Renewing The Song by Naltariel

Song for The Sinners

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We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world forever, it seems.
- - - -Arthur O'Shaughnessy

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Chapter 1: Song for the Sinner

 

Not all those who wander are lost…

The waves were rolling in endless harmony, engulfing the white sand on the beach, and then withdrew. White foams shaped themselves into the peak of their glory, and were falling forward in futile attempts to drown the land. The song of their voice when they crashed on the shore was unsurpassable in its beauty. Not even he, one of the greatest singers, could sing out such melodies. Sweet, enchanting, terrifying, binding him into their undeniable spell. And the gulls. They were crying out, flying around with their vast wings, reminding him again and again of the white form of Elwing when she fled. The reddish horizon in the distance seemed so near, so promising. There he would find his home. The place where he belonged, the place where he should never have left. 

And he heard the Sea called out again, each time was stronger than before, tormenting his soul, mocking his inability to answer its lure. The road to his home, the Blessed Land had been forever shut to him, banishing him eternally for his wicked deeds. Three times he had committed kinslaying, under the foul oath of his father. Three times he had killed his fellow Firstborns mercilessly. Three times of kinslaying, twice for not heeding the Valar’s order, and once for swearing the foul oath that bound him to this eternal pain. Maglor, son of Feanor was cursed to wander endlessly.

‘Would there be a release from this doom one day?’ he said to himself. His finger drew the shape of some letters in the sand, and he waited until the tide washed them away. He had repeated this ritual countless of times during his pilgrimage near the ocean. Most of them were done half-consciously, reflecting his guilty conscience, which yearned to be purified. He did not know which punishment was worse, his remorse or his Ban to the West. But it was not matter; he had to bear them both until the end of Time.

The wave came, splashing salts on his fair face. But this time, it did not touch the calligraphic runes on the shore. They seemed to exclude the small area where he drew the word, intentionally. He waited and waited, but the word remained, refusing to be erased. The Sea was mocking him again. Was it a sign that he would be forever unforgivable? ‘Nay, it could not be! Are the Valar so merciless?’ he wondered inside.

Perhaps it is you who refused to be pardoned.

He had heard these silent words for years, ringing inside his head. Yet he never understood their meaning. And now he was more concerned about who the speaker was. Perhaps it was the Sea? Ulmo, the Vala Himself?

Finding no answer, he rose and headed towards the small hut where he lived. Unnoticed by him, that as he turned away, the waves reached the word he inscribed, flattening the contoured sand carved by his finger, wiping away the very name he had called himself for ages: “Kinslayer”.

It is time for renewal.

 

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Chapter End Notes

The quotation is from JRR Tolkien’s poem.

Lamentation of the Betrayer

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Chapter 2: Lamentation of the Betrayer

We who were living are now dying,
With a little patience…

The world was fading. It began from the day the accursed Morgoth stepped into his beautiful realm, and climaxed in the War of the Wrath. But the ruin of the War was naught compared to the destruction by the foolish and ruthless hands of the Second born who were, as was planned by the All-Father, now shaping Middle Earth. The land he loved so deeply was waning, screaming its agony in voice that he alone could hear. The sun was no longer bright as she was used to be, nor the silver light of the moon. Forests and trees cried out in helpless fury, as they were being burned and cut down mercilessly. Creatures were diminishing one by one, save for species who were bred for Men’s self-serving purposes. However, they too, were corrupted and altered, slowly loosing their original nature.

Daeron, the greatest minstrel of Arda, wept. As a Firstborn he was bound to the Earth until the end of Time. As a Sindar, he could not leave this land to join his kin in Amman, the haven for Eldar who were tired of this marred realm. He loved his birth land, Middle-earth, too much. He mourned for the desolation in despair, for he could do nothing to redress it. The Quendi were no longer the initiators, they were but watchers now. Aged and weary, yet undying. 

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He saw the immortal descendents of his beloved sailed to the blissful West one by one, leaving this changing land behind. He saw the last daughter of the Eldar, Arwen choose the same path as her ancestor, embracing death for the sake of her lover. What was love that one would forsake everything for her? 

For love is as strong as death, its ardour unyielding as the grave.

‘It is true. But Valar know, I too, possess such love, which was not any less that of Beren, the mortal. Did she know that I loved her so? Did she know I did not wish her to fall into the dreadful Death of the mortals?’

But in the end, he knew that her seemingly foolish choice, to stay with her beloved in life and death, was wiser than his. He remembered her when she returned from Mandos, to live a short life with the one she loved most by her side. Her Elven nature had gone; she was but a mortal maiden, without Elven glow nor airy feet. Yet, her beauty was most blinding as ever and her dance was most joyful. Though she could dance no more, yet each movement she had made would not be forgotten, proving the power of impermanence. Having live meaninglessly for ages, he understood the lesson better than he wanted to. She had lived to the fullest, never wasted any precious moment, and now she was resting in an unknown place that had been shaped by Eru Himself as His gift for the mortals.

And who was he now? A watcher, like Húrin under the cruel punishment of Morgoth, passive and powerless. A stranger in land that used to be his kin’s. A betrayer of his loved one. A mute minstrel, from whom  the most beautiful songs arose.

A lover, whose broken heart needed healing. 

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Chapter End Notes

First italic is from TS Eliot, the Waste Land, second is from NIV Bible Song of Songs 8 : 6  

Animosity

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Chapter 3: Animosity

“Cursed you, father! You and your Silmarils.” His sudden scream awakened him. Maglor blinked and focused his vision to the ceiling. He had the nightmare again, about the moment when the perfect Jewel burned in his palms and he cast it to the Sea, when he knew that the oath he swore would never come to fulfilment, and when he thought that he had forever sunk into darkness. Not a week had passed without him having to dream that dreadful moment. ‘It is part of my punishment, I suppose,’ he said to himself. Funny that things could happen again and again, that one would never get used to it. For Elves, memory was like waking dreams. ‘And the worst were the most vivid,' he mused. Knowing he would never be able to sleep again, he rose and went outside his secluded hut.

