Hearken Still Unsated by polutropos

---

A Vision

---

“From the Elves of Mithrim the Noldor learned of the power of Elu Thingol, King in Doriath, and the girdle of enchantment that fenced his realm; and tidings of these great deeds in the north came south to Menegroth, and to the havens of Brithombar and Eglarest. Then all the Elves of Beleriand were filled with wonder and with hope at the coming of their mighty kindred, who thus returned unlooked-for from the West in the very hour of their need, believing indeed at first that they came as emissaries of the Valar to deliver them.”

“Now King Thingol welcomed not with a full heart the coming of so many princes in might out of the West, eager for new realms; and he would not open his kingdom, nor remove its girdle of enchantment, for wise with the wisdom of Melian he trusted not that the restraint of Morgoth would endure.”
- Of the Return of the Noldor

The stars and swirls of silver on the domed ceiling of Menegroth’s Great Hall, however beautiful, are an imitation of the firmament: jewels pried from the earth, rearranged in stone, and given light by the arts of Melian. Beneath this mosaic of constellations, Daeron leans upon a beech trunk hewn from rock and listens to the rustle of linen and silk and the clinking of strings of pearl.

Thingol’s council files in, taking their seats along curving wooden benches.

His nephew and chief counsellor Galadhon,¹ who proved steadfast in his loyalty even when the King’s own brothers despaired of his return, greets the other courtiers warmly. Mablung, Thingol’s Captain, carries himself wearily. He rests his arm on the hilt of a sword that has lain idle since they fenced themselves off from the war with Bauglir. Arriving by another entrance, Eöl stands apart. Thingol’s distant kinsman has not been seen here for many star cycles, preferring to skirt the borders of the forests ruminating, Daeron guesses, on how his weaponscraft failed them.

On a dais before them stands the twin seat of Thingol and Melian, carved from the cave floor to resemble the roots of a riverine tree clinging to the banks. The Queen sits first. Layers of green silk spill over the stone chair like a blanket of moss and lichens. The glass spheres of fireflies that hover above cast a yellow glow on her dark skin.

The ceremony is much the same as it has been since this cavernous city was first delved into the hills of the forest, but Daeron observes intently. He is the memory of Eglador – no, Doriath now. Land of the Fence: enclosed, guarded, safe. Much like another land that they – the Egladhrim, the Forsaken – never reached.

The King takes his seat last. Silver robes, a shade darker than the fall of hair around his pale face, pool at his feet. The grey figures of his counsellors look to him as Melian chants a prayer to Elbereth. The jewelled stars flicker overhead.

“Counsellors and kinsmen,” Thingol says when the prayer has concluded. “We have received a message from Eglarest at last.” The air in the hall tightens– “The Enemy’s forces have withdrawn from the Falas.” –and releases.

Daeron remembers how the King’s cheeks were rimed with the salt of grief when he returned, victorious but greatly diminished, from the war to the east. The wounded bodies and broken spirits of the Laegrim² were pulled from carts with cries of pain and anger for the loss of Denethor and of so many others of their people. No messenger came to Menegroth from the coast. Only by the thread of thought that stretched over the long leagues between him and Círdan did Thingol know that he had failed in his duty to protect his realm. There had been no way to bring the Falathrim into the safety of the forest before Melian at last put forth her power and ensconced Neldoreth and Region in shadow. Círdan had been cut off.

Galadhon stands. “Withdrawn? How can that be?” Several others mirror his expression of amazement.

“The Orcs retreated to do battle with the host of the Golodhrim, and were defeated.” As Daeron observes the muscles twitch above Thingol’s jaw, his own hope contends with the shame he senses pooling in the King’s heart.

“So it is as I had thought,” Galadhon says, “when first the rumour of this host came to Menegroth. Our long-sundered kinsfolk have come in the hour of our need.”

“So it would seem.” There is suspicion now, and fear, drawn in thin lines between Thingol’s brows. “But the army out of Balannor³ has still sent no word themselves. All we know of them comes from reports Círdan has received from the Mithrim.⁴”

Eöl emerges from the shadow of a pillar. “And why have they sent no message? Surely they must know Beleriand is not an uninhabited plain on which to pitch their battles? Let them not forget that we are the first of the Eledhrim⁵ to call this land home.”

