'Soiled with blood' by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

 

   The piece was called 'Soiled with blood.' It had been composed by Maglor himself, but was rarely played. Gildis sat alone in the Hall of Fire at Himring, practicing on the standing harp. As her fingers danced across the strings, the music flowed around her like the water of a lively stream, tumbling vigorously down a steep hillside. It was not an especially difficult piece, even for a Mortal, and she wondered why the Elves were so reluctant to play it. 
She focused on her breathing, to keep her thoughts on the music, but the shadows grew, cast by the music itself, woven subtly into the melody, echoing round the hall, filling the corners with darkness, creeping over the floor to lap against the harp, coldly rising at her feet, seeping into her robes, chilling her bones. As the light faded from her eyes, she felt the horror of the piece, almost as an Elf would feel it; as a crack in the structure of Arda, a wound, through which blood spilled, both inwards, marring Eä, and outwards, bleeding the life and beauty from the world.

   She broke off, overwhelmed, and with a shudder tore her mind free from the darkness. The arched windows, high on the walls of the Hall of Fire, were bright with late morning sunlight, narrow smiles of light on the floor mocked her apprehension, she felt as drawn as the strings, still quivering from the great chords of the music. There were layers of meaning in the composition, more than she would ever understand, yet even within her own limited perception, she could see that Maglor had found a chord that resonated with the very structure of the living, of the world itself, and in this piece had examined the manifestations of the chord. The music flickered, and Gildis thought she could almost see the pattern Maglor would sketch, the shape of the flame, the Flame Imperishable, which moved the world. 
   But the blood, she thought, the blood...

   She thought of the grace of the Eldar, who even in drink did not stumble or fall. For Elves, there were no accidents. She thought of the Elven halls she had visited, Nargothrond, Himring, Barad Eithel, the halls of Angrod and Aegnor... there was no House of Healing in any of them. There were no illnesses, no injuries, no accidents. Yet the Elves fought, they hunted orcs and other fell beasts, she knew that at times they themselves were hurt or even slain, in such encounters. There were healers among the Eldar, who treated wounds with song and herb and the power of the Light. But so rarely were they needed that no building, not so much as a room, was set aside for the purpose of healing. 
   To the Elves, blood was a rare, shocking thing.

   She thought of the woodcutters at home, her grandfather himself missing toes, her father two fingers; for Mortals, the business of felling trees and sawing logs was fraught with danger, and liberally sauced with blood. The House of the Healers was always busy. 
But there were many causes of injury, from kitchen to forge, from field to mill; she herself had merely tripped and fallen at play on the edge of the field at harvesting, and the cut on her brow had ruined her robe. As for illnesses, the Elves did not get them at all, while at home, her uncle had coughed up blood, his chest ruined by the dust and flour from the mill he ran. She grimaced, his death had been painful for all, and she had felt guilt at her relief when at last his suffering ended. But the Elves, if they suffered at all, shed no blood in their anguish. 
   Blood, she thought, the stuff of life... 
   With a start she remembered the blood of the seasons, the monthly pain manifesting the fluid reality of the flesh, the blood of women. The Eldar did not suffer the bleeding, she had asked. It was rarely discussed among Mortals, she had never met, or heard of, an Elf who had given it thought. 'Soiled by blood', she thought, and wondered if Maglor had considered how apt such words must be to Mortals.

   But the cycles of women were not dirt, they were a part of the great cycle of life, the bleeding was common to all the warm creatures, as natural as birthing young. Soiled... she thought. All life is soiled with blood, within and without, even the green-elves of the wild wood killed in defence, shedding the blood of orc or deadly creature, soiling their hands and their glades. 
   She breathed deeply and let her mind float free, thinking of the Elves, with perspectives of such vast scope, such wide horizons, so deep in time...

   The coldness shocked her, she turned back to the harp with hasty fingers and fumbled the first notes. Breathing carefully, she waved her fingers, flexed her wrists and straightened her aching back. Then, with gritted teeth, she tried again to find that chord, that elusive flickering song. The harp, shaped by those trained in Valinor, tuned to perfection, was a joy to play; her fumbling fingers, guided by the serene beauty of the instrument, played beyond her own skill. The music rippled forth, springing from the dead wood and strings of the harp as living water from the stony hillside, as blood from the flesh. And flickering into her mind, kindling like the flame within the song, the consciousness came to her that the piece was a question that Maglor would put to Eru Himself, should Ilúvatar be listening, now or ever. 
   Why was life soiled with blood ? 
   The Songs of the Elves blamed Morgoth for the Marring of Arda, but Eru had shaped the world, from the snowflake to the sea, and blood, and the shedding of blood, ran through the veins of all life. Eru had intended the world to be soiled with blood, whether Morgoth had existed or no.

