Illuminating Now and Dark Hath-been by polutropos

Chapter 1

“But here I will tell as I may a Tale of Men that Dírhaval of the Havens made in the days of Eärendel long ago. Narn i Chîn Húrin he called it, the Tale of the Children of Húrin … He came of the House of Hador, it is said, and the glory and sorrow of that House was nearest to his heart. Dwelling at the Havens of Sirion, he gathered there all the tidings and lore that he could …”

“Dírhavel they say perished in the last raid of the sons of Fëanor upon the Havens.”

- The War of the Jewels (HoME 11), Part Three, Chapter II, ‘Ælfwine and Dírhavel’.

I have chosen to use the later spelling of Dírhaval's name.

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He is old now. His long beard is fraying at the ends, his once-golden hair has faded to grey. His letters are misshapen for the pen trembles in his hand and his sight has all but failed him. But when he sets his fingers to the harp strings, unrelenting time lifts its weight from Dírhaval’s spirit: his music flows freely and his voice rises above, clear and bright. Though the tales he has devoted his life to telling are full of sorrow, Dírhaval has always smiled through his singing.

So it is that even as his city falls, playing above the cries and clamour of weapons just beyond his door, he smiles. If he must die, he will die rejoicing that he lived at all.

* 

Even now, weaving between the bodies of the slain, Maglor walks in memories. Memories of light and fire, of so many other lives lost and taken, and of words that carry the weight of doom. Every swing and thrust of his sword, every command to attack or retreat is but a line in a story, a Song already written, waiting only for a voice to give it breath. 

Suddenly, a melody slips out of an open door and cuts through the memories. The present strikes Maglor with such violent force that he is for a moment stuck to the spot in fear. Shouts rise around him and rather than turning to face them, he stumbles through the door, following the hopeful melody that does not belong here.

*

Dírhaval does not shrink from the Elf, not though he carries the scent of blood and fire with him.

“Who are you?” the Elf asks. “What is that song?”

His hands still dancing over the strings, Dírhaval sings his reply, “The music to which I, Dírhaval of the fallen House of Hador, wish to die.”

The Elf steps closer and Dírhaval feels the heat of his eyes scanning him. A sigh of disbelief is pushed between his lips. “So you who have suffered so much sing of hope, even at this hour.”

Dírhaval laughs lightly, guessing at where the Elf stands and turning his face towards him. “Suffered? I have not suffered. Most of my life has been spent quietly, hearing tales and composing songs on the shores and among the reeds.”

“So short a time…” the Elf whispers to himself. “And now? As your people are dying?”

“Suffering has come down on us all, yes,” Dírhaval replies, deftly plucking a refrain. “But I need not die in agony, if I choose otherwise. Do we not all have a choice, Maglor Fëanorion?”

The Elf makes a choking sound, something a bard less subtle might call laughter but which Dírhaval recognises as despair. “You know who I am."

“I guessed,” Dírhaval accompanies his grin with a flourish of notes and brings his hands to rest. “It seems rightly.”

Maglor’s feet shuffle over the dusty floor, metal clicks against metal. “And yet you could not speak less truly, Dírhaval of the Atani, whose fate lies outside any Song. I have no choice.”

“So your messengers told my people. Perhaps it is true.” Dírhaval picks up his melody again. “Perhaps it is not. I have not decided on the matter.” Maglor makes no reply. “I do wish our meeting had been otherwise. I longed all my life to hear your tales and your music.” 

Maglor draws in a long breath like water retreating over sand, holds it, then shouts like the crash of the wave returning. 

Dírhaval’s playing continues uninterrupted. “They did not lie about your voice.”

Metal scrapes against a sheath. “You will not taunt me into killing you.” A firm grip takes Dírhaval’s shoulder. “Leave, Dírhaval of the House of Hador. Hide. You do not need to die here, not yet.”

Dírhaval hums and he tastes honey in his song. “Not here, not now, but I must die. Would you deny me the chance to choose how I meet my end?” He sets down his harp and folds his hands over his lap. “Would you let me hear you sing, once, before I die?” 

After a long pause, in which Dírhaval wonders if the Elf has made himself silent and slipped away, Maglor kneels beside the old bard and cups his head between both hands. His skin is warm against Dírhaval’s cold cheeks.

“I cannot take a life with song” Maglor says. “I can only aid a spirit that is willing.”

“I am willing,” Dírhaval replies.

Maglor closes his eyes and sings a song of releasing. When he is done, the Man’s head slumps towards his chest, his spirit fled.

As he walks out to rejoin the fighting, Maglor falls back into memories – but he is followed by the faint strain of a hopeful tune.