The Greatest of Gifts by Michiru

Chapter 1

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The Greatest of Gifts

The Greatest of Gifts

 

When he first discovered that music made his fëa soar, he had wept, bitterly frightened, for no one he had met in his whole short life was thus afflicted. His father had taken him aside and told him the tale of the Ainulindalë.

“So you see, little bird, Ilúvatar’s Music made the world,” Fëanáro had finished. “And your music is a gift from Ilúvatar, to show that He loves you.” And so he had learned to let go of his fears and embraced the music living within him, growing in skill and understanding day by day, until he stood trembling before Manwë and Varda, singing for them in the ultimate test of his voice. When he finished, they rose and applauded him, the stars brightly shining and the wind ruffling his hair.

“Truly,” Manwë had said gently, “thou art most gifted of all the Eldar in song.” There was sadness in him as he said it, which Macalaurë could not fathom at the time; later, his father muttered that it was jealousy. “Eru loves thee dearly.”

So he lived, singing at every important function in Valinor at his father’s urging, and his mother chided Fëanáro, fretting over her second son. “You push him too hard,” she would say sternly, when they had their talks they thought their children could not hear. “You will exhaust him and his delight in music shall dry up; his talent will wither if he goes on like this.”

“Nay, Nerdanel,” Fëanáro countered confidently whenever she said this. “You underestimate him; his delight runs deeper than you know, and he shall never drink enough of it.”

Yes, his heart had whispered in the dark of his bedroom, curtains drawn to block out Telperion’s light, listening to his parents. You are right, Father.

Secretly, he loved his gift more than any other that Ilúvatar had graced him with; more even than his family or the priceless trinkets his father made for him.

 

When they were exiled from Tirion, Macalaurë had stood in the center of his room while the rest of the household furiously packed, screaming at the top of his lungs, tormented, senseless cries. Fëanáro had long since lost his patience for him, or for any of his children; he shouted only for him to stop making noise or to go to the Abyss. Finwë was horrified, but Macalaurë had secretly stopped caring about his father’s insults and short temper, and he ignored his grandfather’s efforts to calm him as well.

It was Maitimo who came to him, gathered him in his arms and sang him a lullaby until his agonized voice found its way back to tears and words, weeping that his talent was gone, he was ruined.

“Filit,” Maitimo murmured, “it is the Valar who banish us from this city; what power have they over your place in Ilúvatar’s heart?” Macalaurë whimpered, clinging to him, burying his face in his long, glorious hair, and he finally knew what it was to love this, his dearest of brothers.

And, indeed, his talent was not gone, though his throat ached from screaming and Fëanáro snarled at him venomously the whole way to Formenos. Macalaurë kept his head high, his eyes fixed north, and plucked idly at the strings of his harp, the only thing he took with him into exile.

Chapter 2

fter some debate, I decided not to ruin the end of the fic with a bunch of notes, so they're being put up here. Comepletely out of context, but you'll see.

The text of the Oath is my favorite rendition of it, and comes from The Lays of Beleriand, page 254. It has a wonderful rhythm to it, but is a bit too composed for me to accept that all of it was made up on the spot.

I ought tribute an author whose penname I should know and don't. Um. That makes it a bit difficult, doesn't it? Anyway, he/she wrote a wonderful fic about the moment Maedhros and Maglor decide to take in Elrond and Elros, and there was this lovely sentence about how, "Nelyafinwë and Maitimo and Russandol are dead; there is only Maedhros left, and he has no patience for children." Whomever you are, it bothers me that I can't find your fic again, but it definitely inspired the final line.

Read Chapter 2

The Greatest of Gifts

The Greatest of Gifts

 

The day Macalaurë meets Daeron is the day his brother dies. For so long, he had been introduced to the Sindar as the greatest musician of the Eldar, proud of that title, bestowed by the Valar in happier days. Maedhros had smiled, at times, at his brother’s casual display of arrogance; he had deigned, on occasion, to play for the Sindar, always happy to display his talent. Macalaurë had even, once, gone so far as to offer to play in Doriath for the Sindarin princess’ begetting day. The Sindar had smiled back, patronizingly, humoring, and declined the offer.

Daeron comes out of Doriath for the Mereth Aderthad, surrounded by his Sindarin kinsmen, proudly walks amongst the Noldor, his betters. Carnistir is incensed; Tyelcormo amused because Curufinwë is amused. The two latter have developed an even more unhealthy relationship since Maedhros had been captured, and Tyelcormo seems content to have Curufinwë think for him.

