Swan Song by Ithilwen

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Doomsday

Chapter 3 – Doomsday

Home at first had not been what Maglor had expected.

He had expected peace. What he got was chaos. The boat was met by a large crowd, a crowd that quickly turned from curious and high-spirited to menacing when it realized who the final passenger on the last vessel was. All too quickly he'd found himself bound (he'd fought that in a desperate panic, not remembering exactly why he should not allow himself to be restrained, only knowing that he must not submit to it – but his resistance was futile in the end) and locked in a wagon, and all through the long, jolting ride he lay huddled in despair in the corner farthest from the door and tried to will himself back onto the beach. But it hadn't worked. Instead of the beach, he soon found himself in the center of a stone circle beneath the gaze of beings whom he did not recognize but somehow knew he should dread.

They questioned him, first with words, then (when his tongue and his wits failed him, leaving him cowering speechless under their fierce gaze) with their minds, laying his own scattered thoughts out like pages which they sifted through methodically to find their answers. He was not powerful enough to stop them, and too terrified to try, and so he did his best to submit to their implacable interrogation.

The voice of the thunderstorm, crackling through his mind with a searing flash of blue-white brilliance and the sharp scent of ozone: Why did you swear the Oath?

The voice of the mountain, boulders tumbling and crashing together in a mental avalanche that threatened to entirely bury his thoughts: Why did you refuse our summons to judgment, when in your heart you knew your Oath was folly and you wanted to comply?

The voice of the ocean, blue-green and salty and slamming into him so hard he could scarcely breathe: Why did you wait so long to submit? Why did you not return when we lifted the Ban, as your cousin Artanis did?

The voice of the stars, cold and piercing and incandescent: Do you regret what you did?

And finally, when he knew he could bear no more, the voice of the Doomsman, remote and echoing and sharp as cut glass: You have committed great evil against many, Kanafinwë Makalaurë, but in the course of your long folly you have succeeded in even more gravely marring yourself. The wounds you have inflicted upon yourself in your pride and stubbornness and fear are more lasting and severe than any which I would have imposed upon your person had your fate been to pass through the doors of my own Halls. Accordingly, the judgment of the Valar is this: that you be remanded into the custody of Irmo and Estë until such time as they see fit to release you to rejoin your kin, whereupon you may go as seems good to you.

And then it was over, and Maglor found himself collapsed on the ground in a tight, huddled ball, looking at two sets of feet. A woman's voice, soft as down, said "Come with us now, Kanafinwë" and gentle fingers brushed across his fetters and they crumbled at once into dust. Maglor felt his spirits rise a little at the loss of his bonds, and looked up timidly into the faces of the man and woman who stood waiting beside them, and did not know them. They seemed to him quite ordinary faces until he looked at their eyes, and then he knew that if his chains had been removed, it was only because these two beings had no need of such crude restraints to overmaster him at will. And so he yielded to his despair and rose to his feet and followed as they led him off to whatever terrible torment they had devised for his punishment.

They placed him in a garden.

He was told he was not free to leave it (and from their tone he knew that meant he could not leave it, try however hard he might), but within its confines he might roam as he wished. And that was all that happened.

Every morning the woman (whom he did not know) spoke with him briefly and touched his head, and every evening the man (whom he did not know) spoke with him briefly and touched his thoughts. The rest of the time he was left alone to do whatever he wished to do. He kept no track of the passage of days, for one was very much like another, but over the slow course of time it felt to him that the currents on which he had been swept for so very long were slowing down, transforming into gentle eddies rather than riptides, and because of this staying anchored in place, though still very tiring, was becoming easier.

The woman was Estë. The man was Irmo. The garden was called Lórien, and this was not the first time he had been to it. He was proud of himself, the first time he was able to remember these things entirely on his own. It seemed an accomplishment.

