The Elf's Lullaby by Anérea

Last Lullaby

These are Edain children, descendants of the House of Hador which retained its ancient tongue, and since Tolkien derived Taliska from Gothic, I'm doing my best to follow suit, although these are very simple and rather anonymous.
• Mageth is derived from magaths meaning girl or maiden in Gothic
• Magor is derived from magus for boy (although it also means 'swordsman' in Sindarin and was the name of Malach's son/Adanel's brother)

Read Last Lullaby

The young twins grip each other’s hands as they run barefoot through the wood, brambles grabbing their clothes as they stumble over sticks and duck under branches, twiggy ends clawing at their faces.

~*~

Mageth and Magor had been playing in the meadow when they suddenly heard Amie shouting for them to run, run as fast and as far as they could, and then hide and wait for her. Startled, Mageth just stood gaping at Amie, who shouted again “Run, children!” before whirling around and dashing back towards their cottage where their baby sister lay sleeping. Only then had she noticed them, the horrifying figures bursting from the trees on the far side of the hamlet. Magor still lay sprawled on the grass, looking up at her in utter confusion. He clearly hadn’t seen them so she had grabbed his hand and half-dragged him towards the wood until his wits caught up with his feet.

~*~

They keep running, harsh shouts following at first before slowly fading behind them. They keep running, legs and lungs searing, bright colours flashing across their vision. They keep running, until fear pricking at their heels is not enough to keep them going and they finally collapse in a huddle against a large tree fallen across the bottom of a shallow ravine. Mageth tries to still her breathing, harsh and loud in her ears, Magor gripping her hand tight as they listen.

But there is no sound of pursuit.

As the pounding in their ears eases into more regular heartbeats, Magor notices the tree trunk forms a small cave where it bridges the ravine, behind a green curtain of flowering morning glory. With silent accord, he pulls the plants up as his sister crawls into the hollow; she holds them in turn as he shuffles in beside her, letting them fall back into place behind him. It is dark and dank and cool under the trunk, smelling of rich, moist earth and mushrooms. Clutching each other tight they lie in silence, she too terrified to cry and he too bewildered. Ears straining for the sound of a familiar voice, starting at every frightening crack of twig and rustle of leaves, at long last their tiny bodies succumb to exhaustion.

Day ends and night passes. An eternity, but still no-one comes for them.

Thirst and hunger coax them at last from their hiding place in the morning. They lick the little remaining dew caught in the leaves of the creeper, tentatively nibbling on some orange mushrooms growing along the side of the fallen tree trunk. Mageth glances back at their little den, but the meagre drink was not enough to really ease their thirst and the rumbling in their bellies is louder than the desire to hide.

Feeling utterly lost, from lifelong habit they reach for each other’s hand, instinctually knowing each wishes the other could say what to do or where to go. Amie had told them to hide and wait, but… It had been so very long, maybe Amie couldn’t find them? Maybe they should try to find their way back home? But, which way is home? The trees give no answers, their spreading branches just whispering enigmatically, and the sun that had set behind them as they ran is now hidden behind grey clouds. Magor looks at Mageth, eyebrows pulled together and up in the middle, his grey eyes large and glistening, lower lip trembling, and she realises her face is doing the same. They clutch each other tight once again as a flood of tears overwhelms them both.

Sobs eventually quietening into hiccuping sighs, in unspoken agreement they start walking hand in hand back up the ravine, back in the direction they think will lead them home. This deep in the wood the trees feel less than friendly, especially under the darkening clouds above, yet despite the lack of cheery light, once out of the ravine the wood feels slightly less menacing and a pair of robins flit ahead of them from branch to branch, trilling a song as if guiding their way home.

Stumbling with fatigue by late afternoon, when the robins light in a wild strawberry patch beneath an old oak the babes gratefully sink into the greenery, alternating hands as they pluck and stuff the tiny sweet fruit into hungry mouths. Although not nearly enough to be considered lunch, it nevertheless feels like a feast. A bed of leaves and moss in the crook of the gnarled oak's roots beckons them to rest a while and, overcome by an irresistibly heavy weariness, within moments of curling up together they fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

A bright flash followed by a terrifyingly loud crack startles them awake. Deep gloom had descended over the woods while they slept and now rain begins to fall. Although the wind blows some rain sideways, the old oak shelters them from the worst of the wet, but it cannot shelter them from the cold that comes with it. With neither stockings nor cloaks and soaked to the skin, the chill feels like ghostly fingers caressing their bones. Through the howling wind a deep “hoom” resonates through the tree as if calling for help, its branches waving and reaching down as if wishing to shoo the storm away and tuck the children snugly into bed. Shivering in each other’s arms from both cold and fear, they huddle up to the tree trunk, eyes wide open and watchful one moment, cringing tight shut the next as the thunder-giants hurl spears of lightning at each other in the skies above.

Imperceptibly, night arrives, bringing an even deeper blackness with no moon to cast a glow through the clouds. Gradually the fierceness of the storm-fight abates, the constant shushing of rain subsiding to a drip, drip, drip off the ends of leaves. As the blanket of clouds moves off and stars twinkle on one by one, the night becomes colder and the chill in their bones deeper—briefly painful before their little bodies become too numb to feel it. Still cuddled close, the twins drift off, hands clasped between them at their hearts.

