In Silence And In Song by Idrils Scribe

Chapter 3

Fingolfin stood and clapped as the song’s final chord rang across the green, his face radiant in the mingled gold and silver glow of lanterns strung between the branches overhead like as many blazing stars. Fingon and Mablung both rose from their seats at the high table to join the king’s standing ovation, their cheeks rosy and cups in hand with that unsteady flourish of men having a wine-soaked whale of a time. 

Lalwen almost sagged with relief at the sight of the unhoped-for conviviality, and their show of genuine appreciation. It would not do to insult the Laiquendi with a half-hearted applause for their bard’s efforts. Lalwen herself was newly returned from a mud-soaked, mosquito-laden expedition into the great forests of East Beleriand in search of the reclusive forest-dwellers. She had to figure out their strangely formal, archaïc language before she could even begin the diplomatic labors of convincing them to attend. This night her efforts bore fruit.

If the Laiquendi singer looked somewhat alien with her leaf-shaped tattoos and sculpted bone fragments driven through nose and ears, she still had an excellent voice. The images she had conjured before her listeners’ eyes were as vivid as any Noldorin bard’s, and her song well chosen: all gathered here were avid hunters. Whether in Aman or Middle-earth, the wild joy of chasing deer was universal.

Lalwen rose to embrace the chieftainess and present her guest-gift: a gem-encrusted harp of mithril with metal strings. Maglor’s creation would tarnish nor lose its pitch even when dragged through a humid forest. Bewilderment flashed in the strange bard’s eyes before she bowed in polite thanks. 

When Lalwen returned to her seat she allowed herself a draught of wine and a long look around. Despite their cares the evening was a delight. A balmy spring night of cloudless sky, a perfect dome of stars with the full moon a pearl of purest silver. The lush meadow was studded with elanor and the air smelled of clear water and the living blossom of trees. 

Everywhere she looked were smiling faces, the glitter of white gems, bright flashes of colour from wreaths braided into dark and golden hair alike. She watched Fingon recount some tall tale to a raptly listening Mablung, and recognized the first shoots of a budding friendship. Hope blossomed hot in her chest. Perhaps all was not lost.

Fingolfin rose once more, and stepped into the performers’ space before the high table.

“Master Daeron, we are greatly pleased to welcome you at our table!” he announced. “It is our fondest hope that this feast might prove the first of many joyful reunions between our sundered peoples!” 

Fingolfin was all eager joviality, and his Sindarin had improved by leaps and bounds. “We have heard your skill with harp and voice praised by many. Will you do us the honour and pleasure of a song?”  

Daeron stood, the sweep of his half-braided hair a cloud of midnight around a slender, fine-boned face. Delicate as a nightingale he seemed, this fabled singer. A son of the Sindar indeed.   

“A most hospitable welcome you have bid me, O King of the Noldor, and many words of league and friendship. For these I thank you in the name of King Elu Thingol, who receives them with a good will!” 

Enthusiastic applause went up from all sides, and calls of “Hear! hear!” in both Quenya and Sindarin. 

Fingolfin beamed as he poured a fragrant, yellow wine into his own goblet -- Fëanorian crystal shimmering like mother-of-pearl — to offer it to Daeron. Elu’s harper took a deep draught before handing it back to the king with a bow. 

He turned around to where Maglor sat beside him. Both minstrels had been deep in converse all evening beneath Fingolfin’s approving eye. 

“If the king permits it I would ask the Lord Maglor to join me. Our peoples once shared the same songs under the stars of Cuivienen. Let us bring them back to memory so the kindreds of Finwë and Elwë might once more be reunited in song!”

Lalwen caught a look of concern from Finrod, as if he saw some threat in what was surely a friendly collaboration. Artanis, too, had turned pale beneath the golden crown of her hair. Clearly something about this foreign harper had escaped Fingolfin’s notice. 

Daeron moved to the performer’s dais, lithe and elegant as a linden tree. His robes were that fresh, tender green of new beech leaves in spring, and around his neck shone a white gem on an artful lacework of silver threads. He looked both austere and dignified beside Maglor in his costly Fëanorian finery. Deep-seeing eyes flitted to every lord and lady seated in the company, and all the Noldor sat still and silent before that regard.