Eöl’s dark eyes dart across the floor to where Daeron stands, seeking his support as he once did on the plains of Estolad in those long, uncertain years of waiting. Daeron recalls bitter words exchanged between kin. He hears again the accusations of betrayal breaking against Olue’s⁶ proud composure as he prepared to lead yet one more piece of Elu’s splintered people on towards the Sea. He sees again the faces of his own parents among that host and he is pricked by the abiding sting of resentment and regret. Where are the Lindai⁷ who followed Olue now? Why have they not returned?

“Remain hidden, if you wish,” Eöl says sharply, slicing off the ends of Daeron’s thought. “I at least will not stay enclosed in this fence forever, while the Golodhrim run over Beleriand with their trumpets of war and gleaming weapons.”

Melian’s loam-dark lashes flutter like the wings of moths and the flickering white light of her eyes deepens the shadows on Eöl’s face. “You do not know their plight. They have suffered great losses. The death of their king, and the capture of his eldest son.”

Galadhon’s face falls. “Finwë is slain?”

“I can uncover no news of Finwë’s fate,” Thingol says, “save that he came not with them. Nor does anyone speak of my brother Olue and our kin across the Sea.”

So it is certain. Only the Golodhrim have come, and without the king who led them from the Waters of Awakening.

“His son, Faenor,⁸ led them to Beleriand as their king, but he was slain as he marched on Angband. Faenor’s eldest son has fallen prey to the Enemy’s deceits. We do not know who rules them now.”

“That is grievous news,” says Galadhon, “but they are courageous indeed to have come so near to the Enemy's stronghold!”

Thingol hums, dissatisfied. “I mistrust the manner in which they wage their war. The Mithrim report that they establish settlements where others of our kind dwell already, with still no message of allegiance, not even of friendship, sent to us.”

Mablung, who has been listening with brows pinched in concentration, shifts in his seat. Though the Captain returned a hero from the war, he says less at these councils than he once did. Daeron feels in his silence the holes left by the loss of sister, spouse, and child, all under his own command.

But now he rises. “King Elu, may I speak freely?”

“Have not others done so?” Thingol’s eyes slide between his nephew and Eöl.

Mablung nods. “We are safe now. But there may come a time when we must go out to war again. Though we may mistrust them, I would advise you to seek friendship with the Golodhrim. We will need their strength.”

“I value your counsel and your valour, Captain, but I will not so hastily risk an alliance with those who may already be enmeshed in the Enemy’s lies. We know that Finwë’s heir has been captured – who can say what other evils Bauglir has worked upon them?” Thingol straightens in his chair and his gaze strays over the many faces of his counsellors. “We will send no message, nor will I take thought of war for many long years. The Girdle will hold. Melian will receive council again from the Belain.⁹”

At those words, Daeron searches Melian’s face, extending a tendril of his thought towards her. He is seeking the reassurance of her wisdom – as Elu is, as they all are. But he cannot reach her: she is far off, outside Time, listening for some strain of Music that is not there.

---

Macalaurë plays a broken scale, running a thumb over the newly-wound gut strings of the harp set before him. He sighs heavily and draws the thumb away to rest along his jaw.

“Thank you.” He looks at Curufinwë seated across the board.

His brother leans back in his chair, one arm crossed over his heart, clutching the opposite shoulder. He absently kneads at the tight muscles of his neck. “It is all I could do, with what we have.”

It is too dark to discern expressions, but Macalaurë forces a smile all the same. “And I am grateful for it. There is not a single flaw in its construction.”

“But you will not play it?”

Macalaurë’s fingers tap out a marching rhythm. “When I feel the need, I will.”

On his way out, Curufinwë pauses by the doorway. “I am sorry. For the one we burned.”

He stalks out into the constant night.

The instrument is gilded with the silver of their father’s belt. (Likewise there is a crown, fitted to his head but better suited to its shelf in a cabinet, moulded from the visor of Fëanáro’s helm; Finwë’s true heir never stopped fighting long enough to wear a crown.) Curufinwë did not receive their father’s name unjustly. Even in this strange village built for warfare, he has found a place for his craft. It seems he has even improved upon it, Macalaurë thinks, as he traces the finely-carved likenesses of the flora of Aman on the harp’s frame. But the wood, light and strong, is of Endórë.¹⁰

Even in this dim light, the harp glistens. Perhaps it is only the reflection of his eyes. Macalaurë scoffs at the absurdity of it all and drags his fingers down his face.

There is no place for music in this grim encampment, so he wraps the small harp beneath his cloak and takes it to the shore. Sinking down onto the damp silt, he leans against a log and props the instrument between his folded legs. He barely feels its weight against his chest. His palms fall open on his thighs and he stares blankly over the smooth plane of the lake.

