Bard Rising by Rhapsody

Prologue

Who would have known that here, at the end of a road long travelled, I would open this work again, having thought that I had nothing left to entrust to parchment after the passing of so many years. Empty sheets mirror my existence, the last notes reflect a life long forgotten, drifting on the wind. Yet, I feel compelled to state why I started all of this. To whom might read it, my last audience whom I cannot explain all my choices and deeds done. One day I shall come to pass into Mandos, and that person shall find it. Mayhap they cease reading before the last deeds, matters I regret, but cannot make undone. Be brave! Read on! My life is one of hardship, filled with highs and lows, treason and trust, love and loss…

I recall starting this work, but first and foremost, I remember the moment of my creation. Suddenly, this music awoke my senses one by one; from a stir, to being enticed, an arpeggio so perfectly played that once my Feä was wound so tightly, I had to follow it in order to receive more. You see, it was just not the music our ears have grown used to, but music that pierced your soul, stripped you bare down to your core, and in such a manner that nothing would hinder you from understanding your sole purpose in life. Before understanding, Eru sung my feä into being and, during that split second, I was the Music. It was a marvellous experience; so pure it defined me into the smallest of details, a perfect sensation which I sought for the rest of my life. Yes. I do know that if only I would have balanced my thirst for this music with the understanding of my fate a bit more, matters could have turned out quite differently.

Now as I sit here, I can look back and see how my life made that unexpected turn. Yet I realise that it was written in the Ainulindalë, as Eru wanted it to be. It is difficult to find peace by this knowledge and, maybe, one day I will see what the allfather truly intended for me. It was so enchanting, to follow the lure of his promise, ultimately delivering me into the hands of my parents who, by their desire, deeply wished for a child. Encourage by the cords, I followed that silver thread - which I quickly discovered was mine - that slowly mingled with gold and copper. At that moment I knew I was unique, and in the storm of longing, so strong that it nearly quenched me, I held onto my music filled fëa as it joined its bodily hroa. Magnificence trapped. It would be years later that I would master my body well enough to use it as an instrument.

Often did I crave to relive that moment again; the supreme moment in which I felt carried upon cords and voices at first. Only later to find my first home in my mother’s womb. She confined me, tried to still me so that she could create her own vision of me. Their own intimate dance nearly crushed the remnants of the notes that thrummed through my veins. I held onto it, never to let go throughout my long life. My mother was not alone in her ambition. Soon she sullied me into a dream as she carried me. The fire of my father was strong and reminded me of the first moment the Music touched me. I could not help but to yield to his power, even then. Later in my youth, both would scrutinise me, claiming that I took after each of them the most. Even then, both wanted to fulfil their wishes and desires through me, unaware of Eru’s touch, although my father was not completely unaware of it.

During my waking moments, I heard and felt my father often: he pressed his hands inquiringly on my mother’s belly as if he could not wait for that moment that I would be born. His voice had a pleasant timbre, soothing, and later he told me how he enjoyed these moments of being in contact with me. At the same time, I also knew, while I bounced towards his hands in my eagerness to meet him, that there was an absolute certainty that he would protect me for the rest of my life. His hands were more gentle than many would have thought, and my mother’s endurance to bring me into life taught me an important lesson: pain is part of our lives, it can either bring us the utmost joy or the most profound loss.

I knew that I hurt her when I came into Arda. Her cries worried many as most considered the second child to be born more easily than the first. Some said that I could not part from her, that I had sensed my father’s impetuous nature. If only they knew… Not that I think many would have cared, regarding the reasons I wanted to be born that swiftly, or even known, I wonder, what was my main reason. It was to hear that voice who recited lore to me, and to come to know the person who hummed the first lullabies that reached my tiny ears. In my haste, I caused ruptures, weakened my mother for many years after that. I loved both sirens equally, but the Music I knew. As for the Lore…I did not. I craved it, longed for it, so much so that I let my voice ring aloud for anyone to hear.

My father did not have to think long about naming me. Kanafinwë was a name many immediately agreed upon. However, my mother’s gentle nature saw the beauty in my cries for knowledge and named me Macaläure. Those two names are in the past now, and in the present day, I sometimes have to remember the names my brothers gave me on these shores.

For such is my fate in living memory. I can only pass on the lore of the Noldor, in the form of the Noldolantë which I have done in the past. Yet my own personal story remains untold, and I do not think another person wants to read this journal. Still, I feel that I must entrust my deepest thoughts to parchment. The ink on these pages will convey the memories and experiences of the exiled one, for my name is Maglor, Son of Fëanor, the last son that has not surrendered to the everlasting dark. This is my tale...