied, to the highest spire of the city (for the rooftop of the Temple of Freedom had not yet been completed). There he orbited, staring upwards into the night sky, and sang with the voice of an Ainu, sending his music into the darkness beyond the stars. 

Chapter End Notes

Hiraeth: Homesickness for a home you cannot return to.