~*~

The wood is clear and cheerful in the early morning sunshine, clean and bright with that unique aliveness that comes after such wild storms. Squirrels skitter along branches, a doe and her fawn browse between the trees, while robins hop through the strawberry patch.

A shadow shifts across the babes where they lie face to face on their bed of moss, tiny hands still entwined. The shadow’s owner kneels and gently lays a callused hand on each of their cheeks in turn, Mageth first, then Magor. Sighing softly, the elf settles himself on a root, pulling an ancient harp from its wrapping of rags. He thinks back to another pair of twins—long, long ago and far away, lost forever in another wood that too is now lost to the world. After so many centuries the light in his eyes today is more from sun reflecting off tears than the memory of tree-light. As his first chords peal through the wood, the robins join in and together they sing a last lullaby for these babes he found, too late, in the wood.

Wandering Lullaby

A different version of events is related...

(The narrator is no poet. I’m sure the bard's original version was absolutely beautiful, and utterly heart wrenching.)

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I heard another version of this tale from a ragged fellow traveller with whom I shared a fire one cold clear night in the North. Ragged he was, but his voice… Oh! His voice was like a bolt of finest gold silk that had seen too many years yet despite being worn to tatters it still retains its finely crafted air. I will not even attempt to sing his ballad—I can't remember all of his rhyming anyway—but I will relate the tale for you as best as I can recall it.

He sang of the babes becoming lost in the wood, and of the elf finding them. But the elf found them in time, guided by the trees, or so he sang, the night before as the storm broke. He hunkered down with them, all bundled up in his cloak, and then fed them his own bread and cheese. The storm raged about them but the old oak was big, its branches broad and spreading. When the rain eased at nightfall he pulled out his harp, singing sweet lullabies to fend off the darkness. Soothed now at last, the two babes drifted off into sleep.

Sunshine returned with the morning, the world washed bright and clear, the bard sang. And after a breakfast of apples the elf led the twins towards home. But as they drew near he caught a charred scent on the breeze, of things burned that shouldn’t be. Settling the twins to rest in a glade near the edge of the wood, he bade them wait for him there. He left them his harp to play with, despite knowing full well they would not be distracted. (Do you remember how it was when we were that young? How much more we picked up than grown-ups realised?)

The elf found the small hamlet to be lifeless, the buildings all scorched and deep glistening black with the wet. The people had clearly fought bravely as not a few orcs lay dead 'round about, but the bodies of the villagers lay thickest. He searched for survivors, calling at each blackened doorway, but he knew deep down he’d find none. With a heavy heart he hunted then instead for shoes and cloaks for the babes.

The elf returned to the twins feeling a sense of… the bard used a strange but beautiful sounding word, Apavélana I think it was. He said it meant “having met this already”. I didn’t quite follow this bit, it was something about the elf not being able to do this again, not now, not alone, but that he knew someone who could and who would. I wasn’t too sure what the bard meant but I didn't want to interrupt him.

He helped the twins into the shoes—one pair too large, the other slightly charred—and fastened the capes about their shoulders. Then, with one tiny hand in each of his and no words needed between them, the trio began their long journey, towards the Misty Mountains it was, to some magic hidden valley.

Well, the bard stopped there, looking up at the stars with a faraway look in his eye and a strange half smile, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether his tale was true, or something he’d made up for himself.

---

Chapter End Notes

Apavélana is undercat's Quenya suggestion for déjà vu. This was originally going to be narrated by Maglor, but when it came out otherwise, I wished to keep this lovely word, which fits better than a sudden burst of French anyway.

Enchanted Lullaby

Yet another, rather more fanciful, version of events...

(By this stage it would seem the tale has gone through many iterations over the years of retellings, merging with a few other bits of Mannish folklore as well.)

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Oh! My missus tol’ me the other day ’bout a band of travellin’ minstrels who was a singin' at the Pony. I never heard ’em sing meself on account of ol’ Thistlewool's horse was foalin’ that eve, but my missus, she told me all about 'em, and one of their ballads sounds a bit like your tale!

Only, my missus told me that the elf didn’t find the wee ’uns. Well, not at first anyhow. Said he appeared suddenly when the orcs attacked. Well, the people, they thought he’d wave his magic sword and slay all the monsters, but to their great astonishment he just sat right down and pulled out his harp. He just began to sing, so he did! A lullaby it was, but a magic lullaby that sent ’em all into an enchanted sleep! The orcs, mind you, not the people. They went ’round and took all the armour and swords from the orcs, and when they woke up they was so confused and afraid that they upped and ran away into the woods and nobody saw hide nor hair of ’em ever again!

And what of the babes, you ask? Well, she said the night was pitch black by the time their mammie and all went a lookin' for 'em, and they was so well hidden in their little hidey-hole and too afraid to come out. But the elf, well, they have magic eyes and can see in the dark, see, and their ears are so sharp they can hear a mouse breathe, so they can! And so he found ’em where they lay hid. He carried ’em both back home, one on each shoulder, he did, singing soothingly to ’em all the way.

And so of course they all lived happily ever after.

What’s that? The elf? Oh yes, I forgot… well, my missus said that after their mammie was done with huggin' and kissin' her babes, she turned ’round to thank him, and he was vanished. Just like that! They never saw him again neither.