Swan Song by Ithilwen

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Swan Song

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Chapter 10 – Swan Song

To Maglor's immense relief, he did not recognize the city of Alqualondë when he entered it. At least not at first.

He kept his hood up as he and Aurel made their way through the crowded streets, in the hopes of avoiding unpleasant encounters. It worked; no one seemed to recognize him. But it also interfered with his vision, which was immensely frustrating. For Maglor soon saw that his daughter was right: the chief city of the Teleri was indeed beautiful, and here he was limited by a cloth-imposed tunnel vision to quick peeks, instead of being able to take all its many glories in properly. Almost he was tempted to throw the hood back and take his chances. Almost. But then he thought about the likely result if he did so, and resisted the impulse. He couldn't help but wish, though, that the subterfuge wasn't necessary, and resent his self-imposed blindness.

Then the two of them turned a corner, and Maglor suddenly found himself looking down the street toward the one sight he knew immediately: the docks of Alqualondë, framed by the great rock arch of its harbor. For an instant he was too startled to move, as jumbled memories suddenly flooded through his mind.

…the soft grey gleam of the stone arch under the light of Telperion, as white ships sail beneath its shadow, their decks laden with fish…

…the hollow knock of his boot heels on wooden planks mingling with the soft lapping of the waves and the cries of gulls, which together create a music of their own, if not quite the one he is struggling to complete in his mind in time for the next day's Composition class…

…flames and shouts and screams of pain, the sea air carrying the sour metallic tang of blood, bodies littering the ground all around him, he looks up from the unfolding horror in desperation to see the cold starlight falling on the arch, and atop it the small figures locked together in desperate struggle, and as he watches, the bodies gracefully topple off the arch into the air like seabirds taking wing, but instead of being lifted into the sky on the wind they continue their plummet down into the devouring black waves…

The touch of Aurel's hand on his arm abruptly brought Maglor's mind back to the present, and he dropped his gaze and turned away from the sight of the docks. For the rest of their walk to the conservatory auditorium, he kept his eyes fixed firmly downward.

They arrived at the auditorium a bit early and made their way backstage, where they found Tuilir in earnest conversation with a slight, rather slender young man with striking blue-green eyes and hair the color of ash wood. "Mother, Father! You came!" she called out, breaking off her conversation with her friend to hug each of her parents in turn. She then turned to her companion and said, "This is Aearchallon, the boy I told you about in my letter. He's a harpist, and he'll be accompanying me – and I, him. We've chosen a duet – harp and flute, with alternating vocals. But I'm so nervous, I can't imagine how I'm going to manage to sing even a note!" The young man said nothing but instead met Maglor's gaze with a cryptic stare, and Maglor realized Tuilir's companion almost certainly knew his true identity and, though he was clearly Ages too young himself to have been alive at the time of the Kinslaying, held what surely must be rather conflicted, if not outright disapproving, feelings toward his close friend's infamous father.

So, our daughter's lover is a Teler, Maglor thought unhappily. Not surprising, given the setting of this school, but a definite unwelcome complication regardless. But he kept those thoughts to himself, saying aloud only, "You'll do fine. Just remember to breathe!" Before Tuilir could say more the call went out to clear the backstage area in preparation for the start of the performance, and Maglor and Aurel had to leave. As they went to take their seats, Maglor glanced over his shoulder in time to see the quiet young man take his daughter's hand into his own and place a tender kiss on her cheek.

To Maglor's surprise and dismay, the auditorium was filling up rapidly. "I thought this was supposed to be a lightly-attended performance," he said to his wife as the two of them settled into two of the last remaining seats. One of the people seated behind them overheard Maglor's comment and said, "Usually it is. But some of the students in this group of underclassmen are unusually talented. There's a very good flautist playing, a first-year, and one of the third years has an excellent voice and has chosen to sing the Noldolantë, hence the large audience."

"Isn't that a rather… unusual… choice to sing here, of all places?" Maglor was careful to keep his head turned so his face wasn't fully visible as he whispered his question to the stranger seated behind him.

"An ambitious choice, to be sure. Most students wouldn't attempt that lay until their fifth year, at the earliest. But the song laments the downfall of the Noldor, and who would take more pleasure in that than the people of this city?"

"Oh." Maglor slumped in his seat, suddenly acutely conscious of the sea of Teleri surrounding him, as the man behind him continued, "You aren't from Alqualondë, I take it. Parents of one of the students, I assume?" Maglor nodded, but was spared further conversation as the lamps dimmed and the low murmurings of the crowd died in anticipation of the start of the performance.