Nothing comes.

Perhaps it is simply that there is no place for music anywhere on this side of the Sea. Not for him. Not for his people.

---

Since Anor blanketed the land in fire, Melian has still received no word from Balannor. No word has come to Doriath from the Golodhrim, either, but messengers report that their host has grown and settled on both sides of the lake now. From atop the highest trees in Neldoreth, one can see the sky is dark over the North. Hope, that bright yet brief flame, is swallowed again by fear and doubt.

In the twilight, Daeron watches his Queen wading among the plants where the Esgalduin is wide and languid. Her feet do not stir up the river bottom, and her robes drag through the water, their dark green turning almost black around the hem. She stoops to fill an ewer.

“Esgallind.¹¹” Melian addresses him by the name she gave him an age ago, when they first met under the eaves of Nan Elmoth. The water ripples in response. “It has been too long since I have heard anything.”

She scans the skies. Ithil crests behind her. Against his bright beams, it seems that the light that flickers just beneath her flesh has dimmed and cooled. “We are alone,” she says to the treetops. “The Belain have shut us out.”

Daeron is suddenly hollowed-out. He feels in himself the depth of her isolation and uncertainty as she searches in the darkness. He knows that darkness, for long ago she instructed him in the art of Seeing as well as Song, and for too long now he, too, has heard nothing of that Music.

Yet as he is Doriath’s memory, he is also Doriath’s hope. He weaves stories out of despair and arranges disorder into comfortable rhythms. Hope is meaning, and without meaning the tales are nothing but endless lamentation.

He asks, “Do you not believe then that the Golodhrim have come as their messengers?”

Melian steps out of the river and smiles. Her voice is in his mind. ‘I do not think we need lose hope yet.’ She lifts a hand to brush a strand of silver hair from Daeron’s face. ‘Come with me.’

Cradling the ewer against her stomach, her bare feet carry her over the mossy ground. The forest groans and the encircling trees bend and reach towards her. Solid as her flesh may be, always does it seem that she might disappear from the earth, dissolve back into the Music, as if she had never been here.

Melian leads him to the Great Hall to witness her play upon her harp. It is an ancient instrument, carved of living wood preserved from forests that Ivann¹² herself nurtured when the World was young. She fills the shallow basin beneath it with the waters she has collected. As the harp takes nourishment, it flushes gold. She says it is a vision of the Flame Imperishable that was before Time and she may play strains of the Great Theme upon it.

A feathered touch, calling upon his devotion and sense of duty, brushes Daeron’s mind. He draws a shallow breath through parted lips. Never before has she asked him to join her in this Music. “Híril.¹³” He bows deeply. “What would you have me do?”

“I can no longer hear the voices of my brethren in the thought of the One. Yet there are some also among the Children of Eru who may know one another through the Music played upon this harp. You are Eruchên,¹⁴ and gifted in Song.” Her hands are poised on either side of the strings. “Listen, Shadow Singer, and tell me what you see.”

She plucks a string and the silk shines. In time with the rapid movement of her fingers, thin wisps of light make constellations on the ceiling. Her voice, deep as the sky and clear as the stars, floods the hall. Daeron is already slipping into the sounds between notes. With a rush of bright colours, he is folded in.

*

There should be hope now that Macalaurë’s brother has returned. They should be able to see the skies again, to hear the birds again. That is how it would be told in song: even as the people’s hearts were lifted did the clouds break, revealing… some convenient and empty parallel drawn between mood and weather. But the ash still lines Macalaurë's lungs like a creeping mould and he feels no surge of hope, no sudden release of grief. All is silent, leaving the mocking cries of Manwë’s eagle to ring between his ears.

As they ride back from Ñolofinwë’s camp, Macalaurë watches the shapes of Curufinwë and Tyelkormo’s horses retreat into the death-grey distance. Everything is grey. The flat surface of the lake stretched out between their two settlements; the eyes of his kinsmen, sapped of any spark of colour by relentless ice and anger; the wool coverlets draped over the bed; the skin clinging to Maitimo’s bone-thin arms resting upon them. His brother's spirit yet lives in that marred body, but only just.

*

Menegroth’s walls disappear and Daeron stands knee-deep in a murky lake. A ceiling of smoke bears down upon him.

The screech of an eagle breaks the silence. As Daeron scans the horizon, suddenly the beat of its enormous wings is over him. The surface of the water is stirred; the grime rolls back to reveal a pale face, his skin the faded, flickering hue of a body whose spirit clings to incarnate life.

