Renewing The Song by Naltariel

Animosity

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.