One the auditorium was dark and everyone's attention had shifted to the stage and the performers on it, Maglor found himself finally beginning to relax. It wasn't long before his attention was completely given over to the music, in a way that had not happened since long before he'd left the mortal lands for Aman. As he'd expected, the quality of the performances was uneven, but even the least polished of the students showed a nascent promise, creating music that was both enjoyable now and which hinted at becoming something more than merely pleasant in the future. Tuilir, as he'd expected, sparkled – and to his surprise, so did her young partner, who showed some real talent with the harp, and who was possessed of a rich, warm tenor voice which made a pleasing contrast to his own daughter's vibrant, bright soprano. In his own admittedly biased opinion, his daughter and her friend gave by far the best performance of the day. In contrast, he found the more advanced student's much-anticipated rendition of the Noldolantë a disappointment; the young man's singing was technically accurate enough (although it was clear the song's range was almost more than he could manage), but to Maglor's critical ear the music had no life to it. A sculpture of a performance, all cold and lifeless marble, he thought as the final note of the song died. Technically adequate, but no passion whatsoever. He should have chosen something he had enough experience to sing well. Maglor said as much to his daughter later, after the performance was over and she and her young friend met them in the courtyard in front of the auditorium.

"Our piece was so frivolous, just a little duet about the wind and the water dancing together to form the waves. I was worried it was too simple and silly for the recital, but Aearchallon convinced me otherwise," Tuilir confessed as the foursome walked slowly through the dispersing crowd toward the street.

"And he was right to do so," Maglor replied, nodding his head toward Aearchallon. "That song was not frivolous, but light – and the two of you performed it well, which is the whole point of a recital. Better when performing in public to play a simple piece excellently than to embarrass yourself and disappoint your audience by attempting a more ambitious work and falling short, as some of your fellow students did. Leave the latter for your practice sessions."

"So you think Gilhabad should have sung something other than the Noldolantë, I take it?" Aearchallon said, curious. "I thought he did quite well with it, personally."

"He managed to hit all the notes correctly, certainly – but where was the feeling?" Maglor answered. "Your own love of the sea could be heard in your voice and in your harping; when the audience was listening to you, for a brief moment they became the wind and the water dancing, and felt the joy of skipping across the ocean as a wave. That's what you are striving for as an artist, not mere technical mastery. Your friend's rendition, in contrast, was lifeless in comparison – which is hardly surprising, for he was singing about feelings he himself has never known."

"And just how would you know what I have known?" Startled, Maglor turned to see the young singer of the Noldolantë, who had come up behind him unnoticed, obviously just in time to overhear the last part of the conversation. The young man had clearly been stung by Maglor's words, and Maglor silently cursed himself for a fool.

"I am sorry; I intended no slight to you," he said apologetically. "You have a fine voice, and your youth itself is no fault."

"Except that in the eyes of some it apparently disqualifies me from singing anything other than children's rhymes," the proud youngster – another Teler, Maglor noted with growing dismay – replied rather belligerently. The young singer's voice had grown louder, and people nearby were beginning to notice the exchange.

"I did not say that," Maglor answered. "I merely noted that, in my opinion, you are too innocent to be able to sing that particular lay well. That is true for everyone in your generation, and I hope it remains that way." He turned back to Aurel and Tuilir and whispered, "Let's go."

"And just why should I care about your opinion?" the young singer demanded before Maglor could move off. By now, a small crowd was gathering to listen to the argument. So much for leaving unnoticed, Maglor thought unhappily as he reluctantly turned back to face the angry young man again. He does not know who I am, he realized as he looked again at his daughter's classmate, not sure whether he found himself feeling more astonished or grateful.

"No reason, save that what I said is true," Maglor said patiently. "Do you always quarrel with your audience when they dare to express disappointment with your performance?"

Aearchallon had in the meantime stepped over to his fellow student's side; he took the other boy's arm now and tried to draw him away, whispering to him, "Leave it, Gilhabad, you're making yourself look foolish –" But the angry young man pulled away, not content to let the matter go.

"You're not even a bard, are you?"

Once I was, but no longer, Maglor though in sorrow, but aloud he only said, "No."

"As I thought. You're just an armchair critic, then," the young singer said, sneering, "who thinks his age automatically gives his ignorant opinions weight."

Maglor found himself growing irritated. "My ignorance, such as it is, is matched only by your arrogance," he snapped. "You would do well to curb it, child."

"Káno, come away," Aurel said softly, placing her hand on his arm. "There's no point in letting him upset you –"

"Arrogant? Arrogant is lecturing others on something you are too frightened or too talentless to do yourself," the young musician continued. "At least I have the courage to go up on a stage, unlike you and your kind. Let's hear you sing the Noldolantë, then, and we'll let the audience decide whether your opinion of my performance is in fact worth listening to." He gestured toward the crowd, which by now had grown quite sizable.

