Songs of Beleriand by hennethgalad

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Chapter 1

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Songs of Beleriand 

 

 

 

Elrond looked out over the moonlit Pelennor, his hands white at the knuckles as he gripped the marble rail of the balcony. The destruction of the vast battlefield was hidden in the shadow, though the broken towers of the seige engines caught in the cool light of the Moon stood stark as bones. But by day, the hands of Yavanna were busy, seizing each ridge and ditch, covering each weapon, burying the dead in leafy shrouds before the living could reach them. It had been a long and thankless task, but as the folk of Gondor returned to their homes, those with homes to return to took in those without, and the life of the land returned. 

 Elrond smiled at himself; it was not easy to stop, when all your life, it seemed, everyone had turned to you with questioning eyes. But no more. Aragorn would be dealing with those eyes henceforth; for like Mithrandir, he thought, his work was done. He forced his sinews to loosen, and lifted his eyes to the horizon, where the stark silhouettes of the Ephel Duath bit like teeth into the starlit sky. The fires of Amon Amarth had subsided, the last reports spoke only of deadly smoke which flowed like thick slime down the ash heaps and broken rocks.

 He spun around suddenly, seized his goblet and drained it in one long draught, feeling the fiery mead burn its way down his throat. The women brewed it in secret, when a wedding date was set. Each recipe was different, it was a field of research in its own right, and he had read several fascinating papers on the custom. He considered the taste, and the nature of his daughter, and wondered what she had chosen to blend. The mead was strong, there was miruvor, and apple brandy, and the hints of spices; a subtle, fiery brew which had something of the invigorating power of a healing tonic. 

 

He sighed, and turned to the casket, whose enchantment had been filling his senses like a bright light since the guards had brought it to him. It was his gift for the child that his daughter had foreseen, and it had once been his own. 

 He breathed slowly, then laid his long fingers across the driftwood lid, and concentrated. The key was a motion, a gesture, almost a dance, and he thought for a while, of the joy of receiving the casket, and of the hours he had spent, moving his dimpled fingers carefully over the smooth white wood, until the glow had flickered from silver to gold, and the lid had finally opened. 

 With the faintest bow, he moved his hands, and felt his mouth twitch as he suppressed a smile of satisfaction. The casket clicked open, and in the golden light, Elrond reached in and lifted out the precious volume, one of only two known to have survived the First Age, his own personal copy of the children's book 'Songs of Beleriand', with skilfully-replicated great works of art to illustate it. He held the precious book with the tenderness he had shown his own children, and his dear wife. His throat closed, the grief fell on him like a weight of darkness made solid. She should be here, dancing with her guests, this should have been her night of joy, seeing her daughter wed to the love of her heart. He closed his eyes, seeing again the magical way the sun had shone on her, catching the gold in her flowing hair, the shining blue in her eyes and the gleam of her pale lips, parting as she began to smile. He whimpered, and whispered her name, almost singing it, as hollow as a withered old Ent. 

 He took a deep, sighing breath, and turned again to the book, remembering the many hours spent reading to the twins, and Elladan, whose hero worship of Finrod was more intense than any of the members of a family to whom Finrod had the status, almost, of a Maia... And Elrond would feign to sigh, and say 'Dear oh dear, not Finrod again.' and try not to hurry as he turned the ancient pages to the lovely painting of his own childhood hero. 

 The song was Finrod, facing Sauron, and in the picture the slim, golden Elf stood proudly before the louring Shadow, like the light of home to a lost child. Each generation had reached out with small fingers to touch the gleaming painting, and each time had been gently held back. The book was too precious for the hands of careless children, and so they listened with increased awe to the stories of Orcs and Balrogs, and dreamed of having the valour of Finrod, to lay aside life and land, crown and throne, for the good of his friend. 

 

 The cover was all flashing gold and red, against a black background; Turin slaying Glaurung. The dragon reared in agony, its claws ripping through empty air, its scales spattered with bright red blood, the terrible fang-like teeth gleaming white, sharp as daggers. Silhouetted against the monster, the tiny, frail figure of the Mortal, Turin, scrambling up over the rocks, sword in hand, watching the dragon convulse, deafened and in awe. Elrond smiled, he could still almost hear the sound, he had asked, even then, if the sound could be fixed in the book, as the chest was enchanted, to preserve the contents from the slow, grinding teeth of time. But, alas, not only were the sounds beyond the skills of the Eldar to fix, these particular sounds had no living witnesses, both the dragon and Turin having perished there. Yet still, when he saw the fury in the eye of Glaurung, the rage that despite all his might and power, an insignificant Mortal should be able to deal him a deadly stroke... Elrond had wondered, increasingly as he grew older, whether it were not the injury to the pride of Glaurung that had burst that great iron heart, rather than the small wound inflicted on him by the hand of Turin. 

