Elemental by Ysilme

Sea

He was woken by the cries of gulls. Some mornings, it was gulls; some mornings, just the sea. He lay still, eyes closed, listening. Waves were rolling up the beach, gently moving the pebbles with a soft, swishing, sound. A familiar sound, like - music? He was not sure. He remembered music - but there was also so much he had forgotten, and sometimes, he could not tell if he remembered correctly. The waves evoked another memory, of somebody floating in the water, long hair streaming behind, unfathomable eyes the colour of the sea. Sounds, like the swishing pebbles, the waves, the wind. A voice, barely distinguishable from the sound of water, joining him in song. A voice he had known since he was small. He remembered listening to it on another beach and, later, on The Day of The Blood. But that memory would not come.

He opened his eyes, following the gull sailing across above him. It was early still, the sun sending her first rays over the horizon, and the air was fresh and cool. The sky was painted in colours both soft and so beautiful that it hurt, but he thought it was a good kind of pain, a pain that kindled something in him, some urge. But he could not remember what this was either. With a sigh, he sat up, wondering distinctly why he did not remember so many things. At least, by now, he did remember some.

Before, there had been just a grey fog. By and by, he became aware that there was fog, and then the fog went away, gradually, returning memories to him. Memories and sensations. Hunger, thirst, tiredness, cold, warmth. His sense of self, of being a person. The passing of time, day and night. He slept when it was dark, and walked when the day came, found water to drink and food to eat. Not much food, though; he found he could not bear to eat anything that had lived, and there was not much else. Moss, seeds, a few berries or mushrooms, but mostly seaweed and bark. He remembered roots and broke himself a stick to dig for them. He found and egg and ate it, but then he remembered that they were alive as well, and was sick.

He wondered why he would not eat living things, and then another memory came. Maglor. He was Maglor. He had not thought about his name, or any other, not since Before. It had not been important. Remembering who he was brought more memories, of pain and blood and guilt, and for a while, he went back into the fog because he could not bear it.

oOo

A sharp pain brought him back to the present. The gull was sitting at his feet, staring at him with a tilted head. When their eyes met, it jabbed at his foot, and Maglor jumped up with a curse. There was some blood at his toe, but it did not frighten him now, and while the gull took off with a loud complaint, he walked into the water to wash it away.

Then, on an almost forgotten impulse, he washed his face and hands, and, following the sudden urge to get clean all over, went in deeper until he could fully submerge. Only then did he realise that he should have taken off his clothing first, but it did not matter; anything would be an improvement to his current state. His clothes were mere rags, so bleached and torn that their original shape and colour had become indistinguishable. Peeling them off, he knelt in the surf, scrubbing the cloth with handfuls of sand, and then also used sand on his body until he felt raw, but clean. He tugged at his hair. It had grown out nearly to his knees, and was so knotted that the water had not even penetrated it fully. Twigs and small bits of whatever were stuck in it, and he bent over, repeating the sand and water procedure with his hair until it felt somewhat better. It would need to be cut off, though. He sighed.

After spreading his clothes on the sand to dry, Maglor went back into the surf. First he stood, watching how the slow rhythm of the advancing and receding waves washed away the sand around his feet. Then he sat down, and lay back, letting the water wash around and over him, until his breathing became one with the rhythm of the waves. He squinted up into the bright sunshine, watching the flight of the gulls above. A deep sense of peace came over him.

Life. This was life.

Later, he started off along the beach. He remembered now that he had done that every day since the fog on his memory had started to lift. Walking, watching, observing the sea and the sky, which were forever changing and yet somehow always the same. Finding food when hunger pained him, resting when he grew tired. Waiting for more memories to turn up. Waiting for familiar places to appear, although he had no knowledge where he was, and if there even still existed any places familiar to him. Maybe everything was gone under the sea. He remembered that, now, too, the great cataclysm when everything he knew was lost. He waited for things to start making sense again, for the fragments to come together, but so much still eluded him.

But he remembered the sound of the pebbles, swishing in the waves, from Before. A song rose inside him, strong and sad and beautiful. He sang.

oOoOo

Chapter End Notes

Written for the B2MeM 2017 prompt: Gameboard, Green Path, 8: “Each night when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn.” Mahatma Gandhi

Sky

Each morning, Maglor started off along the beach, following the ebb and flow of the waves. Every day he walked until he grew tired and needed a rest. Then he sat, watching the sea and the sky, and then he walked again.

The sun had gone once through the seasons since the days of the fog, and more memories had come back every day. Good memories, sometimes, but mostly, bad ones. Memories of pain, of fire and fury and of desperation and loss, and of the black, black, nothingness which he had finally given in to. He still did not know why and how the black nothingness had started to change into the fog, and then, into clarity. Or how long the process had taken - it must have been a long time, though, if the length of his hair and the gauntness of his body were any measure. He did not even know if it had been a one-time process, or if he had gone through it more than once. His memory of this period was not linear, and it also had different textures, for lack of a better world: sometimes, the memories were those of a clear mind, and sometimes, they were just a jumble of colours and sensations.

He also still had things eluding him, things he knew he should remember, but could not. Maybe his mind had suffered in the process, or maybe it was just keeping some things hidden to protect him from going mad? He remembered how it has been with Maedhros, after his rescue, and how jumbled his brother’s mind had been at the beginning. Maybe it was better not to know more. So he kept walking without knowing the reason why, and chose not to wonder about how things changed, but just followed along.