The view of the raging sea at night was glorious. The tide was in and the white sand of the beach was almost completely drowned, save for some rocky parts of the beach where he was standing at. It was windy, with lightning tearing up the sky now and then, signalling the approaching storm. The full moon shone her cold light under the veil of the clouds, pale and haunting, silhouetting all shapes into shadows. The chill night wind brought to him the sweet scent of the ocean, while at the same time making the surroundings more mysterious and mystifying. Stars were totally invisible as the massive clouds covered most of the sky. It was certainly not the best time to hike, but Maglor, a warrior and a lord among his people, did not fear any storm, nor eerie environments. He walked slowly, pondering his rueful life. ‘How long does it take to heal the wound? It is now the Fifth age, but still I can find no way to return.’

He did not know how far he had gone before he spotted a ghostly figure standing near the estuary. It was clear that he was taller and slimmer than most mortals, though a black cloak wrapped his body. The figure reminded him of his long forgotten race. Could a Man possess such bodily features? Noticing Maglor’s presence, he turned to face him.

He was obviously an Elf. For no mortal eyes could shine with such starlight nor did mortal skins glow with such brightness. His raven hair was long and braided in Eldarin custom. The Elf met his gaze boldly, also surprised by this unexpected encounter with one of his race. ‘What is he doing here while all his kin has gone?’ Maglor pondered.

“Hail, stranger. Pray tell, what are you doing in such a perilous night?” Maglor asked in Common tongue, as had been his habit for ages. It was a must, since no one left in Middle-earth could speak Elvish. At least he thought so. He frowned and observed the stranger carefully.

The stranger replied, “I am a wanderer. I go wherever my heart leads me, mind you.”

Either driven by his longing or by his happiness to meet one of his kin, unconsciously Maglor switched to his birth tongue to greet him, “Elen sila lumenn omentielvo.*”

But the stranger was angry. His eyes were fiery and his tone was indignant. “Who are you to speak that foul tongue of kinslayers to me?”

“Watch your words, stranger,” Maglor said coldly, albeit angrily, turning his speech into Westron again. “For my ancestor created the language and my father perfected it.”

 “Your father? Don’t tell me you are one of Feanor’s sons, the kinslayers.”

“Indeed. I am Maglor, son of Feanor. And who are you?” Maglor said it out loud, proudly. It was funny, even for himself, that he never lost his pride in his father, no matter how he resented his oath. Perhaps he loved him too much. Perhaps his father and all his accomplishments were the only things he could take pride in. He wondered if he would become someone if he were not a “Feanor’s son”. ‘How pathetic I am!’ he thought, ‘no one but a shadow of my father’s darkest deeds. Sharing none of his great endowments, but guilty of all his transgressions.’ Unbeknown to him, that his talent as a minstrel was the greatest among his kin save for the one who was facing him now. But such filtering of truth was not seldom found in people who were drowning in regret and self-reproach such like he was.

“I am Daeron of Doriath. The greatest loremaster of my people.” Scornfully he answered him. His gestures showed his enmity towards the person whom he considered very unconscionable. ‘Kinslayer,’ he thought.

‘He is disgusted at me,’ Maglor thought, ‘but that is to be expected. After all, I killed his people thrice.’ Ages ago he would not accept such treatment without hostility. But time had passed, and he had changed, somehow becoming gentler. Still his Noldorin pride remained, and he would never let a Moriquendi mocked him in such manner, especially not this person.

He raised one of his eyebrows and said sardonically, “Ah, Daeron. The unloved devotee of Luthien, and her betrayer.” And he laughed. “You are certainly not better than me.”

His ridicule fuelled Daeron’s anger. For a moment, it seemed like as if he would unsheathe his blade and attack him. But whatever his intention was, it was halted as a thunderstorm wrecked the night sky followed by a heavy rain.

Both searched for shelter, but found none nearby. The beach was flat and barren, with only some palm trees here and there. Finally, Maglor ran to his hut, followed by Daeron. He entered and pulled the Sindarin Elf in before he closed the door. He turned and found Daeron was staring at him, bemused at his action.

“Why do you help me?” he asked.

Maglor shrugged but said nothing. ‘My heart has certainly softened much since the day I took Elwing’s sons into my care,’ he thought privately. He took off his wet cloak and tunic, watching intently as Daeron did the same.  His eyes fixed on him, marvelling at his beauty. How many years had passed without him having the chance to see an Elven glow enveloping such perfect skin and body? Or starlight resting on velvety dark hair? Even the strongest memory could dim, and he felt a strong urge to refresh it.     

Daeron noticed his gaze and faced him. Maglor expected him to be offended, but to his surprise, he too, was exploring him with his eyes. From his muscular chest to his well-built shoulders, and to his fine-looking face, slowly and scrutinizing. Until he reached the eyes that had beheld the light of the Trees, and their gazes met. Both blushed at the sudden realization of their action and turned away.

The storm kept raging, fierce as it had not been for ages, and the rain was as heavy. Maglor looked out the glass window and sighed, ‘I could not send him away, nor can I go out.’ They were trapped inside by the weather. Both sat in silence, feeling most uncomfortable, due to the incident rather than to their previous unfriendly attitude toward each other. Both felt ashamed of their unexpected attraction to each other.

‘Four ages without a glimpse of my race can surely make me a little bit impulsive,’ Daeron thought, ‘it means nothing as long as I don’t exaggerate it.’ He stole a glance at Maglor, whom he hoped was thinking the same. The Noldorin Prince sat on his bed, trying hard to focus on the book he was holding, but Daeron knew his mind was elsewhere.

After a few hours of silence that seemed like forever, Maglor could not stand it any longer and spoke up in Westron, so as to not provoke any further hostile act, “Seems like the star doesn’t shine when we meet, does it” His tone was almost apologetic, though he did not intend it so. Surely, his humility had improved over the years.

Daeron smiled faintly, but did not respond. He turned to the window, watching the thunder wrecked the sky and jumbled the Sea. Finally, he asked, “What brings you here, Maglor, son of Feanor?”

Maglor was slightly startled by his question. He did not want to tell of his pain, but he assumed that the whole world had known his foolish act. Besides, there was nothing to do and anything would be better than the uncomfortable silence. ‘It could very well distract us from undesirable things to happen,’ he thought. His eyes became dreamy as he told his story. “I came here not long after the War of the Wrath…”

 

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Chapter End Notes

* ‘A star shines at the hour of our meeting’, greeting spoken by Frodo, in FoTR. Seemed to be a formal greeting for the Quendi so I guessed he did not use it to provoke Daeron at first, but merely common courtesy.    

