The Singer by MaglorTheMinstrel

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A study in the Singer

maglor baby i love you but also why are you like that

i hope you like it!

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Their camp was always deadly quiet and deadly efficient, regardless of how long their days had been lasting. It was all practical, packed and sharp; no illusion of homeliness or warmth, just an insane drive. They slept little, gathered themselves in the morning and kept marching on and on. Alqualondë’s taunting and beautiful presence on the horizon just made the Host of Fëanáro walk more than the others. Nolofinwë, Írimë and Arafinwë were far behind, out of sight and mind, a comfortable distance.

Macalaurë, truth be told, hated it. Hated the tempers always on edge, the persistent soreness in his muscles, the way his eyes didn’t see through the thickest shadows yet. For the Varda’s stars above, even Maitimo had suddenly become cutting and harsh, following their father wherever he went and whispering at his ears. Most of his days were spent walking by feet with the common people, singing until his throat was raw because these were the ones who needed the strength.

His father didn’t talk to them when they were starving for him. But then, to whom had he been speaking besides three or four advisors? Tyelcormo had commented, of course with Curufinwë, his voice careful and low for once in his life, that so holy Fëanáro – always Fëanáro, Macalaurë knew; the slightest hints of kinship could anger his brother sometimes – was yet to speak to him since their last military meeting.

This ruined host wasn’t the stage he wanted for this so called rebellion. The tense shoulders, the whispered rumors, the exhausted spite moving people instead of desire for freedom. Macalaurë couldn’t stand for more than a moment without thinking about home, about mother probably toiling to death in her statues, about a Tree-lit childhood before the laws of the Valar and of the King mattered. Eru forgive him, the times where his grandfather was only that were the best of his life.

The dissatisfaction nearing the despair could explain what he’d done and why Maitimo was staring him with tired but eerily sharp eyes, face as emotionless and hard as a statue’s. Macalaurë smiled, sweet and without evident mockery, just to see him sigh in exasperation, defeat taking over his rigid expression as he demanded:

“Now, brother, what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“Singing a humorous song to keep the morale high,” he replied, the tender smile becoming a grin, “as I’ve been ordered by our royal father.”

“You’re shaming our uncles and aunt and dividing even more our people.”

Maitimo’s dark and annoyed aura didn’t change as Macalaurë rose from the cold, hard ground and snaked a comforting arm around his shoulders, making him bend down more than just a little for this. Even it was even possible, it grew more pinched, more on edge. He noticed that easily and cheered inside. The grin, wide and radiant, was yet to leave his mouth, irritating and ten times more obnoxious than the usual.

“The people are more bent on revenge and family quarrels than us, dear,” he sing-sang, a devious tune. “You know that very well, don’t you ?”

“You’re horrible.” Maitimo had been excellent at using their rage for the cause.

“Excuse me,” Macalaurë shot back in a heartbeat, all drama and flair, hands gesturing wildly and words twice louder than needed, “you’re the most horrible of us all – yes even father! –, have no sense of humor and can’t admit it’s an amusing song!”

His bastard of a brother smacked his head, a smile threating to appear.

 

Macalaurë blinked.

The ships, proud swans that were worth far too much, were still burning, golden and white against the dark ocean. His father was watching it as well, something about the flames twisting his expression into a starving grimace. Most had stayed here with their finally quiet king, thirsty and desperate for the tiniest bits of inspiration Curufinwë Fëanáro could give. Maitimo hadn’t. His anger was yet to abandon the air, however.

It was simply too much. He averted his gaze to his shaking hands instead. The sensation of a torch burning so close would never stop to haunt them.

 

Maitimo’s office, that Macalaurë had claimed as his own some two days ago because of the pragmatism, had been silent until the message arrived.

The messenger came in breathing hard, her eyes wide and horrified, something haunted glimmering in her frantic expression. The hands holding a thick, slightly pink piece of paper were shaking, and she was too stiff to make a proper reverence for Macalaurë. He took a deep breath, repressing a shudder, and almost told her to give him the letter. The unfortunate thing, however, just threw it at his desk and left, shoulders slumped, and face twisted into the mien of a cornered animal.

It was as dark as always outside. Only the stars shone, silver and mocking.

With a sigh, tired and defeated and mournful, Macalaurë reached for the message resting upon Maitimo’s table. By touch alone he could say it wasn’t paper. Heavy and practically alive beneath his fingers, the pale leather – or at least he hoped this was leather and not… and not… something worse – told more than the words. Quenya curled with grace, flowing like water, and the brownish ink made his head spin.

The trap was so obvious he wanted to laugh, and to claw his face until read tears colored it. Such blatant displays of cruelty, the kingly choice of words, the steady handwriting that could pass for non-divine, the treacherous offer. The Dark Enemy had chained one brother and wanted more. Macalaurë could imagine he wanted all seven just out of spite, and then Ëa as well. But he’d rather go down like his father, fighting and spitting curses and not backing down for nothing in this world.

Slowly, with joints and mind cracking as he got up, Macalaurë made his way to outside his office, finding the four guards who guarded him day and night lined, as motionless as expected. Somehow, the discipline and blind obedience made him wonder and question. Today, however, he didn’t have to time to contemplate the duty. They straightened their postures at the sight him, though, High King in all but name, and were going to make their reverences when he raised his hand and spoke:

“If you’d be kind to me and spread the word around our camp that we are not making bargains with Moringotho, regardless of his sweet words and cruelty to my brother, His Royal Highness Nelyafinwë, I’d be incredibly satisfied.”

It took only that to send them away, eerily quiet and eerily efficient. Macalaurë himself would make a speech later, because one could never be sure enough, but, for now, the warning from his guards was everything he had means to do. Without planning, his words were able to create a whirlwind that would spiral into a whirlwind that would spiral into an apocalypse. But, who knew which kind of dreadful rumors the messenger wouldn’t spread if she knew anything about the letter and its content?

 Valar be merciful, sometimes he hated Maitimo for leaving him alone.

 

Maglor – because his name was Maglor now, regardless of the sleepless nights where he still called himself Macalaurë – had thought these new raids from Angband would be easy to beat. They always were. What Maedhros couldn’t take all the hits, isolated and strained up in the north, he pursued them through plains, restless hunts day and night, and eliminated all the remnants of a resistance. It’d been centuries since the Enemy had truly pushed his lines to the point of brief fear.

Then, the fires came. Dragons, orcs, trolls, undead and werewolves toyed with his defenses to destroy them later. They marched over the ashes of his lands and killed, killed, killed. His cities burned, his fortresses burned, his people burned.

It was supposed to be easy to beat those creatures. There would be no need of relying both on Maedhros and on the fact his brothers couldn’t resist like them. He wasn’t meant to become Maglor the Lord of Iron, grim before fires and monsters, unimpressed as the world crumbled around him. Maglor’s Gap shouldn’t have become this dreadful place haunted by ashes and ghosts and bitter, bitter regrets.

No story would say that, but he thought it’d be easy. It wasn’t, but Maglor lived.

 

He practices the harp every day just after dawn.

His hand might be a twisting scar, ugly to watch working and stiff, but he still sits by the sea and plays. The waves call to him, this treacherous song of Ulmo echoing through his skull, and his music is now dreadful, but he still practices with military discipline. The soldier in him thrives on this routine, as punishing as it’s satisfying.

In the first time he did it, the meaningless melody became the Noldolantë. The same happened in the second, the third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth. Sometimes, regardless of what he plays, it always comes back to tragedy.