Daeron’s voice was a refined tenor, lifting in a rill of playful notes that washed over the glade like the merry babble of water over stones. A sprightly little brook murmured and wound beneath the unmarred dome of Varda’s blazing stars, remote and holy. Even Lalwen felt tears prick her eyes at the pure, exultant joy of it. 

The Song soared and carried her on its wings, up and up until she floated, light as a breeze above a vast lake that shimmered beneath the heaven’s splendour. For a single brilliant, weightless moment she could not tell sky from mirror in the crystalline brightness of  starlight shivering on the waves of Cuivienen. Daeron’s harp became the mingled song of water and Elvish voices, all bliss and innocent delight.

There came a lull, a breathing pause in the ebb and flow of Daeron’s voice, and Maglor stood to answer. His robust baritone Sang of the Two Trees flowering, gold and silver light mingling in splendid radiance that was more than each apart. A single, exquisitely perfect phrase soared to the heavens, jubilating, and all saw before their eyes the pure glimmer of Oiolossë the ever-white, limned in light against the star-strewn skies. 

Mablung gasped in awe.

Daeron’s response was of a tender, almost painful delight in the loveliness of marred Middle-earth. The Sindar loved every brook and dell, the vast, tumbled majesty of each mountain range, the shadows pooling like clouds in the valleys. A great beech soared to the sky, pulsing with rich, complicated life from the secret stream of sap in the bole to the miniature cities of crawling creatures beneath its fallen leaves. Forest lakes reflected a web of trees and stars like the finest bejewelled lace. Through all this wound the spirit of Elu’s people, every last blade of grass and grain of sand known and beloved by far-seeing Elvish eyes. All the world lay open, revealed to their gaze.

With a sickening jolt Lalwen realized that this Daeron was more than a harper. Here stood a loremaster of her own stature, and all his art and skill was in this Singing. Song was governed by its own laws. It could trick the eye, yet no Singer could change his true nature. The raven may wear a guise, but can never make itself a nightingale.

Maglor’s theme wound and reflected, and for a moment it seemed he would build the iridescent beauty of Tirion on Tuna, all green and white and gold. The next, disaster struck: a small intangible dissonant, elusive as a fleeting wind. Jewels gleamed in flickering lamplight behind a door of iron.

Maglor was a performer of unmatched experience. He mastered himself, seemingly unfazed, and sang of a splendid court gathered in a vast hall of crystal and marble. For an instant the Song bloomed as it should, but then a man’s fist closed on a sword-hilt set with rubies.

Daeron looked at Maglor with eyes dark and sharp like a clever daw. He Sang of the Sea. Grey waves sighed beneath quays of pearl gleaming in starlight. Reeling with shock Lalwen realized this could not be Alqualondë, but Brithombar or Eglarest. The Telerin cities on either shore bore an unsettling resemblance.

This particular theme Maglor could not match. His attempt called forth a white ship, but the sleek curve of its carved bow was wreathed in slithering shadow. 

Maglor abruptly fell silent. He was as pale as Finrod. 

Daeron’s clever eyes flitted from face to face. Mablung sat still in his seat of honour at Fingon’s side. A silent understanding seemed to be reached between both Sindar.

Daeron turned to Fingolfin and bowed politely before taking his seat once more. “You are very right, sire. There is much we must yet learn from one another.” 

And on a time Melian said: 'There is some woe that lies upon you and your kin. That I can see in you, but all else is hidden from me; for by no vision or thought can I perceive anything that passed or passes in the West: a shadow lies over all the land of Aman, and reaches far out over the sea. Why will you not tell me more?'

The Silmarillion, Quenta Silmarillion, XV - Of the Noldor in Beleriand

Chapter End Notes

This year I was going to finally manage it. A cheerful, feel-good holiday story about a bunch of merry Elves throwing a party. Well ... in my own defense, I did try to keep the doom to a bare minimum ;-) 

Happy holidays everyone!