Those Who Remain by Tyelca

Chapter 1

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Upon entering the theater, Maglor opened his bag and presented the ticket he’d bought, and the lady allowed him entrance and bid him a fine evening. The foyer was packed and people were chatting excitedly. The show he was about to view had premiered only recently - he had read the book on which it was based, of course, when it first came out. During the French Revolution, Sir Percy hides behind his lazy and extravagant lifestyle, while saving French nobility from the guillotine and leaving only a scarlet pimpernel as a calling card to the enraged Frenchmen. Maglor had been present during the French revolution; somehow, he always seemed to be drawn to the places where death flourished. There had not been a Sir Percy to save the aristocracy from execution, but some of the nobles had managed to flee their land nonetheless.

He knew he was the last of the Eldar in this Age of Men left in Middle-Earth, or simply Earth, as the humans now called it. Even the most reluctant of the Silvan Elves had eventually heeded the call of the Sea and headed West over the Straight Road. The Dwarves had gone underground; whether that was literal or metaphorical, Maglor didn’t know. Even the Orcs had disappeared; but if they were extinct or had learned the art of disguise, he did not care to find out.

He had seen much death and even more decay, and he was aware it was stubborn pride that held him here and prevented him from taking a ship - a well-equipped yacht, for example - into the West; he knew the Straight Road would open for him. Now and then one of the Ainur appeared and ordered him to take come home, but Maglor always refused. So it was pride, and an unnamed interest in the ever-growing collection of human innovativeness kept him here. Especially theater and musical performances, in all their forms, held his interest.

He did not play anymore; there was none suitable to hear it. Yet in his head, he wrote symphonies and listened appreciatively, penned plays where he played every character and sung on empty stages.

A human drew him out of these thoughts with a question, and soon Maglor was involved in polite smalltalk. He enjoyed speculating about the musical he was about to see with other enthusiasts, discussing published reviews as well as their own expectations. He spoke in the most common tongue of Men, which was somewhat similar to what the Westron had been like and was now called English; it had been millenia since he’d conversed in the ancient tongues of the Eldar. When the bell signaled the show was about to start, the man asked his name, so that they may continue their conversation at another time. He introduced himself as Maglor Fénorsson; people assumed he came from Scandinavia and he didn’t correct them. His true name was too exotic and raised questions he had no mind to answer. This was easier all around.

He sought his seat and sank down in the red plush; the view of the stage was moderate, for Maglor did not believe in buying the most expensive tickets when his Eldarin vision showed him every detail.

The curtains opened and the show began, and Maglor was entertained by the melodies, costumes, and acting. It was halfway the first act, as the true story had just begun, when the main character, Sir Percy, burst into song. His vocal range was impressive, but that was not what rattled Maglor to the bone; for the lyrics, for all that they were in English instead of Quenya, somehow reflected both his father’s philosophy that he’d imparted onto all seven of them, and all their struggles in the First Age perfectly. It was like he could hear Fëanáro’s voice, encouraging them to pursue their dreams and to let nothing stand in their way. Look where that had gotten them. Maglor got teary-eyed; never before had mortal music affected him like this and as he subtly wiped his eyes, he vowed it wouldn’t again. But he remembered the song, stored it safely in his mind, and when he was alone he softly hummed the melody and now and then sung the chorus under his breath.

Sometimes he muttered the lyrics and sometimes he didn’t even think about the song. Other times he tried to ignore the music that ever played in his head, but did not always succeed. He lived his life in the mortal world, the one that was round and that continuously came up with new inventions, rebelling against their past and always trying to improve their future. Maglor liked that about them; their lives were too short and their passions too flighty to commit to the foolhardy stubbornness of the Noldor, and, in Maglor’s opinion, the Sindar, Teleri and Vanyar as well. Only the Silvan had possessed a sliver of common sense, but even they had long since succumbed to the madness of the Valar.

Maglor was relatively certain that the Dagor Dagorath would not begin without him, and since he had no intention of seeing this marvelous world go down, the Last Battle would have to wait. Maglor was in no rush to see this Age die as well.

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Chapter End Notes

Listen to the song! It can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xSwSGgkQZUE