   She played on, the music filling the room, setting the strings of other instruments trembling in sympathy, echoing in the horns and sounding in the hollow drums. It had a deeply physical harmony, her flesh, her very bones resonated with the chords, the rhythms of heart and breath pulsing through the tune. The notes grew further apart, as the music drew to its close, the high notes contrasting sharply with the deep bass beats, her arms stretched wide to reach. There was no climax, the tune drifted into an unanswerable question, and silence.

   Gildis sat back, locking her fingers together and turning her hands inside out, stretching the tension away. She closed her eyes and bent her head back, hearing the creak of bone as her spine resettled. With a great sigh she sat up, and started in appalled surprise.

   Maglor was there. 
   He rose from the seat by the door, a shadow among the shadows, clad in dark blue, the blue of early nightfall, with silver at his throat. His dark hair made his face seem almost white, and his intense eyes gazed thoughtfully at her above his charming smile. She leaped to her feet, setting the harp strings trembling. She laid a swift hand upon it to steady it, but the great heavy instrument did not waver.

   "My lord Maglor ! I... forgive me, I did not see you enter..."
   "Gildis the bard, you are well named. It is a rather difficult piece, and you mastered it with finesse. But more than that, you have shown me that within it that I could never have foreseen. You have shown me the sound of the Mortal, contained within my piece, and brought it to life for me in a manner far beyond my imagining. What have you brought to this song ? What was granted to me by the grace of Eru ? What of it is left, that I myself have crafted ?"
   Gildis laughed "My lord, you do yourself injustice ! The music is beautiful, I am certain that it echoes the Music of the Ainur themselves, yet you composed it, you did not hear it, nor find it in the world."
   "Oh Gildis, it is a pity you are Mortal, this debate has been held among the Eldar since before we crossed Belegaer to Westward. Do we bring forth the music as a new thing, or do we find it in the world ? Is it an echo of The Music, or the song of the singer ? Is the musician separate from the world, that such a question may even be asked ? Is the inside, where our feelings and thoughts occur, a separate place, a closed casket, in which we create alone ? Or are we rather embedded in the world, blown in the wind, open to heat and cold and all the sights and sounds of the world ?
   There are those who say that only music which echoes the truth of the world has any worth, as pictures that truly represent that which they would convey, as a mirror. There are others who seek variety and surprise, to be startled from their habit-blinded thought into heightened awareness, who think that only the different and the original, the clash and shock, should be seriously considered by the musician. 
   But you, Mortal, what do you think ? "
   "My lord, I am young, even for my kind, I have given little thought to the theory, struggling ever with the practice. I have studied only the form of music, not the causes and effects of its production, and certainly not the sources of inspiration, or how music comes into being ! " She frowned "But I think... Well... I suppose that we are embedded in the world, and hear its sounds, as the birds, the wind, or other voices, and shape them into song. And the songs of others shape our own music, and indeed our own spirits, as the Music shapes the world."
   Maglor laughed "So simple, and so intricate, as the snowflake is shaped... But what do you prefer, that which is truest to the Music, or that which is most different ?"
  Gildis sighed "My lord, I am not certain that I understand the question. Everything... Everything in the world is, well, in the world. How can anything be 'outside' ? Is there an outside for anything to be in ? "
   

   The breath hissed between the clenched teeth of Maglor. "Oh yes. There is an outside. I have seen it, through the Windows of Nienna. 
   The darkness of the void...
   Only the stoutest hearts have braved the sight, we Children of Light have a horror of the darkness that you cannot imagine... It is not nothing, it is a thing of... I think... I fear that a spirit cast into that darkness would dissolve, like a drop of ink in the ocean. But the spirit is immortal, imperishable, and would continue, endlessly, stretched as thin as dust in the light, each mote unguessably far from every other mote, yet the whole, stretched forth in agony, helpless to move or even cry in anguish, an endless moment of pain and guilt and regret."

   Gildis looked at the Elf in silent horror. His face was twisted with dread, his skin damp with the cold sweat of terrible fear. This was the future he foresaw for himself, the future that his obsessed father had called down upon his own sons, this was what he awaited, what awaited him. 
   What could she say ? She could scarcely follow his thoughts on music, her chosen field, she had given no thought at all to history, or to the nature of the world, or the Eldar. She knew that in their doomed quest to recover the stolen silmarils, the Fëanorians had committed murder, and stolen ships to pursue their foe, thus making them already guilty of the very crime for which they sought vengeance. Soiled with blood, she thought, cursed by the Valar...

   "My lord, perhaps you should put your thought into music, it may be that you can plead your cause to Eru in your song. If you will become, as you... as you foresee, or imagine... if that is truly what awaits you, then now is the time to plead your cause, while... well, while you still can. I... forgive my impertinence."
   But Maglor was smiling sadly. "Yes, well named indeed. Thank you Gildis, for your words, for your concern, and for your music. Will you play that piece for me again ? Though not now. I would gather some of those who dispute the matters of theory, and have them hear you play it as you did today."
   Gildis suppressed a shudder of horror, the words of Maglor had blackened her thoughts and darkened her mood. "My lord, since hearing your thoughts, I do not think I shall be able to play the piece without some echo of that darkness entering the music. But I would be honoured to play for you. I think this piece has an especial relevance for us Mortals, well, for all life. But more than that, for Mortal women, who know blood more intimately than any Man would ever want to do. Yet I do not feel soiled, the blood flows, and life begins and ends. Why is blood more foul than tears ? The 'curse' of women is a sign of health, not sickness. Indeed, it is in those who are ill that the bleeding ceases. Soiled... No, I think you have erred, you are seeing the world through glass, twisted and warped, where it is clean and natural. I know that Arda is marred by the malice of Morgoth, but we are not soiled by the blood in our veins !"

