Maglor's Harp by ford_of_bruinen

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Maglor's Harp

He lay on his back, raven hair floating out over the sand like rivulets of blood. Pale as death and dark as sin. Only his hands, held in front of his face, tracing patters towards the moon, showed him still alive. His fingers curled towards the palms, unable to straighten and at some point the flesh of his left hand seemed to have been seared of the bones, leaving the long fingers oddly skeletal.

Bored with the silence he stared at the moon, daring it to speak to him but it remained quiet, not even a whisper did it have to offer him tonight. Slowly ancient memories came to him and suddenly he played with the thought of singing, as he had once entertained the court of the gods themselves, but it had been a long time since he last sang. Experimentally he let his hands fall to his sides and sat with unnatural grace. A song of...something... He struggled to remember the tunes that had once been part of him and then he sang. His voice was hoarse and raw, more like the croaking of a raven then the music of a songbird. Frowning he fell silent, trying to find what was wrong.

There had been people to listen, he remembered vaguely, their pale faces turned towards him as he sang. Did that make it better? Scrambling he stood. Looking across the deserted beach until his eyes lit up. Surely an audience did not need to consist of people. He hurried across the sand, pausing now and then, picking up dead crabs and mussels and whatever other sea-life had been washed onto the shore. Carefully he arranged them in a semi-circle around him and stood, straightening his shoulders until he reached his full height.

Bowing at his audience he tried again, closing his eyes to try to find the beauty that he could remember but again his voice came out rough and cracked, lacking the richness that he could remember. So it was not an audience, unless it had to be creatures more like him.

Biting on a long fingernail he cast his memory back again, there was something missing, he just needed to find out what it was. Then he remembered. He used to have a harp. That was what he needed, a harp would make the song beautiful.

It took him many days, gathering debris on the beach, until he managed to find enough old wood and seaweed to start his harp. He worked with a single-minded obsession, using a small, sharp stone to cut the wood into the right shapes, boring holes in the wood to fit small pieces together and after many days and nights he finally held his sea-shore harp. Proudly he cradled it in his lap, caressing the smooth wood. It would be fine now, he would be what he used to. His twisted fingers trailed over the weed-strings which hummed hoarsely before they broke.

Staring at the broken strings he hunched over, his heart aching that something he had worked so hard on had come to nothing. He curled up around the harp, trying to think of something else, something that would not break. The sea washed shallowly around him and his harp as he lay thinking until weariness claimed him. Morning brought him no joy, the water had swelled the wood, making it pop out of the carefully carved hinges and once more it resembled more pieces of old rotting wood than the harp he had held the night before.

Broken-hearted he accepted he had failed. He needed something stronger of which to make his harp.

He scoured the beach in search of materials and found nothing better than seashells of driftwood and eventually, hesitantly he crept into the fields and forest close to the sea. It was there he found the rabbits. What meat had been on the fur and bones had been picked clear of carrion-birds and carnivores, leaving the small brittle bones to bleach under the sun.

His eyes lit with joy as he caressed the ivory remains. Surely bones would last better than driftwood. He wrapped the small carcasses in his torn cloak and picked many of the though reeds that grew between the sand and the fields on his return to the beach. He had what he needed now.

Once again days and nights passed as he worked, crafting the harp of his dreams. It was prettier than the last, he thought to himself, prettier and surely sturdier. The full moon had returned by the time he was happy with his handiwork, admiring his creation. A few careful brushes across the reeds assured him that these new strings would hold. But their sound was thin and waving, hollow and not strong enough to carry against his voice.

Still, he was satisfied. He had thought of something that worked, now he needed to make something better. Something that would carry tunes with strength without breaking. He looked at the fail looking bone-harp and suddenly he knew what he needed. He needed fresh bones and guts that he could dry into strings. Bones and guts of something bigger than the rabbits, perhaps a deer or a wolf if he could find one.

In the days and nights that followed he returned to forest, intent on finding a prey. He set careful snares which both deer and wolf eluded and with growing despair he started doubting that he would ever be able to finish his harp.

Then one night he found it, it must have strayed from the parents a long time ago. He was not sure why the animals had left it alone but he did not care. The child was half grown and had been dead long enough to have started drying in the chill autumn winds. He had been lucky it had not died somewhere closer to water.

He did not return to the beach this time, too eager to start his work. Soon he would have the harp he needed. Carving flesh and bone, unravelling and dying guts took him a long time but eventually, the night the first snow fell, he was finished. He had his harp, larger than the sea-wreck harp or the rabbit harp. The strings carried a rich, if slightly leaden, sound and delightedly he tried his voice against it. All that night and all the following day he sang, small pieces of tunes he remembered, bits of songs he made up from his mind. His voice still sounded raw and croaky but the harp helped. It was almost enough to make the music beautiful. Almost. For a month he settled for almost, until the snow stayed on the ground and the sound of birds had mostly faded as they had fled southwards towards heat.

But almost was not beautiful, the harp was good but he could not make the strings ache, could not tease out the sounds of painful grace which the song in his mind asked for. He needed something even better and then he could finish his masterpiece. He could become whole again.

It took him a few days to find the closest village and many more followed as he laid in wait, watching them, trying to choose who would have the blessing of being his harp. Eventually he saw her, slender and pretty and always smiling. She was the one. She was beautiful in herself and when he saw her cry one evening he burned with desire.

It took almost another turn of the moon before she ventured close to the edge of the forest, looking for more wood for her fires. He followed her, watching as she stepped further and further into the trees until he found the right time.

Graceful as a large cat he sprung, his hand wrapping around her mouth, his teeth around her throat. Once she stopped struggling he sat watching her, watching the red blood in the white snow. It was beautiful, familiar. He had seen something like it before.

Only when darkness again fell he moved, dragging his harp behind him by the hair. She would make a beautiful harp.

This time he did not hurry, he took his time, slowly and carefully, worshipfully he moulded his harp, polishing bone until it shone, braiding long strands of hair to make patterns upon the harp. The guts he cleaned carefully, slicing them to the right thickness, to the right size and finally she was ready.

Pressing his lips against the ivory harp he carried her to the beach; now frozen, the ice stretching as far as he could see. He sat down, cradling her in his lap, caressing her strings and shuddered with pleasure. He had known she was right, the tones rang out, rich and painful, filled with a scream of horror and longing, a lack of peace. This was right. He joined his voice to hers and sang, tears streaming down his face as he was fulfilled, made anew and became whole.

Once he finally silenced he looked back towards the forest and village. The song would be even better with an audience...

Chapter End Notes

The idea first came to me almost a year ago when I wrote the drabble I called The Harp, the image of Maglor with his bone-harp stayed with me and I always knew I would have to develop it into a story someday.

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