Nandëlírë by Lferion

Nandëlírë

Read Nandëlírë

They asked him, afterwards, why a harp? Bow and sword, knife, rope, waybread — those all made practical sense. The harp didn't. Not to them. But then, most of them were not wordsmiths, songsmiths, creators of music, shapers and makers of words, though of course, being Elves, they sang and spoke. 

(Before, he would have said being without a harp/instrument would be like being without a limb. Now he would not use that analogy, though he knew not what he would use.)

He thought: Is not the world Made of music? Does it not still Shape the world, to play, to sing, with intent and focus? I am not Makalaurë to cleave gold with Voice, but I know the power of Song, the virtue in music.  A harp may speak where voice cannot. May sound more notes at once than a single throat. May drumming shout, sing as strings, as wind over wire, resonant, flying far. Why would I not take such a potent tool with me?

He had carried that harp (and bow and sword, knife and rope) across the Ice, where each and every one had served him and his (and all of them were his, one way or another — was he not a Prince of Finwë’s House, brought up to lead, to care for those who looked to him, and have a care for those who did not, yet walked with those who did?) very well indeed in the long, cold dark of that crossing. For healing, hunting, scouting, defending, warming spirits when there was little to warm bellies or hands.

All those given reasons were good, and even true, but they were not the real reason, the important reason. That was an inarticulate insistence that he must-need have it with him, even as he needs must find and bring back his friend (his King). 

And a good thing he had taken it with him. He had needed every wile, every skill, every mote of fortitude, and it was Song that led him the final stretch. Song that let him staunch the blood enough to have space to make a tourniquet. Song that worked with the Eagle's flight to carry them away.

And now he had it still, playing soft and easy notes, that Russandol might sleep and know he was not in that place of un-Music, of clamor and cacophony. Eventually, he might find rest himself.