Unforgivable Sinner

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Chapter 4: Unforgivable Sinner

 

"Listen! Your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground… "

 

He usually liked the rainstorm. It was glorious and frightening, beautiful and breathtaking. He loved the lightning, thunder, and the tempest, even the merciless water pouring down from the sky. But not this time. The awesome force of nature was anything but pleasant to him right now. With a sigh, he cast a gaze through the window. It was dark. Anar should have risen sometime ago, but her presence was invisible behind the ominous clouds. The storm had noticeably abated since last night, but the heavy downpour made it impossible to go out. Daeron felt as if the weather had formed a conspiracy against him, to shut him inside the hut with someone who was his adversary, his kin’s slayer. Worst of all, his lengthy entrapment had caused him to like this Son of Feanor.

 

Maglor had told his entire story; from the time he swore the terrible oath until the first Kinslaying, from the renewal of the oath until the Sack of Sirion, from the moment he took Lúthien’s last descendants into his care until he lost the accursed jewel. Strangely, retelling the story did not aggravate the pain, instead it gave him a kind of relief he had never felt before. He did not care how Daeron would react to his story, whether he would forgive him, or curse him, or even kill him. He had stopped to care about his life in this land of exile for a long time. His life had ceased to have meaning since the Jewel was forever out of his reach. His life was now so lonely and hellish in its emptiness that even Mandos did not scare him anymore. At least there, he could be reunited with his family again. It bewildered even himself of why he never took the path of his eldest brother. Was it because he never had the courage to do so? Nay, it was not. Perhaps, because deep inside of him, a hope still existed. A hope for atonement and redemption. A hope for forgiveness. And who would be more appropriate to grant him just that than the one who was now sitting in front of him? The one whose kin he had slaughtered three times.

Having decided, he murmured his apology, "Forgive me."

 

"What did you just say?" Daeron blinked, awakening from his previous trance, and facing the Noldorin prince, who was unable to meet his eyes.

 

"Forgive me," Maglor repeated, more clearly than before, but more doubtful. How could he be forgiven? How could this Sindar whose people he had killed thrice forgive him?

 

"What for?" he asked again. Maglor's sudden change of attitude perplexed him greatly. He, who used to be proud and tall, now seemed to shrunken in his humility and shame.

 

"Forgive me, for I have murdered many of your kin," said Maglor with a choked voice.

 

Lighting tore up the night sky again and again, followed by frightening roars. But neither of them paid attention to the weather or worried about the modest wooden hut they were in, which started to quiver in the raging tempest.

 

Daeron was silent, surprised by the sudden apology. He did not know how to respond. Who was he to forgive him? One of the Sindar or Teleri, whose people he had slain? Who was he to represent his whole kin to judge him? And if he did, what would the forgiveness mean? A simple word, and the weight of their pain would be devaluated, their suffering would be in vain. How easy it was for this murderer to apologize, to beg for mercy which he had never granted to his victims! Nay, millennia of pain, myriad of tears and blood could not and must not be erased by a mere comforting sentence of ‘I forgive you’. Justice demanded more than a mere apology.

 

"I cannot forgive you." Daeron finally said, slowly but clearly. There was no rage in his voice, for he did not really hate this person. The affliction which this Son of Fëanor had brought to his kin had been far from him. He was not in Aman, nor was he at Doriath and Sirion when the kinslayings took place. He had been running at the time, running in remorse and self-pity, leaving his land and responsibilities to protect her. He too, was not a saint. Therefore, he had no right to condemn Maglor and all his deeds, who was after all his faithfulness to his oath and his father.

 

Maglor nodded in silence. He had expected the answer, though he wished his prediction had been wrong.

 

"It is not that I don’t want to forgive you. I just …can’t. I cannot stand for my kin to pass the proper judgement on you. And my forgiveness cannot undo the sufferings you have inflicted." The last sentence was acidly bitter, but Daeron spoke in such way as if he merely  stated out a fact. A fact no one could deny.

 

Now Maglor understood. Daeron did not withhold his reprieve; he could not. His transgressions were beyond redemption.

 

The weight of all his immeasurable guilt suddenly fell on his shoulders, crushing his spirit at once. He bit his lower lips and buried his face in his hands, ere sobbing desolately. Images of the past assaulted his mind. Images of the first Firstborn who fell on his feet by his sword. And the second, and the third. The faces of everyone he had killed. Their eyes, their blood, their screams, their burning bodies, their lifeless Hroar. The voice of the innocent earth crying out as she licked her first taste of blood. Blood of her inhabitants. The beautiful swan ships, as they were being robbed from their makers and burned to his father's laughter. The dead  bodies of his brothers, slain by Dior. Dior’s body. Corpses of children. The helpless fury mixed with fear in his sons' eyes, the most painful sight, which he could never forget. The very sight that had been haunting him for years, even after they grew to love him. A sight he wanted to vanquish forever - yet it stubbornly remained . The cruellest reminder that after all, he was not their true father, he was but a person who had driven their parents away, killed their people, and destroyed their kingdom. He was a Kinslayer. The word was engraved on his brow, in his hands, his heart, so deeply carved that nothing could erase it. Not the ocean, nor Time, nor he, nor the Valar, nor the person who sat in front of him. Nothing could, and nothing would. Nothing.

 

Behind them, the storm kept raging. The sky was crying and the sea was weeping, as if reflecting the tears that were shed by Iluvatar along with His mourning children.

 

(to be continued)

 

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Chapter End Notes

the quotation is from Genesis 4: 10. NIV.

Daeron’s reaction is inspired by an article I read long ago. About a NAZI soldier who begged forgiveness on his death bed to a Jewish. But the Jewish did not grant him that, for he thought he had no right to demean his people’s suffering by a word of comfort to someone who had tormented them beyond humanity.