And that was how he came to find himself lying on the ground amidst a tangle of honeysuckle, head propped against the trunk of a mallorn tree, dozing in the sweetly-scented morning air while half-listening to a conversation taking place on the other side of the tree a few dozen paces away. Maglor supposed his eavesdropping might be considered rude, but it had been a long time since he'd heard other voices besides his own and those of his keepers, so he stayed where he was and listened anyway. He was floating, not anchored, in any case, so the words drifted past him like water (though he rather suspected that he wouldn't understand most of what was being said even if he had been trying to listen to the conversation for the sense of it rather than merely the sound). Faint voices drifted past him on the breeze:

"…will find him much changed…"

"You must understand, we are not permitted to alter incarnates. The most I can do to a hröa in which a fëa actually resides is encourage the hröa's own natural healing process, and that has limits…"

"…more passive than before the injuries…"

"…his memories are like the sun in a cloudy sky: rarely bright, often veiled and misty, occasionally completely hidden. Sometimes his mind can see them, other times it cannot, and it is never entirely predictable…"

"At this point, we have done all we can for him here. He will make more progress now surrounded by those who love him. Any further improvement will be slow, but do not give up hope…"

"If you find you cannot care for him, or should you desire a respite, you may return him to us –"

"That will not happen, aire; he is family."

That latter voice was loud, and not simply because it was male. It was close; apparently the people had been walking toward the tree as they conversed. Maglor decided it would be a good idea to look like he was sleeping, and so he closed his eyes tightly and allowed his mind to float away completely. Once the people had passed by, he'd allow himself to rouse enough to enjoy the honeysuckle. Maybe.

Just as he had drifted into a true sleep, he was roused by a hand shaking his shoulder. "Kanafinwë, wake up." A second male voice; he did not know it. No wait, he did know it: Irmo. Reluctantly Maglor opened his eyes; he was pleased to see that he had in fact got it right. Irmo was holding out his hand to help Maglor onto his feet. Maglor was sad to be leaving the honeysuckle, but there was no helping it; Irmo wanted him on his feet, and so he must rise. He took the proffered hand and let Irmo help him up. "There are some people here who are eager to see you, Kanafinwë," his keeper said, smiling. Maglor walked with Irmo around to the other side of the tree, where he saw Estë conversing with three people. A plain-faced woman with nutmeg hair. A tall man with his right hand missing, and hair and eyes like fire. Another woman, dark-haired and slender as a willow stick. He looked at them for a long moment, trying to remember, and then his heart leapt with joy.

"Russandol!" he said to the man, and "Mother!" he said to the nutmeg woman. And Nerdanel took him into her arms and hugged him so hard and so long he could barely breathe, while he let his head rest on her shoulder.

A second hug followed, from his brother, shorter and less constricting. "Welcome back, filit," his brother said to him as he let Maglor go. "We've missed you."

That left the willow-woman. Maglor turned and looked carefully at her; she seemed to be waiting expectantly for something. He thought hard: nothing. "I don't know you," he finally said to her, and watched as she bit her lower lip and bright tears filled her eyes, not understanding why his words caused this stranger so much pain. Beside him Nerdanel gasped; apparently he'd upset his mother too. It was very confusing.

Russandol, his voice sad, said, "Filit, that's your wife, Aurel."

Maglor shook his head; he was sure he'd remember something as important as having a wife. Clearly there'd been some sort of mistake, but it could be sorted out later. Ignoring the willow-stranger, he turned his attention back to his mother. "I'm so glad you've come to visit me," he said to her.

His mother took both his hands into her own. "We haven't come to visit you, Makalaurë. We've come to take you home." She started to lead him away; Maglor noticed that his brother and the willow-woman remained behind talking with Estë, but he was only able to hear brief snatches of their conversation.

"…mind may not recognize your face, but his fëa knows your own, for you are bondmates. Touch him that way, fëa to fëa, and he will know you…"

"No, this is not the worst challenge you will all face, Maitimo; that lies ahead of you, when he has healed enough to be aware of the full extent of his injuries and the severity of his limitations…"

He wished he hadn't overheard those bits; they sounded ominous. But he quickly put them out of his mind, for he had something more enjoyable to think about. After more wandering than he could remember, he was at last going home to stay.

Chapter End Notes

The Valar and Nerdanel are being rather old-fashioned here, and are using Maglor's Quenya name: Kanafinwë Makalaurë (which means "strong-voiced/commanding Finwë, forging gold").

Russandol ("Copper-Top") is a nickname Maedhros was given by his family, on account of his copper hair.

Aurel – "Morning Star." Thank you, Naltariel, for the name!

Maitimo – the Quenya mother-name of Maedhros. It means "well-formed one."

Fëa – "Soul"

Hröa – "Body"

Aire – "Holy One." The proper way to address a Vala.

Filit – "Small bird." A childhood nickname my Maedhros gave to his brother Maglor.

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