 

 The first story was of Thingol and Melian, but Maglor had left the room in tears after trying to sing them the first verse. Their nurse had told them, with a strange look in her eyes, that Maglor and his brothers had been naughty, and were never allowed to meet the King and the Maia who had wed him. But Elros had looked closely at the painting, for the original, it was said, had hung on the wall at Menegroth, and was a site, almost, of pilgramage. Their great-great grandfather had the same nose and chin as them, they had rubbed their noses thoughtfully, looked with envy on his sheet of silvery hair, and resolved to work harder at their sword exercises. To marry a Maia ! It was beyond belief, but there was grea-great grandfather Thingol, actually holding her hand. Elros, whose precocious vigour had led him into many scrapes, decided that the Maia he would wed would not be a pale creature of the shadow and the nightingale like Melian; he would have a laughing follower of Nessa, with eyes that sparkled in the sun, and hair that swirled around her flashing smile as she danced. Elrond could almost see the pictures his brother would conjure for him. 

 

 He filled his goblet again and sipped, watching the light through the arches of the windows, shaped in moonlight, move slowly across the wall. The music filled the city, the air glowed from the thousands of lanterns, candles and torches. By day Gondor looked to have been planted in a flowerbed, to have become a rockery. There were not just garlands, decorating the gables and doorways, there were whole houses, covered in flowers, ropes and chains of garland hung across each street, until the scent of many flowers filled the air like honey, and the light, enriched by the myriad gleaming petals, shone golden and apricot and rose-pink in the shining white streets of Gondor.

 

He sighed, and turned the pages, there was Beleg, celebrating the news that Thingol had approved his promotion to scout, singing to his family at the feast of Renewal of Arien, clad in the rich colours and heavy cloth of winter in the cold vastness of Menegroth. Elrond smiled at the words of the song, for the chief delight of the smiling Beleg was that his privilege as a scout would be the right to bathe in the hot spring that warmed the underground lake in the lowest cavern of Menegroth. It was the favourite place of all, and had become so crowded that times had been set aside, and allocated, and order had been restored. But the scouts, long in the wild, returning at strange hours, and vanishing into the night, could spend all their resting hours, floating at ease is the steaming salt water, feeling the warmth melting even the deep cold of the long icy nights at watch. He smiled ruefully, if there were hot springs on this side of the Ered Luin, not even the Dwarves had found them. Of course, Mithrandir would say that the springs, like Amon Amarth, were wounds in the flesh of Arda, but the dream of floating, warm and happy, in a great cavern, filled with light and song... He smiled at the shining eyes of Beleg, and raised his goblet and drank to the hero who had rescued Turin. 

 

 There were fireworks outside. Elrond turned to the window, then stepped out onto the balcony. People would ask him about the fireworks, Bilbo would be deeply hurt to hear that he had not watched, for Bilbo had longed to attend the wedding, and had scurried away, hobbling pitifully, to weep alone. Of course Mithrandir had something personal to add to this display, Elrond expected some small hint of the great shout of triumph that must be welling up inside the laughing Maia. He smiled, he could not begrudge Mithrandir, who had been trudging the length and breadth of wilderland for thousands of years, while he himself had been sitting as comfortably as Bilbo, warming his toes in the Hall of Fire. 

 Mithrandir had found the Enemy's supplies of blasting powder, meant for weaponry, but put to better use by the skills of the Maia. The sky was alive with flaming flowers, like the sound of a storm turned to melody, Elrond found his eyes begin to lose focus, the hypnotic swirls and blooms lulled his senses, he floated in a sea of flowers, blissful and at peace, the sweet scent of the many blooms like wine. Suddenly the sky seemed to burst asunder, Elrond was shaken from his dream as red fists of sound pounded his senses, the very towers of Gondor seemed to tremble under the onslaught. From below rose a sea of hungry yellow flames, roaring up to join the incessant barrage of ear-bursting red. A thick black cloud billowed forth as the din subsided, Elrond swayed back, sensing, knowing, that all in the city would be cringing. But the smoke dissipated with a faint scent of flowers, and from the darkness a white light began to grow in intensity until their eyes were seared with its mark. 