Building A Dream

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Chapter 5: Building a Dream

 

 

The storm had completely stopped. The air was fresh, the sky was clear, as if the world had been washed clean by the raging storm that had passed a few hours ago. Daeron was standing on the shore, wondering at the beauty of the sea as if he had never seen it before, smelling the intoxicating scent of salt water mixed with sand. The sea that had been calling him, reminding him of his destiny as a Firstborn, never lost patience with him, although he had ignored it at first. He had heard tales of Elves, maddened by the lure of the sea. And now, he knew why. He had been mystified by the same force as they. It was for this reason that he had traveled here, following the course of the river until the fresh water met the saltier, stronger one, the one in which all waters must end, just like all Elves must end.

 

Sighing deeply, he bowed and gathered the timber he had just hewn for building a ship. A tree he had cut down not without tears or regret, as if cutting chopping off his own limbs. So deep was his attachment to the nature he would leave in a few more weeks, or perhaps days. Tears fell carelessly from his eyes, soaking the wood he was holding. How he hated himself for doing this! He wiped his eyes while whispering irrational apologies to the trees that were now but dead timber ready to be shaped and chiseled to suit his purpose.

 

Maglor was standing a few paces away from the Sindarin minstrel, observing him with sympathy, mixed with envy. Sympathy, for he could sense Daeron’s deep remorse for leaving this land he loved. Envy, because he wished so deeply to be able to have the same chance as he, to sail to the West. How ironic, he thought. He doesn’t want to leave, but having no chance against the calling of the Sea he must go, while I desire to go with all my soul but am banned from doing so. Perhaps this is but a just punishment for both of us. Me, for being a kinslayer, and him for being a betrayer. Maglor smiled ruefully and approached Daeron.

 

“Need help?” he asked.

 

“Thank you,” replied Daeron, clearly relieved, as he was having difficulty in building the ship. He was a loremaster and a minstrel who had hardly built anything but poetries and songs.

 

And so, both worked, sawing woods, driving in nails, exchanging only gestures and brief instructions. They worked until late in the evening, until Ithil lit the clear night sky with her cold light. Stars were spreading their magical glow, twinkling approvingly at the sight of two former adversaries working side by side, each for their own purpose. Daeron, to build a ship to carry himself across the Sea; Maglor, for giving his impossible dream wings through the Sinda he barely knew.  Each worked with caustic tears inside their souls, weeping silently for their fate. Daeron, because he wished to stay, yet he could not, Maglor, because he yearned to go, yet he could not. Fate played her cruel game with them and they could only struggle vainly in her clutching hands.

 

At last, hunger and tiredness called them a halt.

 

“Perhaps we should continue tomorrow,” said Daeron, panting heavily. Being less strong in body, he could barely speak from fatigue. He put down the heavy timber he was carrying and sat beside Maglor.

 

Maglor nodded and laid his hammer aside. Sweat had moistened their hair and faces and covered their bare chests, as their tunics had been long discarded. Both sat on the sand, panting in exhaustion from their long labor. They were silent, busy with their own thoughts, enjoying the fresh sea wind cooling their hot skin.

 

The melancholy light of the moon, along with the gentle breeze from the sea, brought remembrance of the past, the moment that he treasured above all else, the time when he was enjoying the happiest days of his long, wretched life on this exiled shore. It was when his foster children were young. Elrond and Elros never seemed to tire or need rest. Their young Noldorin blood would not allow it. The brighter half of a day was never enough for them to explore, play, and learn. Oftentimes, they managed to escape from his guard to play hide and seek under the moonlight, until he found them and scolded them. Nay, Maglor smiled, he never had the heart to scold them; he simply loved them too much. Gazing into their eyes which were shone in feigned guilt, he would give up immediately with a deep sigh. Then the little half-elven would bounce around him merrily and beg him to sing for them until they fell asleep.

 

“Ada, please sing for us.” Hearing the magic word was all it took to shatter his resistance, and his beloved children knew his soft spot very well. And so, no matter how loud he pretended to groan and grumble at their incessant requests for a song, the three of them knew how much he valued the “singing time” as the most sacred and precious time of their day. Covering them with blankets, he would sing to them many tales with his enchanting voice. Songs about the creation of Arda and the marring, songs about the making of the stars, songs about the awakening at Cuivienin, songs about the surpassing Light of the Trees, songs about the perfect jewels, songs about...

 

He never finished his singing. It was not because the two elflings fell asleep- they always fell asleep in the middle of the songs - nor because he was tired. He simply could not make himself sing out the most sorrowful song he had ever composed. The Noldolante. The first Kinslaying. The first time he killed his fellow Eldar. The first step to the path of no return, to the abyss of condemnation. The first time he knew that he had done, and would do everything to fulfill his dark Oath. The first time he caused children to lose their parents. Children like his beloved little Elrond and Elros. Did the other children have foster parents to love them like his sons? Would someone comfort them when they cried? Sing to them before they fell asleep? Hug them when they were lonely? Or perhaps they were lost and died from starvation like Dior’s sons? Or perhaps they would die from grief over the loss of their parents? How cruel he was, to bring such suffering to those helpless little souls! It was in these moments that Maglor, son of Feanor, the kinslayer, fully understood the consequences of his deeds.

 

And thus he always ended their ‘singing time’ with soft kisses on their foreheads and the sight of his peacefully sleeping sons blurred by his tears.   

 

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“You miss your foster sons,” said Daeron suddenly, jerking Maglor back to reality.

 

“How do you what I have been thinking?” asked Maglor, frowning. He looked curiously at Thingol's former loremaster.

 

“The skill was passed to me by Melian, as well as to Galadriel,” he answered. “Forgive me for prying into your thoughts. I cannot help myself.” It was an honest answer, for he had felt drawn toward Maglor ever since the Noldo revealed his story to him. Perhaps it was because no one had opened themselves to him since Lúthien. Perhaps because he was sympathizing with Maglor.

 

“Don’t do that again,” said Maglor irritated. He rose and stretched out his hand to help Daeron get up. “Come. Let us go back to my hut. I am hungry, and I think you are too.”

 

“Thank you.” Daeron took his hand and rose, feeling discomfited for receiving so much kindness from his supposed adversary. The ‘kinslayer’ had never stopped puzzling him ever since they met. He used to think that all sons of Feanor were haughty and heartless, the kind of Eldar who had fallen into unforgivable rebellion against their conscience and the wisdom of the Valar. Instead, he found someone who was kind and helpful, someone who was regretting his past deeds and admitted his responsibility for what he had done.

