Threnody for the Dispossessed by Kenaz

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Cacophony

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I had expected a great display of emotion at the tidings I brought him-- a shout of joy, perhaps, or an overly boisterous and uncomfortable embrace to express his gratitude, even a river of tears-- but it seemed that the second son of Fëanor was bound to perpetually disappoint me. His response, when I told him that the Valar had recalled him to his natal land with the possibility of amnesty for his brothers, was silence, and an expression of pained unhappiness.

"I will not go. I cannot."

Recovering from my initial shock and outrage at his utter ingratitude, I told him that he had no choice. "It is my responsibility to bring you back, and I will not suffer the indignity of failure on your account."

He made a scoffing noise that did not square with the look of trepidation on his face. "I am thankful for the mercy of the Powers, but it is not only their mercy I must beg. The memory of the Elves is long, and such crimes as mine are beyond forgetting. How am I even to begin to justify the actions of my brothers? And what life would I have there, hounded and reviled? If the Valar truly wished for my return, better they should send me to the Halls of Waiting with the rest of my blood and leave me there till the last unmaking." Even in defeat he was rebellious.

"The Powers offer you a chance you don't deserve, and you wring your hands and say 'alas for me, I cannot accept it'? Self-pity is tiresome and unbecoming."

Maglor sat on the edge of his narrow bed, dropping his head into his hands. "I need more time."

I waved my arms in frustration. "For what? What could possibly keep you here? Everything worth taking from this hovel could fit in a single sack!" He looked stupid as a cow, and just as disinclined to move. I was sorely tempted to break off a switch from one of the trees outside and drive him out the door like a herdsman. Yet when he looked up at me, the his eyes held the flinty shine of tempered steel, and a look of determination fueled by that inextinguishable flame of his spirit.

"I have one chance, Daeron-- one chance-- to redeem myself. I will not be rushed."

Such insolence! Only the line of Finwë would be so bold as to answer a summons from Manwë with the proclamation that he 'will not be rushed.' "Compose it on the boat!" I barked. "The journey is long enough!" This, even though I knew it was a ridiculous thing to say. If we could simply sit down and create at will, I might have turned out a new song every day of my life. Had someone made such a cavalier suggestion to me, I would have seen it as inexcusable ignorance or an affront. But Maglor did not look affronted. He did not even look angry. He looked stricken.

"Very well," I conceded with a sigh. "How much time will you need?"

"It has been so long..." his voice, when he whispered, was rough and uneven, as if each word had been drawn out of a mire.

He has been living in silence. I sang most every day, and not because the discipline of my art demanded it, but for the sheer joy of it, for the feeling of my lungs expanding and my throat opening and the note spinning forward on my breath. I sang to myself, or to the trees, or to the sky. I would find a life without song unbearable. I considered again his tenuous physical form, his protracted half-life, and realized that the lack of music was killing him just as surely as it would have killed me. In time, his spirit-- houseless, restless, voiceless-- would be caught on the wind, mute and despairing. This song would not only be the key to his brothers' fates, but to his own.

"Please," he rose abruptly, "sit." Stilted speech feigned geniality, as if we had not spoken of the Valar's pardon, or his return, or his mulish refusal. "I did not mean to leave you standing. I am a poor host." I started to decline, for I had no intention of tarrying longer than necessary, but when he swept out one of the reed-backed chairs from its place at the table, I saw that the caning was still stiff and taut across the seat. Untouched. An unexpected wave of sympathy tightened my stomach. I sat.

"I am unaccustomed to company." A rueful smile played at the corner of his mouth. "I can offer little in the way of hospitality." He moved anxiously about the room, opening and closing cupboards. It hurt my head to watch his solicitous dance. "Tomorrow, I will hunt for larger game, but for tonight there is only the bird, and an apple or two. You may take the bed; I will make up a pallet--"

"No." I was unwilling to accept his hospitality, with all that it entailed, or to watch him fretting about the place like a flustered bride, though I suppose I might have been more polite in my refusal. "I would prefer to go back to the ship. I will return in three days' time. Perhaps you will feel more prepared for departure then." I had done my part: I had found him and delivered Manwë's message. The rest was up to him.

Days stretched into weeks, always with the same maddening refrain: "I am not ready. I have nothing to give." I spoke to him as little as necessary not only because I wished to maintain the distance between us, but because I assumed he would not want the distraction. When I composed, I preferred to be left quite alone, though he had told me once that he had learned to work wherever he could, a house with six brothers offering little in the way of solitude. But that had been a long time ago.