 The silver trumpets of Gondor sounded the King's Arrival, and simultaneously, all over the sky, bright flowers exploded into bloom, and a great deep cheer lifted the heart of Elrond, and tears of relief and pride, mingled with his everlasting grief at the wounds of time, fell from his eyes, and the people of Gondor and their many friends from afar celebrated in their joy.

 

When the display was ended, the sky seemed dark for a while, but the streets were filled with dancing children with small fireworks, and the music fought in vain against the roar of the throng. Elrond turned away, and lit a lantern, and sighed with a smile at his own folly, as the moonlight was veiled by the lanterns warmth. Elros had always compared the two of them to the Sun and the Moon, brushing aside his brother’s wish to be the sun. But now, thought Elrond, where are you now, my Sun ? But Elros had been right, perhaps even worthy, to carry the standard of Arien, for he had always burned with Mortal intensity, in thought and word and deed, his appetite and laughter hearty, his pleasure was in making and doing, in action and activity; not for him the study and the seminar, the long consideration and the even longer book... Elrond laughed at himself and looked up at his companion the Moon, and raised a glass to Tilion, trying to imagine being one of those who had been in Aman, and heard Tilion sing. 

 

 The haunting song 'Nan Elmoth.' was next; it was full of questions, as befitted the strange Eol, who had learned many secrets from Dwarf, Ent and Maia, and who had learned more, much more, himself. But every fact and skill known to Eol had gone with him to his death, and like the generations of the Wise before him, Elrond longed to have met this distant relative, strangest, in his way, of all the Eldar of Beleriand. In the picture he was under a tree, his pale hand resting lightly on the bark. The picture was a masterpiece, and the copy itself so accurate that people said that the original artist would have struggled to distinguish. 

 Of course there were two views of Eol. His kin, those who had escaped the slaughter in Doriath, would angrily denounce the Noldor who slew him for marrying their daughter. But only in anger, for none could deny that Eol had attempted to slay his own son, and that only the valour of his Noldor wife had saved the child. There was no hint of the grief to come in the hooded, thoughtful eyes, watching the White Lady drifting through his forest. His beauty reminded Elrond of Celeborn more than Thingol, but the dark hair and dark lashes that curled out, it seemed, of the very picture, and made you want to touch them... He had always imagined the White Lady seeing Eol, and instead of speaking, lifting her hand to his eye to see if those sooty lashes could really be the gift of Yavanna. 

 Eol, thought Elrond, a little resentfully, both Wise and Beautiful. The Noldor could call him the Dark Elf til the Void consumed them all, but Elrond had always secretly yearned to be called beautiful, or even 'the fair'. But no. Elrond the Wise, as though the fact that he was not even fair did not need stating, but that it must be remembered that he was, at least, Wise... She had left him, the mirror seemed to show him an orc, as the pain of losing her twisted his features grotesquely. But he was Wise...

 

 He laughed bitterly and reached for the flagon. The healing draught was prepared for these moments, and as the mead set his mouth aflame, he sighed again, and as the music reached his ears, or his mind, he began to hum the tune, an absurd song from the sailors of Mithlond, singing now about eating fruit, then about kissing a bride, full of unsubtle pun and humour. He smiled sadly, feeling the warmth of the miruvor soften his mood.

 

 The next page had his heart hasten its steady pounding, and he paused for a moment, recalling the many nightmares. He had been afraid of bats already, they were flying rats, which drank your blood. His fists and teeth clenched, but the cool gold stem of the goblet seemed to draw his mind back to the light. He turned the page and there was Thuringwethil, his nightmare, in bat-fell. Nurse had asked him what it was and she had looked baffled as he had cried "Can you not see her ?" 