 

“Er… Maglor?” Daeron called his name tentatively. It felt awkward to call him by his name, yet calling him ‘Lord Maglor’ would sound more bizarre.

 

“Yes?” Maglor turned from his steaming soup, which had occupied his mind for the past few minutes. Although it was a leftover, it tasted very good. The Noldorin males, including Maglor, were well known to possess great ability in cooking, and Daeron was grateful for the fact. He had not eaten for some time and started to feel dizzy with hunger and fatigue.

 

“Why do you help me?”

 

Maglor shrugged, but said nothing. He knew why he helped the Sinda, but he did not want to discuss such a private matter with him. Not now. Not ever. He would keep his feeling for himself.

 

“You better get some rest,” Maglor finally said, pointing to his bed. “You can sleep there.”

 

“But where will you sleep?” Daeron asked, feeling more uncomfortable than before, because Maglor lent him his only bed. There was no couch in that simple hut where he could rest decently. 

 

“I will sleep outside.”

 

“But…”

 

Maglor raised his hand, stopping his argument. “Just rest. We’ll have to continue the ship tomorrow. As for me, I enjoy sleeping outside in such fine weather, so don’t worry.” Although his voice was not stern, he spoke with authority- for he was once a Lord among his people - allowing no objection from Daeron.  

 

“Thank you.”

 

Maglor smiled faintly and went outside. He had lied. He was not going to sleep. He would spend this night working on the ship that would carry the Sinda and his dream across the Sea.

 

 

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A New Bond

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Chapter 6: A New Bond

 

Dawn had just risen. Anar awoke from her slumber, spreading a reddish glow across the cloudless sky as she shyly came from her hiding place beyond the far horizon. Her visage was ever changing, from the half orange disk to the full round golden plate, from the timid glow beyond the horizon to the engulfing brightness of the day, overshadowing the dim light of the stars. Her power too, was ever changing, from the meek warmth of the morn to the burning heat of the noon, and would fade again when night came. But she had not faded yet, for a new day had just begun.

 

It’s too bad that the only person who had the chance to behold the glory of the new day was too absorbed by his work.

 

The little ship was almost done. Maglor stepped backward and smiled, admiring his handiwork with sheer satisfaction, like a painter admired his masterpiece. The ship was not exquisite, nor stunningly beautiful. But it was perfect. And was built with such passion and determination as the builder hadn’t felt for a long time.

 

As a Noldo, creating something was part of his blood. Yet, Maglor hardly used his hands to produce something. He was admired for his talent in music, unlike his father who was well known as the best craftsman in Arda. Maglor had always known that he was different from Fëanor.

 

When he was a child, his father always told him that he was different from him and from his brothers. He possessed a gentler heart and his flame was far subtler than theirs. The first was obviously proved when he took Elwing’s sons into his care, and raised them with a love that could put a mother to shame. But was it also true that his flame was dimmer than those of his father and brother? Perhaps nothing or no one had ever lit his fire before. Or perhaps he was too afraid to let his fire burn freely. Afraid that he would turn out as his father, whose untamable flame caused his downfall. 

 

A playful gull flew by his face and landed on top of the unfinished ship. Then the creature tilted his head and looked at Maglor, as if wanting to say something. The gull’s amusing behavior made him want to laugh. He stretched out his hand slowly, intending to pet the white bird. But it fled just a second before he could touch it. How very like the Sinda minstrel who was sleeping in his hut right now, his only companion since he stopped counting the passing of Time. He came for just a while and would leave soon. 

 

Maglor shook his head and chastised himself for too much musing. So, after being a minstrel, a kinslayer, a father, and a carpenter, now you become a philosopher, reflecting and contemplating endlessly? He laughed inwardly as he pictured his father's face. If only he knew his son's choice of career.  He turned and headed toward the hut to fetch a can of paint for finishing the ship. Sometimes he made some wooden figurines and sold it in Men villages, that was why he kept many woodworking kits and materials. 

 

**********

 

Inside the hut, he found Daeron was still sleeping peacefully. His starlike eyes were wide opened, but unfocused. His chest was moving up and down in a slow rhythm, signaling his peaceful rest. A great minstrel he might be, and a great loremaster too, but now he seemed more like a child, vulnerable and innocent. Just like any other Elves when sleeping.

 

Maglor could not suppress an urge to place a chaste kiss on his forehead before he left.

 

 

**********

 

“What do you make this ship for?” asked Daeron, confused. He had awakened and was looking for Maglor while the Noldo was wholly concentrated on painting the ship, oblivious to his surroundings, his brows frowned in his earnest attempt to create the perfect result. He was so engaged in his work that he would not have noticed Daeron’s coming if the minstrel had not called out his name at first.

 

Maglor had told Daeron that he was banned from returning to the West. But why did he build the ship? The Sinda assumed that perhaps, Maglor wanted to try his luck by sailing to the West with him. Perhaps he thinks that the Valar will not have the heart to forbid me from entering the West just because he is with me, Daeron thought. Still it is a great risk to take, at least on my part. I would have to face the Valar’s wrath if I dare to bring this kinslayer with me. Should I reject his request, though? But he makes the ship! I would not possibly do it myself if he didn’t help me.

 

“I am making this ship for you,” the busy Elf answered, not looking to at Daeron as he spoke. Understanding the thoughts battling in Daeron mind.

 

“For me? Why?” Daeron was more puzzled than before, if that was possible. 

 

“You cannot build this ship on your own. So, I make it for you,” Maglor continued to paint as he spoke. His face was a rigid mask, which was hiding his own longing and despair. You had better go before I get too accustomed to your company, he thought silently. Sooner or later you will go, and I will be alone again. But it will be less painful if you go sooner. Please go, Maglor pleaded silently, half expecting Daeron to pry into his mind, so he would understand his pain.

 

“Why?” Daeron asked again, walking closer to Maglor. He was tempted to pry into his mind, but was reluctant to do so. Maglor had warned him, and he too understood that he had no right to do so. But something was telling him that Maglor wanted him to pry, to listen to the cry he could not utter with words. He could not explain, but the urge was overwhelming, and Maglor too, seemed to lay bare his mind before him, waiting for him to come, though he did not, or could not say it out loud.