One morning, I woke to an ebb tide, the song of the bay muted and serene: scuttling crabs and the perpetual, undulating slap of low-breaking waves. The pale light of the early sky made jewels out of the tiny pools left by receding water. Depressions in the sand marked a path as if the tide had run toward the heart of the sea on a thousand pounding feet. Though nothing disturbed the peace of the morning, the derelict jetty rudely interrupting the shoreline and the briny scent of decay sent up by seaweed languishing on the strand gave the place a feral look, like a dog too long neglected to remember that it had once been a pet and not a wolf.

I gave the door of the little forest cottage two hard knocks and then entered with no further warning. Maglor sat on one of the hard chairs, staring at the packed earth floor. I do not think he had slept.

"Well?" I said, impatient with his torpor "Have you made progress?"

Shaking his head, he took a pot from the fire and poured water for tea. I could see ridges of scars creeping around the edge of his hand where it grasped the handle, angry and red. He gestured to the table with his free hand: he had set a breakfast of fruits and nuts and quail eggs. I did not particularly wish to break bread with him or to be reminded of his isolation, for it reminded me far too much of my own. I could have told him that I had broken my fast on the ship, but my growling stomach demanded acquiescence. Besides, I was sick to death of salted fish and waybread and the musty ale which had made up my diet on the crossing. He looked at me repeatedly as we ate, which I pretended not to notice. I drained my cup and pushed away my plate.

"Why did they send you?" he asked as he cleared the dishes. "I would have thought Eonwë --"

"Oh, so it is not enough that I have come?" I snapped. "Perhaps you overestimate your value!"

Maglor looked taken aback. "Truly, I meant no offense, Daeron. Your presence honors me... I was simply curious."

I reined in my irritation to answer him, ignoring his flattery. "I have no more understanding of it than you. I would have thought any of a number of others better suited. An old friend of the family, perhaps. Fingon the Valiant was always a great champion of your house, was he not? Or of your brother, at least."

A wistful smile graced his face at Fingon's name, and for a moment, millennia of care and woe vanished. He looked the youthful beauty that I remembered. "Maitimo's heart would burst for joy to know his Káno is hearty and whole." The smile faded as quickly as it had come, and the cloud of care returned. "My father...is he--"

"His life is forfeit." Pain showed on Maglor's face, but also relief. "Surely you did not expect--"

"No. But it seemed only right that I ask." He made a noise in the back of his throat, the by-blow of laughter and despair. "A dutiful son would be expected to ask."

"And you are nothing," I said flatly, "if not a dutiful son."

Silence descended upon the little room, pensive and thick. I dispelled it with more sharp words. "So, your father's task come to naught, how have you occupied your time? Aside from high crimes and carving your family crest into fieldstones, that is."

"Do you think I have been idle all these many years?" For the first time, he displayed some temper and animation. I could practically feel his hackles rising like a wolf's. "Do you imagine I have cravenly hidden myself away while the world around me fell to darkness?"

"No," I taunted, "I am well aware that you never shirked from taking up a sword, even if it was turned upon some hapless youth defending his father's boat, or raised to chase an unarmed woman off a cliff."

Self-possessed as ever, Maglor bore the insult with equanimity, though I could hear his teeth grinding behind the tight flesh of his jaw. "On the eve of war, no man questions the appearance of a stranger willing to lend their sword, and in the heat of battle, the man who fights beside you will not be looking to see if you are a fugitive. So when Sauron paraded my nephew's broken body through the ruins of Ost-en-Edhil, I was there. When the host of the West gathered before the Black Gate, I was there. When Elf, Man and Dwarf mustered in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain, I was there. And at the last, on the Field of Cormallen, when Sauron fell at last to the great armies of Men, I was there. I have done what I could to atone for my deeds, and to defend this land from the tyranny of evil.

"And where did you go after you had betrayed the one you claimed to love, punishing her not once, but twice, for not returning your selfish affections? As I heard tell, you ripped the strings from your harp to weave a lash and wandered about the wilds for a few years, flaying your back with remorse until you grew weary of performing without an audience. Then, what, singing for your supper in Lindon until you could make your passage to Valinor?"

Blood rushed hot to my face, I seethed with outrage, but also with shame: he had come close enough to the truth. It was one thing to poke a toothless wolf, another to discover the beast still had teeth.

"Why the Valar will show you pity, I cannot fathom," I spat. "Better you had died and save me this pointless and interminable journey!"

"I did not ask you to come here!" he fired back.

Furious, I rose and shouted him down: "I did not ask to be sent!"

With no further hope of civil conversation between us, I stormed out of the cottage, slamming the door behind me, while a little voice within my mind chided me for my unnecessary cruelty and the utter lack of creativity in my exit.