Even so was the flesh of the fallen on the battlefields under starlight, where Daeron sang and wept until he had poured so much of his power into them that he could scarcely draw breath. Some grew hale and strong and stayed to thank him for his Songs; but many more fled their bodies, too broken to return.

Daeron drops down to his knees and peers into the hollows of the elf’s shut eyes. They fly open: his irises are fire, flames leaping from the edges of black pupils. There is a scorching heat on Daeron’s face and he falls back.

“Forgive me!” Daeron screams.

*

What purpose would there have been to singing as Maitimo lay grey upon the bed? Would he have heard him, as he had heard Findekáno singing, far below those towers of sheer rock? What use is there in asking? Macalaurë had not even tried. He had watched, his hand over his brother’s breast, waiting for the rhythm of his breathing to move him – to song, to tears, even to madness, if madness it must be. Nothing had come.

This was not how the story was supposed to end. Maitimo had died.

“Forgive me.” He feels the shapes of the words on his lips, saying at last to the dense haze what he could not when he looked upon his brother's face. But his eyes remain dry as he rides on to tell the people that their king has returned.

*

There is rain, thick and heavy, hurtling down. “What is there to forgive?” Daeron shouts, before the sheet of water breaks upon his face and spills over his cheeks, cooling the heat that still burns upon them.

*

A gust of wind whips over the lake. Macalaurë’s mare huffs and tosses her head. “Shh, Quildë.¹⁵” He sinks a hand into her mane. “We’re almost there.”

He looks out over the water. A layer of deep blue separates it from the hanging grey smoke.

A drop of rain lands on his hand. The tiny spot expands and disappears into his parched skin. Another falls, and another, and he can hear the drum of heavy drops striking the surface of the lake as the clouds are carried swiftly towards them.

Quildalótë stomps and tugs at the reins. He lets her break into a gallop, taking them under the cover of a large yew.

*

Lightning illuminates the lake, scattering confused images across its surface. Daeron's eyes dart among them, trying to follow their meaning.

White ships are borne swiftly over a dark ocean. Their sails billow like the wings of swans. The water shimmers with the gleam of sunken weapons. Lifeless bodies are carried on the current. A blinding silver-gold light sears Daeron's unblinking eyes.

Then a murmur of thunder heralds an outpouring of noise.

A crown rattles across a marble floor. Torches burn. ‘Ambar-mettá. Umbar insa.’¹⁶

Words spoken in a tongue familiar but unknown. ‘Oiyámórenna.¹⁷Ilúvatar.'

The crack of burning timber. The echo of vengeful laughter.

Daeron gathers up all the sounds. There is nothing more than disconnected notes at first, but he sings them all the same. He finds shapes; he fits them into Song. He tilts his neck towards the sky and sings until his lungs are near to bursting with the swell of sound. He sings until his throat burns from shaping such ragged discord into harmony. He sings until a single star appears above him.

“Ambar,” he sings. “Umbar.” His last mournful notes float up towards the firmament like tendrils of mist.

The storm drifts off.

*

It's twilight. The first stars appear against a muted indigo sky. Macalaurë raises a hand to his cheek and it is warm and damp.

“The clouds are parting.” He laughs and pats his mare’s neck. “What did I say?”

In the branches of the tree a bird greets the night. It is shifted down slightly, has a cadence of its own, but he knows its song. There was one like it that he listened to as he drifted off to sleep in the wilds of Aman, far from all but his family. His father had even composed a lullaby to the tune of that birdsong, and he sang it to each of his children as he rocked them in his arms. Macalaurë returns the call. There is a pause and then an answer, a perfect echo. He sings.

Onya, onincenya, hína¹⁸
Stars are shining, hína
Walk along the gleaming trail
To Lórien’s vale, hína.

Pressure builds and quivers around his eyes. He sucks in a sharp breath that rattles in his chest. Quildalótë extends her neck and one round black eye slides back to look at him. She blinks sadly and sighs. Macalaurë's exhale comes out as a choked cry as he collapses against her, wrapping his arms around her silken neck, burrowing his fingers in her mane, and heaving great sobs.

The memories unravel.

*

Daeron returns to find himself seated on the stair to the royal dais, bent over his knees. He rubs his fingers against his thumbs and they are cold and numb. His tongue is dry in his throat.

Melian has a hand on his back and strokes his hair to the rhythm of her steady humming. There is a comforting heat on her palms.

