Hearken Still Unsated by polutropos

Interlude

"And it is told that in that time Daeron the minstrel of Thingol strayed from the land, and was seen no more … But seeking for Lúthien in despair he wandered upon strange paths, and passing over the mountains he came into the East of Middle-earth, where for many ages he made lament beside dark waters for Lúthien, daughter of Thingol, most beautiful of all living things."
- 'Of Beren and Lúthien'

"And it is told of Maglor that he could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him; and he cast it at last into the Sea, and thereafter he wandered ever upon the shores, singing in pain and regret beside the waves … but he came never back among the people of the Elves."
- 'Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath'

Slow but relentless, the Sea presses itself between the peaks of the Ered Luin. A gash opens in the land as it rushes in, driving a gulf like a dagger into the east. The mountains tremble. From where he sits, clutching his knees to his chest in a cleft of the cliffs, Daeron watches enormous masses of rock break off and shatter as they strike the earth.

More than a century has passed of wandering in solitude on the eastern slopes of the mountains. The loss of Lúthien, in whose pure and perfect spirit he had poured all his hope, should have been the end. The beginning of something else. He meant to go further, as far east as he could go, but time and again he found himself ascending the mountain and gazing west over the expanse of his birthplace. Then the Sun would sink over the edge of the world and he would return to the shadows.

When Thingol’s spirit left his body and when Melian followed after him, Daeron felt it as a shearing pain. So the lungs and ribs over Beleriand’s heart were torn away, leaving it naked and gasping. He felt nothing but emptiness when Lúthien passed beyond the Circles of the World. Nothing still when at last the unfenced Doriath bled out, the last trickle of its lifeblood scattering over the ruined landscape. But still he clung to the promise of perfection as he clung to his music, waiting for a reason to hope, a resolution to the song.

Until now. The ground has stopped shaking and somehow he is still there, still weeping, still alone. As the gulf far below settles and laps against the new shore, he knows that he has ascended the mountain for the last time. It is too late. There is nothing left. There is no other way to go but east.

*

The Sun rises but Maglor cannot see it through the thick black clouds. It seems that the only light left in the world is the one now burning a hole through his hand. It seems the only sound left is the roar of waves. He is mute; his screams have been swallowed by the Sea.

He turns to face the looming mountains that mark the eastern edge of all he has ever known. Beyond them is a promise he once chased of unclouded stars and wide lands and freedom. No, not a promise – a fantasy. Let it remain so.

He turns north and there is a gulf. White ships are tossed on the waves like a flock of seabirds riding out a storm, trusting the tide to carry them into the safety of that haven. And so it does, bearing those on board to face the wreckage and rebuild with courage and nobility. To peel back their shame with humility and grace. He cannot go there. Not now. It is too late.

A whipping wind blows from the West. He turns towards it and draws in a breath. It stings his lungs. He would laugh, if he had the strength to do so. But he uses his last drop of vigour to raise his arm and cast the burning jewel into stinging wind, far over the roiling ocean. His voice returns with a crushing weight in the moment that the Silmaril's light is swallowed by the waves. He falls to his knees and he knows that his cry of spite, of pain, of regret is the first strain of a song that he will sing until the end of time.

He lets the salt waves wash over him until his clothes and hair cling to the shell that houses his sick and weary spirit. At last he rises and turns to follow the coast as far south as it will go.