 

He probed a little and moved further when he felt no resistance from Maglor. “You miss your family. And you wish me to sail to the West and return to your family as an exchange of your inability to do so. “

 

“If you don’t mind.” Maglor answered with his mind. Tears were pooling in his eyes, but he quickly wiped it them away, not wanting to look vulnerable in front of Daeron. After all he had his pride, no matter how insignificant it was. He put down his can and paintbrush, and stared unfocusedly to the half painted boat.

 

“I do not. But your family does, for you can never be replaced by anyone, much less by me,” came a gentle reminder from Daeron’s mind. Gentler and more comforting than he had intended to. He had touched a part of Maglor’s mind, and therefore, felt his pain as if it was his own. The Sinda sensed there deep remorse, not only for the kinslayings he had committed, but also for leaving his mother, and his foster sons. He missed them terribly. He missed his mother, the gentle but strong Nerdanel. He missed his sons, Elros, who was now resting in the Doom for mortals, and for Elrond, who he knew had never ceased to expect him to return. If only it were possible. He sensed his loneliness and despair, the feelings which made Daeron wanting to weep on his behalf. Surely, there was no punishment crueler than this, he thought.

 

”Then you can deliver my message to them.”

 

“Saying what?” Daeron asked, though he already knew the answer.

 

“That I love them, and I am sorry for causing them pain.”

 

With the words, a sob broke from his throat and he buried his face into his hands. His pain was so palpable that Daeron could not help but sit beside him and gathered him in his arms, giving the Exiled Elf something he did not find for Ages. Comfort and Understanding.

 

 ***************

 

Comfort

The words said in thoughts are in italics.

Read Comfort

 

Chapter 7: Comfort

 

 

Pain. Loneliness. Guilt.

 

Maglor could find no respite, no hope from his inner turmoil. He wished to end it all, to die, but death would not bring relief. His demons would always haunt him wherever he went. He knew that his lament would never pass the barrier the Valar had set, but did not care. Songs were his only faithful companions. Singing was the only way to keep him sane, to help him endure the pain when it started to overwhelm him, such as in the moment when he would loose another friend and the last piece of his hope. Sing he must, or else he would loose the last piece of himself. And thus the sea wind winged his lament to the air:

 

I have cried to the wind

and heard the wind's reply:

"I did not choose the way,

the way chose me."

I have felt the fire on my hands

till they are swollen black

with a prophetic joy:

"Burn with me!

The only music is time,

the only dance is love."

If the heart were pure enough,

but it is not pure,

I would admit

that nothing compels me

any more, nothing

at all abides,

but nostalgia and desire,

the two-way ladder

between darkness and light.

On the threshold

of the last mystery,

at the brute absolute hour,

I have looked into the eyes

of my creature self,

which are glazed with madness,

and I say

he is not broken but endures,

limber and firm

in the state of his shining,

forever inheriting his salt kingdom,

from which he is banished

forever.

 

Daeron listened to the song, feeling his heart broken by its sadness and beauty. He wished fervently that he could ease Maglor’s pain, promising him a brighter future. Sadly, he could not. Never did he resent a sense of helplessness so much. He did not know what else to do, so he whispered nonsensical words to Maglor in a futile attempt to ease his pain. Hush, everything will be all right. Everything will be all right.

 

It will not, replied Maglor. Nothing will be all right, and you know it.

 

It will be! Do you really believe all hope has gone? He gripped Maglor’s shoulder more tightly.

 

Yes.

 

A tear escaped Daeron’s eye.  Maglor’s hopelessness was even more difficult to bear than his loneliness and remorse. Elves could die from grief. When they thought they had naught to live for, they would grow weary and discard their flesh, like Miriel. Most Eldar survived, however, because they had hope. When they lost their loved one, they would take comfort that one day, their beloved would be reembodied and they would eventually reunite. Of course, the Eldar who loved mortals did not have such comfort. Neither did someone who was grieving for his eternal expulsion such as Maglor. The Son of Feanor believed that he could never return to Aman again, whether he died or lived. Perhaps he would be united again with his brothers and father if he chose to die and go to Mandos’ Hall.

 

Daeron did not want him to die. He refused to believe all doors had been closed for the once-kinslayer. He knew he was denying reality, just like when he refused to believe Luthíen did not love him, but now he did not care. What kind of world was this, where redemption was forever out of reach, even when one sincerely strived for it? There must be a way. Maglor had certainly given up, but he had not, he would not. He would not give up and run away in shame like he used to do, which would end up in eternal remorse.

 

We will sail to West together.

 

Maglor freed himself from Daeron’s embrace ere he looked him in the eye, surprised by the words he had just heard. We? Together?

 

Yes, why not? After all, you are the one who built the ship. Without your help, I wouldn’t be able to do it.

 

But…

 

We will sail away together. Should we perish together, so be it, Daeron said determinedly. His voice clearly showed he would accept no further argument. This was the only thing he could do to help Maglor. He did not care if the Valar would not allow them to find the Straight Road, or even drown their humble ship just because Maglor was with him. No one awaited him in the Blessed Land anyway. He had never done something which was purely altruistic, and this was his only chance to help someone in need. He would not fail Maglor.

 

Thank you, answered the Noldo. He did not know what to say. Daeron really surprised him. How could someone who used to despise him so much would end up helping him? Did the Sinda pity him? Nay, Maglor would not accept pity. It is better to be tortured and mocked than being pitied.

 

I do not pity you, Daeron said. Maglor had forgotten that their minds were still connected. Though Daeron could read Maglor’s unprotected mind as easy as an open book, Maglor could not do the same with him.

 

Then why?

 

A long silent followed the question. Daeron could not answer, because his motivation was inexplicable, even to him. Perhaps, it was true that he only pitied Maglor. After all, what’s the difference between compassion and pity?

 

But he was certain of one thing. Gently, he embraced Maglor again and kissed his forehead. I  love you.