“Amar,” he mutters. “Amarth.”

He tries to recall the images, the Music, but it is as though he was emptied of their message the moment he returned. Only those words linger: The World, Doom. So closely akin in sound and shape.

“I am sorry.” He clutches Melian’s hand on his shoulder. “I cannot remember it.”

“Shh.” She draws him up and cradles his head against her breast. “That is enough.”

He weeps silently until his face is wet with tears. When the Music returns it is but a confusion of muddled notes. The feelings, though, take root and drink of his soul, cling to his flesh, as though he were their sustenance: loss, despair, and displacement. As they reach and wind their way through him, he hears their story: the Golodhrim were not sent. The Belain offered them no aid on the journey but still they came, in defiance and determination.

He draws a long breath and looks into Melian’s bright eyes. For the first time, they fill him with disquiet. For the first time, he doubts. Was it for more than love that she stayed among them? He casts a veil over his mind and does not tell her what he hears.

Despite the dark Music that thrums through the land beyond their protected realm, Daeron has not lost hope for Ennor.¹⁹ He chose this place, the land of his birth, not out of loyalty to a king he had never met, but out of love. The Eledhrim who have returned to it out of longing will find what they seek here.

Amar: home.²⁰

---

Chapter End Notes

¹Named in Unfinished Tales as the son of Elwë and Olwë’s younger brother, Elmo.

²The Green-elves, Sindarin, class plural.

³Valinor, Sindarin

⁴The northern Sindar who lived about lake Mithrim.

⁵Sindarin equivalent of Eldar (class plural; singular Edhil, plural Edhel). It is my interpretation that the Sindar used Edhil to include all the Elves, unlike Eldar which is only those who set out with Oromë on the Great Journey.

⁶Telerin for Olwë. This assumes that Telerin had already developed or partially developed from Primitive Elvish at the time of Olwë’s departure.

⁷Primitive Elvish, ‘The Singers’, what the Teleri called themselves.

⁸The "genuine Sindarin form". The form Fëanor "probably arose from scribal confusion" ('Shibboleth of Fëanor' in Peoples of Middle-earth). In his brief time in Beleriand, Fëanor befriended and learned from the Mithrim, so I think it likely that they would have conveyed messages about him using this form of his name.

⁹The Valar (singular Balan).

¹⁰Endor (Q.), Middle-earth. This is just a longer form.

¹¹Esgallind = Shadow Singer, a name I created for Daeron that Melian gives him. It is meant to evoke the meaning of dae in Tolkien’s earlier writings, namely ‘shadow of trees’ (later, ‘great’). Tolkien had many words for ‘shadow’; I chose esgal because of this specifically meaning a ‘cast shadow’ and by extension a ‘veil, screen’ and referring to Daeron’s ability to see past veils and screens. The linguistic confluence with the river Esgalduin is also neat.

¹²Yavanna (Sindarin).

¹³Lady (Sindarin), chosen instead of Rían, ‘Queen’, because of the tree Hírilorn in Doriath.

¹⁴Child of Eru in Sindarin (plural, Eruchîn). Eruhíni in Quenya.

¹⁵Short for Quildalótë (Q.), the name I have given Maglor’s horse. It means Quiet Flower.

^16'Doom itself. World’s ending,’ phrases from the Oath of Fëanor (the first phrase is from this translation by Marie Prosser for the SilmFilm Project. The second is in both that one and the better-known one by Milan Rezac. Rezac uses ambar for both ‘doom’ and ‘world’ -- both emphasising and erasing the similarity and significant difference between the two words!). For the (I think) fascinating relationship between ambar and umbar and the concepts of fate, the world, and dwelling see entry for Primitive Elvish root √MBAR ("settle, dwell; establish, fix, decide, determine, make a decision") and Chapter 21 of The Nature of Middle-earth, 'Fate and Free Will'.

¹⁷’Everlasting Darkness’, also from Rezac’s translation of the Oath.

¹⁸’My child/offspring, my little child, child,’ (hína as in Eruhíni), Quenya. cuarthol has incredible song-filking talents and wrote lyrics for three verses of this Elf lullaby in about 10 minutes, which I have adapted. It is based on this song.

¹⁹Middle-earth, Sindarin.

²⁰Amar, the Sindarin word for World (cognate of Quenya Ambar), is etymologically related to the root meaning ‘settlement, dwelling’. Daeron, a linguist, has I have taken the liberty of including the concept of ‘home’ in this cluster. See note 16.