"Gilhabad, you are an idiot," Tuilir said hotly. "Just ignore him, Father, he's always had a swollen head – it's where he stores the air to move his vocal cords. You don't have anything to prove to him."

Maglor saw the crowd becoming restive, heard a few low murmurs of shock and disapproval, and realized that at least some of the assembled Teleri had by now apparently recognized him for who he was. He looked at the disdainful smirk on the angry young singer's face, and then at the crowd, and suddenly remembered the words he'd spoken to his wife the night before. And if I were not a coward, I would simply walk into that city tomorrow openly and let the Teleri do with me what they will. But I won't… I'm too afraid to face directly those I've harmed. "No, I have nothing to prove to your classmate," he told his daughter softly. "But perhaps I have something to prove to myself." And then, more loudly, "Very well, Gilhabad. I will sing the Noldolantë for you, as it should be sung – provided I can remember the words." He closed his eyes, and concentrated hard.

Maglor was dimly aware of voices ("Káno, there is no need…" "Father, what are you doing, you know you can't perform any more…" "'Provided I can remember the words' – bet he won't, I knew he would be too cowardly to do it, the braggart…"), but he pushed them aside, searching through the confusion of his memories. A fragment – where had he heard this? – drifted into his mind: "…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 to his relief he found his own internal sun was shining then: the words and melody of the Noldolantë were there, clear and plain as ink on a white page. Of course I remember this, for is it not the distillation of my entire life into music? he thought. I may forget episodes, I may forget individuals, but I have never forgotten the entirety of my life, which is what this song is. Sing your life, Kanafinwë Makalaurë! Sing your life, sing your fall…

And Maglor took a deep breath, then opened his eyes (which were now blind to the crowd, focused as they were on the images in his mind), and began to sing in a voice so quiet as to nearly be inaudible at first, but which rapidly swelled in power, like the tide rolling in before a mighty ocean storm. A voice which was like the sea.

Softness, the light of the Trees, a time of peace…

The Teleri, skimming like gulls across the waves. An old friendship, the foam riders and the mountain delvers…

The Star of the Noldor, the unquenchable fire, Fëanáro ablaze…

And in his wake, the lesser lights: warrior, singer, hunter, schemer, crafter, the mirrors. In the light of the Star they orbit high, the Noldocirca, confident, arrogant, beautiful…

Darkness falls, the Trees go out, and naught but the Star is left shining…

Black words fall from bright tongues, a fell Oath sworn, the stars begin their fall from the sky…

A friendship strains, breaks…

Blood and fire, sword against bow, the Noldocirca scythe forward triumphantly and the Teleri spill their life onto the sands, and the Noldor their innocence…

A flight from Doom, fire and ice…

The Star flares nova-bright, then dies…

And in the ensuing darkness the Noldocirca discover their own lights have been doused. The wicked alchemy of bloodshed has left them but cinders, fallen from their lofty place onto a parched and barren earth. Despairing, they look up at the high heavens where the Valacirca wheels, a mocking reminder of what they once were and will never be again…

As he sang the final verses, Maglor slowly regained his awareness of his surroundings: the crowd, gone quiet and immobile as stone, the young musician Gilhabad, who dropped his head, shamed, unable to meet Maglor's gaze, his wife Aurel, her eyes shining with mingled pride and worry. And the young lovers, Aearchallon and his daughter Tuilir, Teler and Noldo, arms intertwined about each other's waists as they listened to him, silver and sable commingled…

And to Maglor's astonishment the clamorous music that had echoed in his mind for so long suddenly stilled, revealing a new thing, a single last perfect verse, and he looked tenderly at his child and her lover and sang,

But over long ages blood sinks into sand, and there mingles with the ashes of fallen stars. And from that new soil a sapling sprouts, fragile as innocence and fair as hope, and if it does not blaze with the light of old, it is nonetheless beautiful…

He let his voice slowly drift into silence.

No one said a word. Maglor reached up and flipped his hood back; there was little point now in attempting to remain disguised. He stepped over to the downcast young musician Gilhabad and told him gently, "I meant what I said earlier: you have a fine voice. In time you will no doubt be a singer of great renown. But the Noldolantë will never be your song to sing. It is mine."

"You said you were not a bard," Gilhabad replied. "I did not know you."

