Glimpses of a Life in Ennore by Lferion

Perspective

Written for the Silmarillion Writer's Guild February 2021 Times of Bliss challenge. Specific prompts in the end note.

Maentâl, through several Ages, and the paradox of picking up the pieces.

After Sunrise

It seemed quite backward, even perplexing, that while Melkor, Belegurth, Morgoth as Feanor had named him, kept himself and most of his servants immured in Angband, brooding on his losses and gains (Feanor dead, but Maedhros rescued, the Silmarils in his possession, but would not suffer his touch, the Trees destroyed, but in their place were Moon and Sun, inimical to his orcs and trolls and other twisted workings), the lands south of the Iron Mountains flourished in the new light and generous warmth. Leaf-fringed glades grew lush, moonlit waterfalls descended from the heights to become rivers, winding between green banks, thick with flowers and bushes that eagerly produced berries and seeds. Everywhere the land rejoiced as Yavanna's long-sleeping work awoke to live and multiply. Sindar and Nandor and Noldor alike rejoiced with it, though the watch upon Angband was not neglected. There were meetings and marriages, children were born and journeys of exploration and friendship were taken. Dwarves became allies and great works wrought together. Men came into Beleriand and were greeted with gladness. For more than two yeni the seige held, and fruitful, fragile peace enjoyed. But the shadow in the North was neither forgotten, nor taken lightly.

Maentâl, having crossed the Ice (booted, be-socked, be-furred like everyone else against the killing cold), fought in the Dagor Aglareb that drove Morgoth to retreat beneath his poison-belching mountains, seen the Moon and Sun rise for the first time, took full advantage of that peace, serving as a messenger and courier for Finrod to all manner of places from Nevrast to Thargelion, the mouth of the Gelion to Himring and Tit Inforn. He rode the length of Ered Luin, and was counted a friend among the Dwarves. He would always return to Nargothrond, but all Beleriand was home to him.

After the Battle of the Last Alliance

The sky was purple-brown, underlit in livid greenish-yellow, like a bruise. The land around where Sauron had fallen was in worse shape: unstable, the surface a brittle crust over unspeakable muck, the very rocks flaking and fragmenting. But this was the gate of Mordor, not Angband at the end of the War of Wrath. Sauron was unhoused, not unmade. Druin belched dirty amber smoke, but there were no fissures of lava, no angry sea to swallow the shattered land. Already the Dwarves from the Orocarni and further souther were clearing space away from the center of the devastation to lay foundations for pyres, find suitable ground for cairns and graves. They had come out of the East, up from the high deserts of Umbar and further south. Maentâl stood by Elrond, and watched as they spoke with their Northern and Western cousins, every house and clan working together to honor all the dead of the Alliance. It was a surprising comfort, to see them, to watch the weary Men stand a little straighter at the sight, joining in the dreadful, needful work of winnowing the battlefield.

Not the devastation of the fall of Ancalagon, the taking of Melkor, the breaking of Thangorodrim, but devastation enough, certainly. And, as then, there would be peace for a time, possibly quite a long time, even as Elves counted. Time to build anew, explore new lands. He felt the indescribable shift that heralded a new Age, but first it was needful to lay the old to rest. Attend to the healing those who could be healed, and give honor and respect to the dead. The clouds were scattering, the setting sun burnishing them in clear reds and golds. In the twilight East, Earendil shone bright. Dwarves and Elves and Men together began to sing.

Mortal Time

Again before the Black Gate, Maentâl thought of the strength of Men (and Periannath) to face a foe more known in myth and children's tales than as imminent, overwhelming danger. They were here for good reasons -- love of light, comrades, kin; the honor and duty of kingship, the imperative to face evil when needful. He was not certain what this Army of the West hoped to accomplish, but whatever it was -- diversion, distraction, assault -- he would give his best. Gorthaur was no myth: that he have the victory unthinkable. If it meant the short road to Mandos, so be it.

The final defeat of Sauron, like that of Morgoth, made for a shift in the world, the end of one age and the beginning of another. Again the land rejoiced, but it was more subdued, a restrained delight: the sea and sky and earth more fixed in form and working, set in patterns of growth, with less of deep change possible. Truly the time of the Elves was ending, one last twilight flowering in the reign of Elessar and Arwen. Silver rivers ran in the broken places of what had been Mordor, bringing slow health to that long damaged realm.

Mortal growth, in the fits and starts of mortal spans. Few now would see the stars of Durin's Crown in the mirror of Kheled-zâram; few would even know to look for them, though Maentâl made certain to, when he passed that way. The stars had not shifted, but perceptions had. The Great Music was getting harder to hear, seeming to change from song to speech, from symphony to story, wherein Elves and Dwarves, trolls and giants were fanciful tales, not living, speaking peoples. No longer home, however green in memory. And Maentâl knew it was time to Sail at last.

Lost Hour (Alqualonde)

He had been begotten and born in Valinor, all those long years ago; the light of the Trees shone in his eyes when he did not veil it (as all those who'd seen the Trees and were yet in Middle Earth had learned to do by the Third Age). He had been young, but not too young to remember. Not too young to be counted among the kinslayers, though he did not know if he had actually killed anyone in that flailing chaos. (Now that was a thing that had gained its own store of tales -- who started it, who had fought, who died, who had stood aside, what had happened after in the red light of the guttering torches. Maentâl remembered being cold, salt-splashed, ears full of distressing sounds he knew were steel in flesh, finding himself under a scrubby bush holding a sticky-handled knife, and no clear memory of the previous span of time. He had scrubbed the knife clean with sand and sea-water, and was presently swept up in a group of still-excited young neri and nissi, none of whom had fought. Who knew nothing, then, about fighting. Maentâl persuaded himself he knew nothing of fighting either.

*** *** ***

The sails trembled like silk in the now-fitful breeze, as the dazzling white shores grew nearer. Maentâl took deep and measured breaths of the sea air, mustering his courage in a way he could not recall needing to do quite like this in Beleriand or anywhere else in Middle Earth. Things he had not thought of in Ages were tumbling to the forefront of his mind: questions for which he had no answers, fears and uncertainties un-faced. But also, irrepressible, was joy, release, growing surety. He would not be alone or unsupported, whatever the answers were, whatever he would face.

Chapter End Notes

My quote for the Days of Bliss challenge was: “Morgoth had then not long come back into Middle-earth, and his power went not far abroad, and was moreover checked by the sudden coming of great light. There was little peril in the lands and hills; and there were new things, devised long ages before in the thought of Yavanna and sown as seed in the dark, came at last to their budding and their bloom. West, North, and South the children of Men spread and wandered, and their joy was the joy of the morning before the dew is dry, when every leaf is green.” ~ The Silmarillion, Of Men

Other Prompts:
-- After Sunrise - Fan Flashworks: Backward; 13th Birthday: 07. moonlit, leaf-fringed, perplexed, descended
-- After the Battle of the Last Alliance - Fan Flashworks: Bruise; 13th Birthday: 02. Amber, space, shatter, comfort
-- Mortal Time - Fan Flashworks: Mythology, Genre; 13th Birthday: 01. good, love, strength, accomplish | 10. mirror, twilight, silver, delight
-- Lost Hour (Alqualonde) - Fan Flashworks: The Lost Hour; 13th Birthday: 03. Cold, sounds, bush, store | 08. tremble, silks, courage, answer