 But when he had first seen a Mortal who had lost his nose in battle, he had realised both that Mortals were, well, Mortal, and that it was the nose, or lack of nose, that terrified him about Thuringwethil. He had wondered if it was an echo of his own fear that really, truly, deep-down, he was only a Mortal, and therefore might die, and certainly deserved to be abandoned by the lovely Elf Celebrian, who in a moment of folly had imitated Lúthien... But the Nurse had looked gravely at him, remembering the child in the arms of the soldier, whose nose had been severed by the first slash, and whose head by the second, and the red blood, some fountaining up and spraying its filth across their shrieking faces, and the slower, thicker blood, welling over and pouring across the chainmail and dripping down onto the rigid, screaming child. No nose...

 

He took another draught and felt his shoulders loosen. He turned the page and smiled happily, for there was Lúthien, as beautiful as the morning, shining like her Maia mother, her song almost visible in the dark Hall of Morgoth, her graceful arm lifted in a gesture that had conjured a vision for Morgoth so enthralling that the great dark eyes were fixed, not on the shining figure, but on the phantoms of his fancy. 

 His great-grandmother, he thought, had faced down Morgoth and sung to him. Sung  ! It was beyond belief. It was a white hot pain of humiliation within him that he had had to send a voided hobbit to Mordor. Mithrandir had actually put his hands on Elrond's shoulders to calm his wrath, for how could he face his mighty kin, the great Fingolfin, or Fingon the valiant. And they had sent Glorfindel. It was a torment, like a stone in the shoe, his pride drove him like whips, he had worked himself and all around him until his own sons had ridden away, preferring, it seemed, the Paths of the Dead to the Halls of Imladris, the House of Elrond. 

 He gave an angry shout of protest, and to his horror realised that the music had paused, the fireworks had all been lit, and a moment of quiet had fallen on the city as the singers and breathless dancers wet their throats. His shout echoed out across the courtyard, and a guard burst in.

 "Is all well with you, my lord ?" 

 

 Elrond rose to his feet and tried to smile, but his emotions had become a storm within him. The guard looked at him in concern 

 "Is there aught I can bring you, my lord ? Or, perhaps" the guard looked around the empty room in the high tower, "It might please you, my lord, to join the celebrations, it is the wedding feast of your daughter, my lord..." But Elrond smiled, though he could not speak, and shook his head. The guard bowed slightly and withdrew, but stood staring at the closed door. Two of the patrol found him there after a while, and he told them of the shout, and the glowing casket, and the strange old book. They moved away a little and discussed what to do in urgent whispers. Faramir was found to be drunk, but the captain eventually agreed that someone should alert Aragorn. 

 The king was surprisingly calm; he said he knew the casket and the book, both were harmless, but that he would offer a little comfort to Elrond himself, for after all, it was an important day in the life of any Man or Elf, the marriage of his daughter, and he sent them on their way, smiling at their good wishes and congratulations. 

 

Aragorn was shocked at the face of Elrond. It was as though he had been clenching his fists, and his whole being, for all of his life, until finally, all at once, the straining sinews had broken, and the grief roared within him like the fires of Glaurung. Aragorn hurried across the room and filled the goblet, and held it to Elrond’s mouth. His foster-father, who had taught him almost everything he knew, looked trustingly at him, lost in the storm, and drank deeply. Aragorn frowned, he could see that Elrond needed to cry, but Arwen was waiting... He smiled, this was her father, she would beg him to comfort Elrond, and swiftly, for soon would come the final parting, beyond which nothing, least of all comfort, could be offered. 

 

 Aragorn, once the orphan Estel, now King of Gondor, kin to Galadriel, and to Elrond himself, stepped forward and took Elrond in his arms, and laid on his own shoulder the head of Elrond the Wise, lord of Imladris and heir to the crowns of the Noldor, who wept like a child in his arms. 

 

After a time, when the storm was passed, Elrond wiped his face, and looked at Aragorn.

 "Does... I am recalling Arthedain, I took an arrow, your ancestor healed me with athelas. Just now, while you comforted me, I felt the same, the same lightness of spirit, and I thought, I wondered, do you think that there may be athelas in the mead ?"

 Aragorn laughed merrily "Oh Elrond ! Of course there is athelas in the mead." He frowned for a moment, looking thoughtfully at Elrond, then said calmly "There are many wounded in this city, and there are as many kinds of wound as there are stars in the sky. Be kind to yourself, my lord, let the Mortal blood in you rest, and walk with Irmo among the flowers of Lorien, let your spirit wander there, blythe in idle dream."