"I am not a bard," Maglor answered, feeling the truth of it, for he'd felt the music slip away again even as he completed that final new verse, and he knew if he were to try to perform again in front of this crowd he'd find himself in that peculiar state of frozen immobility that had become so familiar to him. The moment of grace had passed, perhaps forever. "I will never be a bard again, or a warrior, or a prince. I am no longer the mighty Kanafinwë Makalaurë Fëanárion. I am merely a cinder, who somehow managed to throw a final spark this day."

"You are rather more than that, Káno," Aurel told him firmly. "You are a husband, and a father, and beloved." She wrapped her arm around his waist and stood close to him and stared fiercely at the crowd (which was beginning to stir now that the lingering magic of the song had faded away) as though daring them to do their worst. The assembled Teleri did not approach, but neither did they leave. Maglor realized that he and his family were trapped, and stepped in front of Aurel to protect her should the crowd's mood turn ugly.

But before anything could happen, a loud murmur swept through the assembled Teleri and they parted like a wave, allowing a tall, silver-haired man to step into the clear space separating Maglor and his family from the crowd. The light of the Trees shone in the man's eyes, and his brow was adorned with a silver circlet bearing the images of dolphins and seashells worked in abalone shell, and fitted with a shining black pearl at its center. Maglor looked at the man and did not recognize him, but he was reasonably certain, based on the man's appearance and on the reactions of the surrounding Teleri, who this unknown figure had to be. And so he bowed.

"Maglor son of Fëanor," the man asked, "why did you come here today? Did you intend to open old wounds?"

"No, Your Highness," Maglor answered, keeping his eyes down. "I had no such intentions. My daughter is a student at the conservatory. I merely wished to hear her play, and had planned to enter and leave the city unnoticed so as not to trouble its inhabitants. If my presence has indeed opened wounds, I regret it, for that was not my design in coming here."

"This is not the first time your voice has been heard in the streets of Alqualondë," the man said sternly. "The last time it was accompanied by screams. Why should the Teleri permit you to depart our city unharmed? Do you not deserve a taste of what you meted out on my own people those many years ago?"

Maglor heard Aurel gasp in shock and fear behind him, but he kept his head bent down and his eyes fixed firmly on the ground in front of him. "It is for you to decide what I deserve, Your Highness, not me," he answered quietly.

"You have never even proffered an apology to us, in all the years you've dwelt in Aman since your return."

"I had thought it best until now to simply stay away," Maglor answered, "for there is no apology I could offer the Teleri that would equal the magnitude of my offenses to you."

"That you, who were once so proud, can now so freely admit that, and also admit to what you have become, as you did just now in your song, I will take to be apology enough. Be welcome in my city, Maglor son of Fëanor," King Olwë said, placing his hand on Maglor's shoulder.

"Thank you, Your Highness," Maglor said as he straightened up. "My family and I are grateful for your mercy."

"We are not unaware of what befell you during your time in the mortal lands," Olwë said gently. "There comes a point when mercy becomes obligatory. I will leave you to your wife and daughter now." And with that, Olwë turned and walked back through the crowd which, the show now over, slowly began to disperse.

"Now what?" Aurel said, looking at the sun hanging low on the horizon. "We'd originally planned to ride to Tirion after the recital, but with this late a start I suppose we'll have to stop for the night on the way. And we only brought two bedrolls, not three…"

"Stay the night at my house," Aearchallon said. He took Tuilir's hand into his own as he continued, "I think you need to get to know my own family. Four years is a long betrothal, I know, but I somehow do not see either of us changing our minds…"

Maglor nodded. "We will be happy to accept your hospitality, son-to-be. I'll send word to the livery stable to keep the horses for another day." He took his own wife's hand. "You are not the only one with happy news to share, daughter. Before the year turns, you will be a sister…"

The foursome continued to talk as Aearchallon lead them all through the confusing maze of streets to the small house not far from the docks where his own family dwelt. And this time when Maglor spied the great harbor arch, the image which swam into his mind was not one of fire and flames and endings, but rather of silver and adamant and beginnings: a wedding ring.

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Chapter End Notes

The idea that Alqualondë boasts a fine music school (at which Maglor studied during his youth) is cheerfully stolen from Dawn Felegund's novel "Another Man's Cage."

Káno – A shortened form of Maglor's Quenya father-name Kanafinwë.

Aearchallon – "Sea Hero"

Gilhabad – "Star (of the) shore." A poetic name for a lighthouse beacon.

Noldocirca – "Sickle of the Noldor." Maglor's making a double pun here, both comparing the Sons of Fëanor to the seven stars of the Big Dipper (the Valacirca), and not-so-subtly pointing out the effect he had his brothers later had on the Eldar, cutting them down first at Alqualondë and then at Doriath and the Havens at Sirion.