 

 

 

*************

 

 

 

 “Why?” Maglor asked, surprised. Had Daeron said that he wanted to kill Maglor, he would certainly understand. But loving him? This kinslayer? Had he misheard the word? Had Daeron lost his mind during his lonesome pilgrimage?

 

The Sinda minstrel did not answer.  Instead, he kept lavishing Maglor’s face with chaste kisses: his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, his lips.

 

“Why, Daeron? Why love a kinslayer like me?” He could barely recognize his voice which was unusually reedy, almost like a squeak of a gull. He did not really expect an answer, for fear his heart would be torn apart once again. He was not sure if he could endure another pain. He chided himself for being so vulnerable, but he could not help it. How long had he wished to love and to be loved, and now as the chance finally came to him, he could not reassure himself that he was worthy of it. Much less when it came from a person whose people he had slain thrice. 

                                                                                                           

“Does love need a reason?” Daeron tightened his embrace, but still maintained the gentleness. Maglor could break free from his touch if he were willing, for he would never force him. Of course, the Noldo Prince had no such intention at all. Why would he? What was left of his defense was completely destroyed by the unexpected gentleness from Daeron. Maglor was now content in basking in the comfort of Daeron’s embrace, feeling his thirsty soul satiated by the Sinda’s selfless love. His chest was comforting; the soft thud of his heart was reassuring.   

 

They stayed like that for a long time. No words were spoken and none were needed. Comfort. Love. Peace. Even slight joy. Such welcoming feelings were now surrounded them, drowning them, expelling the cold reality that was awaiting them once they awoke from their conscious dream. They did not know how long this joy would last. An hour or maybe two, and if they were lucky, a day. Perhaps this fragment of time would pass away like a tear dried by the wind. But the memory would last. As the pain of the past would forever remain, this fleeting moment too, would be remembered until the end of Arda.  

 

Ithil had risen and stars were visible again. A day was but a blink of the eye for Immortals who had spent their entire life waiting. The sound of waves grew louder as they came nearer and nearer to the place where the last of the Undying on the mortal shore embraced each other. There would be a time when the waves would force them to break apart. And not until then one could tell whether the intimacy they had just shared would grow or fade.   

 

*************

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

The song Maglor sang is taken from the poem King of the River by Stanley Kunitz. I changed the word “you” into “I” and “your” into “my” so that it fits the singer more. Also the 5th line is supposed to be “you have tasted the fire on your tongue”. I changed this into “I have felt the fire on my hands”. I changed “between heaven and hell” into “between darkness and light”. I hope Mr. Kunitz will not be angry at me.

Kiss The Flame

Read Kiss The Flame

 

 Twice or thrice I loved thee
Before I knew thy face or name
So in a voice, so in shapeless flame,

- - - -John Donne "Air and Angels"

 

 

Chapter 8: Kiss the Flame

 

“Daeron?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“People call you the greatest minstrel on Arda, yet I never hear you sing.”

 

The Sinda minstrel chuckled. He had not sung for a very long time. Singing had brought him painful memories of his long lost love. Besides, there was no reason to sing or celebrate anyway. He had gown tired of lamenting; therefore, he stopped singing all together.

 

But now, when Maglor asked for his song, he did not mind.  For Maglor gave him a new reason to sing.

 

Gather yourself at the seashore

And I will love you there

 

Assemble yourself with wild things

With songs of the sparrow and sea foam

 

Let mad beauty collect itself

In your eyes and it will shine, calling me

 

For I long for a man

With nests of wild things in his hair

 

A man who will kiss the flame

 

The second he finished the last tune, the minstrel turned to face the one for whom he composed the song. He reached out for Maglor and kissed him tentatively, for fear that Maglor would push him away. After all, he was a Noldorin Lord, son of The Spirit of Fire, foster father of Elrond and Elros. And who was he? A Moriquendi who had never beheld the beauty of the Trees. A Sinda who had never known the wisdom of the Valar. A lover whose love had been rejected. A betrayer. A coward. A fool... for he had dared to hope for a love he did not deserve. How could he hope that Maglor would bend the wisdom of the Valar, neglecting the Laws and Customs of his people for him? His lips trembled but he deepened the kiss. Please, he said to himself, grant me just one moment of illusion.

 

Tears escaped his eyes as he felt Maglor eagerly parted his lips, letting Daeron taste his sweet breath. Never had he loved someone so overwhelmingly, especially when he learned through his probing tongue, that Maglor had never kissed so deeply before. So, he was the first one to share such intimacy with this Noldo Prince?

 

Maglor perceived Daeron’s uncertainty and circled his arms around the Sinda in a reassuring embrace. His tongue collided with Daeron’s as he learned to give and take the fleshly pleasure instinctively. He felt unworthy of the greatest minstrel’s affection, but he would not turn him down. He had inflicted too much pain already, he didn’t have to add this person to the long list of his victims just because of his irrational inferiority. Especially, because he too loved Daeron as much as the Sinda loved him, perhaps even more.

 

Their kiss started as gentle exploration of each other ere it turned to something more needy. A kiss that came from despair and hunger. They kissed like  dying men gasping for breath. Their lips were swollen, their lungs were screaming, but they did not stop, they could not stop. They desperately devoured each other, striving for more. They shed tears as they kissed, wetting their faces and clothes. The salty tears that touched their tongues, reminded them of the taste of ashes. For they did not kiss the flames. They were kissing the last embers of their fading souls.

 

****************

 

Finally, they broke up, for their physical bodies were unable to resist the need for air. Their eyes locked for a second, but it was enough. For at that time, both of them understood of why they had come to love each other. Their spirits had been drained beyond comprehension. They had been bearing burdens that gnawed their soul and consumed their vigor, killing them till they became dying immortals who wandered like  living corpses on this mortal shore. Their waning souls yearned for release, for strength, for joy, for love.

 

“Thank you.” Daeron blushed and looked away, though he was still caught in Maglor’s arms.

 

“For what?”

 

“For not pulling away.”

 

“Why would I?”

 

Daeron shrugged.

 

“I am not worth it,” Maglor said softly. He gazed up to the sky, as if talking to the heaven.

 

“Neither am I,” replied Daeron.

 

“But…”

 

“Hush.” Daeron placed a finger on Maglor’s lips. “Let us not quarrel who is more unworthy. We have our own faults and they cannot be undone. We have wandered alone for five Ages in remorse, surely it is enough?”

