The Book of Short Tales by Lyra

*Random - The Children of Alqualondë

Frustrated by obvious inconsistencies, a Fëanorian muses on the poets' treatment of the first kinslaying.
Written in an attempt to deal with a line that absolutely annoyed me in a fanfic I read a while back: I figured tackling the issue creatively was healthier than running around screaming, foaming at the mouth and starting a flame war...

*This chapter rated "Adult" for mention of blood, guts and gore.

Thank you, Grey Gazania, for the nomination!
And a huge thank you to everyone who read and reviewed.

There were no children playing on the docks of Alqualondë.

You have all heard the songs, of course. You probably know them by heart. And you have pictured all those white-clad Telerin children, floating face-down in the ruby-coloured waves or lying on the piers like so many fallen cherry-blossoms. You have seen them before your mind’s eye as you listened to the songs. You know exactly what happened, don’t you?

I know it too, for I was there; and those children never existed. In all honesty, if you thought about the scene for a moment, you'd discard the horrible beauty of the songs even without my testimony. I know you will not believe me, but think.

Think for a moment. Think what it was like to live through those days. The light of our world had been extinguished mere days ago. By that time we knew how the Trees had died, and how Melkor, who had only just been named Moringotto, had escaped in the darkness; how the Valar had been powerless to protect their realm. People were afraid. We came to Alqualondë as an army, bartering for the ships. We withdrew, defeated for the moment. The only thing we all knew was uncertainty. And fear, of course: fear of the darkness.

Do you truly believe that any self-respecting Telerin parents would have allowed their children to go and play outside, on the docks or elsewhere, under such circumstances? Do you think they would have allowed their children to go out into that darkness, with the Enemy who-knows-where, a not entirely friendly army encamped nearby, and doubt and fear abounding? Do you think the children would have wanted to play outside, on the docks, at that time? Do you think that, when the fighting began, any such children would have continued to play on the docks, oblivious of the killing until our swords stopped their little hearts and sullied their white frocks with blood?

Don’t be absurd.

There were no children playing on the docks of Alqualondë. There were no fishers going about their business, no merchants bustling in the market, no lovers kissing on the beach. There were no carpenters bringing wood to the wharfs, no artisans gathering shells; and there were no playing children. There was only an uneasy watch on the harbour, armed with fishing spears (and notice how all the beautiful songs never mention those barbed fishing spears, nor the sort of wounds that Telerin harpoons are capable of inflicting) and working knives (and notice how the poets, whose faultless fingers only ever strung harps, never bows, are unaware that a blade crafted to gut tuna-fish can be just as deadly as a regular sword). We came uninvited, and they defended their property; we fought, and they lost.

I am not trying to justify our deeds. There is no excuse for the kinslaying. I will not say that we weren't the ones who started the fighting (although it is true), for we shouldn't have come there in force of battle, nor should we have tried to steal the ships; and though we did not start the fighting, we certainly finished it. I will not say that we didn't understand what we were doing (although I daresay it is true for many of us), for there are things that ignorance cannot excuse. It was our Oath that caused the killing, our foolish obsession that made us blind to the horror of our deeds. There is no excuse. This is no attempt to make us look any better than we are. There can be no doubt that we deserve the blame.

Yet they make me angry, those songs, those tragically beautiful lines about the murdered children of Alqualondë, those cherry-blossoms, those tempest-tossed pearls. For a long time I was not certain why. I thought at first that I was angry because they reported an untruth, but there are many songs that embellish the truth or flout it altogether, and they do not anger me. Then I thought it was because they were trying to make us look worse than we truly were; but we deserved every bit of condemnation, so what did it matter if a little judgement was for crimes that we did not, in fact, commit?

But that line of thought brought me to the answer, the reason why I so detest these songs.
They make me angry because they tell me that the poets did, apparently, not find the truth horrible enough. It isn't bad enough that we had slaughtered other Elves. It isn't cruel enough that we had cut them down, hacking and slashing and stabbing our way to the ships. It is not dreadful enough that we didn't waste a single thought on our victims, that we sailed off into (as we then thought) glory without qualms.
No.
The poets feel that it takes sweet children, scythed in mid-play by Ŋoldorin blades, to give their songs the proper ring. Dead people just aren’t enough.

Perhaps they are right. Most people who listen to their songs are moved to tears only when the singers reach the part about the little children floating in the bloodied waters. The things that really happened – the brutal honesty of blades rending flesh, of bloodshed, of a fighter slipping on the guts of his felled opponent – they make for an exciting tale. Only when the fictional children enter the scene does the audience begin to grasp the monstrosity.

I should not care either way. Personally I am disappointed whenever I catch an obvious untruth in a tale – it makes me doubt the truth of the whole thing – but maybe other listeners are less critical. I should not be angry. In the end, the lie gets the story across.
But I cannot help but wonder: If there is a need to embellish the horrible truth, if it must be made poetic, if it is not horrid enough on its own – what does that tell us about the poets, and their audience?