He was grateful, though: it was better to be, and to be aware, than to just fade away into nothingness. There were no Halls of Mandos for him, the kinslayer -for that, he remembered very clearly. No rebirth in the Undying Lands, no reunion with his loved ones. He did not know what lay before him, and could not hope for much. But he had the sea and the sky, he had the seasons and the elements, and he had song.

Song. Music. Music, which had always been part of his mind, part of who he was, even at the time when he had forgotten about everything, even himself. Music, which was everywhere, in every thing and being, all around him. The song of the sea, the rush of the wind. The cry of the gulls with their shrill, harsh, harmonies, weaving a beauty of its own.

The sky was changing its colour, and Maglor felt his weariness. He had walked all day, but not eaten; he often forgot to look for food when he was lost in his musings. The beach had not much to offer him, but he found some seaweed in the surf. It was edible, if unpleasant in texture and taste, and he chewed on the leathery substance to calm his hunger and feel a bit stronger. Going inland to find food seemed too much of a bother, though, so he decided to stay here and spend the night.

There was a low outcrop of rock, half-way down the beach, with a spot of warm, dry, sand against a low rocky bend which kept the wind out. The tide had created a small pool in a hollow, where a pretty, pink thing sat on a rock, slowly waving thick strands about. Or were they arms? Maglor was not sure, he did not remember what this was. Perhaps even a new creature, come into being when the lands shifted and the part he had known sank below the waves, while others rose to the surface. Whatever it was, it was beautiful, and he laid down on his belly to get a closer look.

Now he also noticed other creatures: some small cockles, a few barnacles here and there, a bit of seaweed clinging to a spur, and a tiny crab moving over a small patch of sand on the ground. It was like a little miniature world under water, Maglor thought and let his hand glide into the water. It was surprisingly warm. Gently, he touched the orange-pink, flower-like thing. It was not a flower or a plant, though, as it now moved its petals - no, that would be arms, he supposed - towards his finger and clung around it, for a lack of better explanation.

He smiled. This was probably something very ordinary, but for him, it was special. For a moment, he felt again like a child discovering something new and exciting.
His curiosity sated, Maglor turned onto his back, and gasped. Focused on the underwater world in the rock pool, he had missed the changing of the colours in the sky, which by now had taken on a riot of colours so intense he needed to close his eyes for a moment. Sitting up, he drew his knees up to his chest, as if to anchor himself to the ground, allowing his fëa to soar up and dance with the gulls.

Something wet touched his lips, and Maglor realised that it was tears, running down his face. He touched his cheek, puzzled for a moment until he remembered, and then wondered why he was crying. Then he understood.

Nobody was there to share the joy about the beauty of the sky, or the wonder of the pink sea-flower-animal. Nobody to share the feel of the wind and the rhythm of the sea. Nobody to listen to his songs, for singing them out to the sea and sky was no longer enough. Nobody to talk to. His heart ached at this realisation.

People. He missed people. Funny that this should happen now, Maglor thought. During his wanderings, he had sometimes spotted people in the distance, or seen or heard signs of their presence. Without conscious thought he had always avoided them. With a sigh, he unfolded his legs and dug his hands into the sand, watching how the grains trickled back down. What now?

I want to go back.

But could he even go back? Where should he go? He knew nothing about the lay of this new land, nor about its masters, did not know about settlements and borders and the peoples inhabiting it. Maybe he would be killed on sight when he was recognised as a kinslayer?

At least then I would have tried.

And even if they did not kill him, why would they not just chase away a dismal stranger who came to beg for alms? Those who dwelled here along the coast would most likely still struggle to survive after the cataclysm, and have nothing to offer for free. But he had nothing to give. All he had ever been was a warrior and a minstrel. He would never touch arms again, though, and he doubted that what songs he had to offer would be considered suitable payment. He had no gay songs for dancing, nor ballads and poems for entertainment; all he had were the sad and bitter songs that told of pain, and loss, and loneliness.

No. He was thinking too far ahead. He did not need to live among people to ease his loneliness. Somebody to talk to would be enough for a start. He just needed to stop avoiding the wanderers he occasionally saw, and find out if they would talk to him. He could learn about the peoples and the land, and go from there.

The sky had grown darker, with the bright colours fading away into the velvety blue of the night. Maglor yawned and crawled a few yards towards the outcrop, where the sand had piled up. He found a comfortable spot and laid down, looking up and watching the stars come out one by one. This never failed to comfort him, although for a long time, he had not known why. As beautiful as the sun was with all the colours it would draw onto the sky, there was more beauty still in the deep majesty of the nighttime sky, and he remembered with fondness those who had shared this view with him before. Elrond had been the last, had he not?

Maglor stilled. How could he have forgotten Elrond? His son - no, he must not think of Elrond in this way; he had only ever been the guardian of the twins, and had certainly forfeited any right to regard Elrond as more. But the child who had warmed his heart and had brought him - no, not peace, but contentment -; the one he had fought over so often with his brother, so the child could pursue his own passions, the young man who had meant the world to Maglor - where might he be now? What had become of him? Had he been able to follow his dream of becoming a healer? Or had he been forced into war and strife, like they all had been?

He could find out. He could ask about him when he met people. He could find Elrond.

Yes, he would look for Elrond, and find out how his life was going. And then - well, he would just see.

o-o-o-o-o

Chapter End Notes

Written for the B2MeM 2017 prompt: Gameboard, Green Path, 6: “Darkness falling”

You might be wondering why Maglor is calling himself Maglor at this point in his life. In my mind, at the beginning of the story, he is already subconsciously aware about the changes he underwent, and of being on the path to leave everything behind and start into a new life as a new person. Keeping to the Sindarin version of his name is a sign of that awareness.