 

“You are wise,” Maglor smiled. “How come I never saw it before?”

 

“From now on, you shall learn more about me.” Daeron’s hand found his way to Maglor’s back, massaging him affectionately. Maglor leaned into the touch, and kissed Daeron’s hair ere he pulled away.

 

“I ..am.. sorry,” Daeron blushed again. His heart pounded. How could he think that Maglor would accept his invitation? “I don’t mean to…”

 

“No,” Maglor chuckled. “I just want to bring you to a more comfortable place.” He stood up and offered his hand to Daeron, who felt very much relieved.

 

They reached the mentioned place within minutes. It was a vast soft sandy beach, very unlike the rocky part they had just left. The waves were steadier, and the water was clearer. They could vaguely see the horizon separated the heaven from the sea. Daeron looked up and saw the limitless sky adorned by most beautiful constellations, twinkling and shining with their pure light, seemingly unaffected by all the marring of Arda. He closed his eyes and felt their gentle light kissed his eyelids. The waves splashed against his feet, and the wind blew in his hair. This was indeed the perfect place for their first union. He shuddered at the awareness that the earth, the sea, and the sky would be the witnesses of their love tonight.

 

He felt overwhelming doubt rush through him as Maglor laid him down carefully on the soft sand. He had never loved before. It was true that he had fallen for Luthien once, and now he couldn't be more certain that he loved Maglor, even though this love was born out of despair and loneliness rather than from stormy passion. But he had never felt, nor expected his love to be returned. He was afraid to experience his first taste of joy. How long have I longed to be loved! And yet, as I am standing in front of its gate, I tremble. What will I feel when I am truly loved? he mused. Perhaps it is not as blissful as I expect, perhaps it is more than I ever dreamt of. It is a mystery I will soon discover.

Maglor could not help but detect Daeron's uneasiness, though he mistook it for something else. "We don't have to do this if you don't want to," Maglor said.
 

"But I want it. Don’t you?" Daeron did not need to probe Maglor's mind to know what he had been thinking. Maglor had a severe habit of self-deprecation which he was determined to break.

 

"Yes, but you seem so nervous."

 

Daeron laughed. "My anxiety is but an anticipation of what we will soon share, my love."

 

"Is this the first time you have ever…?"

 

"Nay, for our people are not bound to the same Laws as yours. Yet, " Daeron paused and gazed intently  into his soon-to-be lover's eyes. "Though I have shared my body with others, never have I had the privilege to share my love." He kissed Maglor and spoke in the Noldo's mouth, "Not until now."
 
 

They kissed fervently. The boneless parts of their mouths danced in each other's sweet cavern, exploring, tasting, teasing, battling, heightening their desire, sending the two lovers into the world which was ungoverned by thoughts. Tears once again wetted their eyes as they devoured each other's flesh with their tongues, tasting the moisture from their skin mixed with sands and salts as they eagerly sought to discover each other, drank from each other, and gave to each other. Their limbs were entangled, desperately seeking more contact, more closeness, as if they wished to dive into each other's skin in their attempt to be one.

 

"Inye tye-mela*," Daeron whispered in Maglor's mother tongue, surprising the Noldo prince greatly. However, he did not have time to question the Sinda for pleasure like he had never felt before rushed through him like a tidal wave as their bodies joined together in perfect harmony. Passion sang through them as if their bodies were harps that winged the most enchanting melodies. He wanted to sing, wanted to cry, wanted to die. The bliss was so overwhelming. The beauty of this moment was beyond his ability to describe, not even in the greatest song he had or would ever compose.

 

Their fleshly joining was momentary, but it would last forever in their souls, a golden thread that would decorate the grim tapestry of Fate. For once, they were whole. Not pieces of spirit shattered by guilt. Or a heart broken by unrequited love. Nor shadows who roamed in loneliness.

 

For when they joined in their bodies and souls, they knew. Their Love was not theirs, for the invincible Power that was now singing through their bodies was the same Power, the same Love that moved the universe.

And thus, they began their journey in understanding the Great Song of Ea.

 

**************

 

 

The two minstrels lay side by side while panting heavily, spent by their ardent love making.  Their spirits soared in unutterable joy. Oh, how long had they suffered in loneliness, waiting, hoping. And their patience was not in vain.

 

Maglor smiled, it felt strange that he used to be so desperate to seek for the Silmaril. And yet, just when he thought had been condemned to eternal Darkness for his failure, he was given a new light, a new hope. Had someone asked him to choose between the lifeless Gem and his new found love, he knew which he would choose without hesitation.

 

The once-lost Noldo Prince turned to his lover lying beside him, who had been looking at him in wonder.

 

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

 

“Because I have never seen such a beautiful being,” Daeron answered sincerely, causing an uncharacteristic blush on Maglor’s cheeks.

 

“Certainly I am not fairer than Luthien.”

 

“Oh yes, you are.”

 

Maglor raised his eyebrows in clear disbelief.

 

Smiling, Daeron cupped Maglor’s face and looked him in the eye. “For me, you are the fairest of all, even more than Luthien. For she was my first love but it’s from you I learned the meaning of true love: to give instead of taking, to let go instead of possessing. She broke my heart but you healed it. And I am eternally grateful for that.”

 

He captured Maglor’s lips with his own and sealed them with the last remnant of his passion as their breath fused together. This time, the kiss was full of hope, like a young gull that stretched out its wings and flew for the first time. For their hunger had been appeased and their fire rekindled.

 

Tomorrow they would depart from this fading shore together, facing anything that the future had in store for them. Yet, it did not seem to matter. They had found the true light that they had desperately sought. Light came not from visible Beauty which had betrayed them, destroyed them, and made them commit many transgressions. They had found Light that burned, but did not consume. Light that warmed, instead of scorching. Light as pure and eternal as the stars. It was a light of the Flame Imperishable. It was the light of Love.

 

 

"And now these 3 things remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

I Corinthians 13: 13 ( NIV)

 

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

*inye-tye mela = I love you, in Quenya. If I got it right

Daeron’s song is the poem by Jewel, “Gather Yourself” in her poetry book A Night without Armor.