Lay Down by Himring

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Lay Down

For help with the name salad, if required, see end notes.

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Valinor, Time of the Trees

 

Beneath a silver tree, on a bank of flowers, lies Miriel like a monument to herself.

There was a time, Maitimo imagines, when this quiet corner of Lorien almost bustled with the efforts of elves and Maiar trying to coax Miriel back among the living.

Finwe used to come here, until he chose life, children and Indis.

Feanaro continued to come, but now he is busy in his secret workshop forging secret weapons. Not so very secret either, those weapons—rumours have been spreading and who is spreading those rumours?

Maitimo, weighed down by the burden of those secrets and those rumours, seems to be the only one visiting Miriel today. He gazes at the pale unyielding face, but it has no answers for him. He has never seen that face alive. He does not know, even, why her body remains here, still as stone, when his grandmother was declared officially dead before his birth. Was it to appease some minority faction among the Ainur that the body remains suspended in this state, preserved in a way that seems a little unnatural even for Valinor? He knows that the Valar’s decision was disputed, at the time.

Maitimo is not sure that Miriel could be of much help, now things have come to the pass they have, even if she were to decide to return to life and to Tirion this very day. Although if there were any event that could startle the Noldor enough to distract them thoroughly and fully, for once, from the rising tension that keeps tightening in them and around them like a subtle but immensely frightening noose—no matter how some among them keep working to defuse it—that would be welcome and promising… But, of course, the Valar have already decided it will not happen. There is no point in telling Miriel anything or asking her anything.

On a sudden impulse, he lies down next to her instead—about two feet apart and two inches below the raised bank of white flowers her body reclines on.

He feels the soft springiness of the grass under his back and the solidity of the earth beneath. As he lies, he becomes aware of other sensations: on his arms and face, the gentlest of breezes wafting across from Lake Lorellin, carrying a mix of scents with it that promises to ease every breath. Above him, silver leaves shift on the bough, softly shimmering in the golden light that in some areas of Lorien is always a little dimmed, at Este’s request.

This could be the most soothing spot in Arda, perhaps. But, of course, Maitimo knows that all this has already failed to help at least once.

*

Beleriand, late First Age

 

Maglor sighs.

Elros—and Elrond, too—have caused Maglor to sigh quite a lot recently, deep, loving sighs that, unconsciously, resonate almost like music, rather than the stifled, half-strangled sighs Maedhros is also familiar with and has heard too many of.

They are growing up. They need to find their way. If there is any way left to find…

‘I would tell you just to be yourself,’ Maglor tells Elros, ‘except that has not always worked very well for those of our family…’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Maedhros comments. ‘They are not sons of Feanor. It might work better for them…’

*

‘I’m afraid our mother bore a pair of fools, Kano.’

‘I’m not sure there is any need to drag our mother into it, Nelyo,’ answers Maglor, softly so as not wake any of the others.

‘True. It seems our father would have more to do with it, except that even he has been dead for more than five hundred years of the Sun now…’

*

He feels searing hot wind sweep his face and arms.

Earlier this day, Eonwe has led Morgoth from the ruins of Angband.

Maedhros lies down and attempts to rest.

Above him, the skies still roil with massive black threatening clouds.

Beneath his cheek, the ashes of Anfauglith glow again. They have not been grass for more than a hundred years.

It is over, he tries telling himself. It is over. It is over. It is over.

Morgoth started it, even if they did not know it, at the time, until too late, but…

Beneath Maedhros, the earth trembles.

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Chapter End Notes

The idea that Miriel's body or hröa continued to be preserved even after she was declared permanently dead, is borne out by one version of her story in the History of Middle-earth, in which she actually resumes her original body, later, when the decision is reversed. (That does not mean that Tolkien always intended it to happen like that, obviously.)

Names: 

Maedhros: Quenya Maitimo, nickname Nelyo.

Fëanor: Quenya Fëanáro.

Maglor: nickname Káno