The Greatest of Gifts by Michiru

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.

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.