But Daeron approaches Macalaurë with the beginnings of a duet, asks if Macalaurë will work on it with him. Macalaurë declines; he is ready, at last, to reveal the piece that has kept him locked away, straight through Maedhros’ imprisonment until now. His brother is pale as death but flushed with excitement that Daeron seems to recognize and respect; he accepts Macalaurë’s answer and offers this piece a place of honor, to open the feast of the Two Kindreds. Macalaurë again declines.

“It is not a beginning,” he says. “Not in the sense that a joyous feast should be opened.” Daeron nods again, apparently tuned to the beat Macalaurë’s brain works on.

“What is it called?” he wonders, nearly as excited as Macalaurë, and Maedhros begs for a moment that the two not become fast, bosom friends; he cannot handle two musicians at once.

“Noldolantë,” Macalaurë answers, his eyes sparkling as they have not done since his childhood.

 

So Daeron is set to sing first at the feast; there is such noise of speech that Macalaurë, sitting beside Maedhros and fidgeting with his harp, frets that the crowd will not hear Daeron’s music; few of the Noldor give much credit to the widely unknown Sindarin upstart.

At the first note, every Elda within range of ear falls silent. There is such a scope, a depth in sound, in Daeron, whom Maedhros had deemed young; it is they who are young. Daeron sings of the long March, of hope in fear and new beginnings, of old friends lost and new friends found. And when at last the song drew to a close, no other sound was heard. The applause Macalaurë earned in Aman had been deafening, always; here, under the evening sky, none stirred to acknowledge the song’s end.

Slowly, people begin to breathe, murmuring in wonder; someone mutters that the Noldor never knew music before now.

Macalaurë stands abruptly; Ambarussa, more alert than Maedhros, is at his elbow, drawing him away. Curufinwë- and Tyelcormo- move to follow; Carnistir appears and hauls Maedhros to his feet.

There is a growing swell spiraling in towards Daeron, who seems mystified by the sudden attention, the accolades being thrown at him. Carnistir does not fight the current; he is unaffected by it, shoving aside those in his path and persevering by sheer force of will, until he and Maedhros have reached Tyelcormo and Curufinwë, swept them up in their wake, are dogging Macalaurë’s steps. Macalaurë has broken away from Ambarussa, is striding resolutely in to the surrounding dark, seeming deaf to Ambarussa’s soft, persistent calls. Carnistir stops abruptly, and they stand, five of the six remaining sons of Fëanáro, watching the last vanish as the Sun sets and Daeron, by popular demand, begins anew.

Noldolantë goes unheard.

 

It is many weeks later when Macalaurë resurfaces. Ambarussa prods gently about his masterpiece; is told frigidly that the Noldor do not have time for such frivolity. Maedhros starts up from the maps he is perusing; it is Father’s voice he has heard, and for a moment he is back in Valinor, in the last few days remaining before the Darkness, which seem now an immeasurably happier time.

Ambarussa persists; not all music is frivolity, for speech can mirror its patterns and create unity, lessons taught can be more easily learned through song. It seems almost as if Macalaurë will relent; he opens his mouth, but what comes from his lips is not song, but a chant.

“Be he friend or foe, or seed defiled of Morgoth Bauglir or mortal child that in after days on earth shall dwell, no law, nor love, nor league of hell, not might of Gods, not moveless fate shall him defend from wrath and hate of Fëanor’s sons, who takes or steals or finding keeps the Silmarils; the thrice-enchanted globes of light that shine until the final night.” Macalaurë’s voice is terrible to hear, majestic and commanding, but not his own. It is, again, Father’s voice, a guide in sudden darkness and doubt. Ambarussa is silent. So, too, is Macalaurë, for a long while.

Then there is a crash; Macalaurë has hurled his ever-present harp to the stone floor, and it shatters, splinters, strings resonating in a sound like unto a scream. Maedhros stares at Macalaurë, sees for the first time the feverish emptiness in his eyes.

“Oath, be thou my music,” he says, laconic and biting. Ambarussa stares at the ruined instrument on the floor, Macalaurë’s favored harp, the one Father had made for him. And Macalaurë sweeps from the room without a backward glance, stepping carelessly on the broken fragments as he does.

 

The day he heard Daeron sing was the day Macalaurë died. In his place was Maglor, and Maglor did not sing.