   Maglor looked away, then bowed his head "No, no, the music is not for you. The piece was written before ever Felagund met your folk, before we imagined you at all. Though I am gratified beyond expression that you hear the echoes of the world within it. I... I have heard of the bleeding of Mortal women, but... It merely underlines my question, I suppose. Why so much blood, so much pain, so much grief... If these were what was needed for the world to take shape, why did Eru act ? Why did he sing, knowing that what would be, would be ? Was he not wrong to bring about such agony ? My own brother was tormented for thirty years by the Enemy. There are those who suffer yet in Thangorodrim who were taken in the first days of Awakening. Such pain is beyond my thought, for which I am grateful. Indeed... at times I envy you Mortals, who have at least the hope of oblivion in death. Though it may be that you will return to Eru, none can say. 
   I think.. I think it is not blood as a liquid, spilled by flesh, that I sing of, but the blood of the world, the blood of life, of existence, of experience. Pain. I sing of pain. Eru is soiled by the pain he has created. The more so if we Eldar are merely puppets of his will, moved but not moving, shaped and shifted by the Music, with no volition of our own. Yet here I am, here we are, trapped within the shell of bone and flesh, feeling every cut, remembering every scream, grieving every lost one... Only you Mortals are free, so the Wise say, limited in time but unbounded in Will. Does Eru judge you, as he does not judge us ? Or do you judge him ? 
   Do you judge me ? It may be that you should. Even now I am false... For it is I myself who am soiled with blood, the blood that I spilled, with these hands, these fine hands, trained to music from infancy. Oh Varda ! There was..." he looked in torment into the eyes of Gildis, who felt the chair behind her press into the back of her legs. But she could not move. She had never heard any Elf speak with such openness, it seemed that her playing of his music in a manner that pleased him had reached his heart. 
   "There was an Elf I knew, of the Teleri. He played the flute, his spirit was mischievous and exuberant, and he exasperated the teachers by dancing around the notes, freely improvising harmonies amd rhythms, while the rest of us laughed. It was exhilarating !
And I slew him, Gildis the bard, I slew him with my own hands. It was in the madness of the battle at Alqualondë. I saw him, though I did not know what I saw, he was drawing his bow, aiming at our ranks, and I severed his arm. He turned then, and moving with the speed I had trained for under very different instructors, I thrust my sword into his chest." He grimaced, his face almost ugly in distortion. "And then, as he died, he knew me, and I knew him, and a part of me perished with him, there on the lamplit quay. His blood was everywhere, even in my mouth. I thought that I would never be free of the taste. I am soiled with the blood of one who might have been a better musician that I, than any ! With my own hand !
   Oh I cannot ! I cannot console myself with thoughts of the power of Eru, moving us all like puppets, whatever is written in the scrolls of Valinor, or sung in ancient song. For why would he have given us awareness without the power to act ? The rain does not cry as it falls, the stones do not weep from the weight of each other. Why do we feel pain ? To warn us, surely, of folly and error. I cannot endure the thought of a creator who brings such pain on us. I sometimes think that I too was taken, beside my brother, and never rescued, that even now I am under the spell of the dark song of the Enemy, seeing visions of horror where once was light. It is too cruel. Too cruel." 

   His voice faltered and fell silent. He covered his face with his hands as though he could conceal his guilt, or at least spare himself from the rebuke in her eyes. But she felt only pity, for the remorse of Maglor, for the lost flute player, and for all the grief of the world. She thought of the Vala Nienna, weeping for the pain of the living, and shook her head. It was not enough. The horror created by Eru was vast beyond comprehension, unending and inconsolable. One grieving Vala could never do penance for the ills of the world.

   The door of the Hall of Fire opened, and the musicians poured in, talking and laughing, then stopped and fell silent as they saw Maglor, his back to them, his head bowed, his face still buried in his hands. Gildis grasped for a word of kindness, to spare the heart of Maglor, but she did not have the skill with words. Maglor started and looked up at her, the dark light of grief fading from his eyes. She smiled gently, but his face had set into the stillness of the courtier. He nodded once and turned away. The musicians parted silently to let him through, and Gildis gasped as a thought came to her. She swiftly sat, and played the central chords of 'Soiled with blood'. Maglor stopped, but did not turn, then shook his head, and strode away in silence, as the haunting notes of his composition filled the echoing space of the Hall of Fire