Far Over Land and Sea by polutropos

The Teleri fought with nets, tridents, spears, knives, arrows – but their most powerful weapon? They sang. They sang as they had since they awoke on the shores of Cuiviénen, and the sea’s rippling surface carried their voices from pier to pier. Now as sweetly as waves lapping over pebbles, now groaning as fiercely as a storm delving grottoes in the cliffsides.

Like a web of cracks that veins unseen through a sheet of glass, their Songs slowly broke down their opponent’s resolve, making brittle shards of the shell encasing a hardened heart.

Then came the knife, gutting the stunned soldiers like so many fish.

One, two, three fell this way as Macalaurë advanced. They spilled heaps of black gore onto the white boards as their bodies crumpled into the sea.

Four, five. The last, a woman who had crafted his first child’s flute.

“Cáno!” A cry from behind. His brother – which brother? Macalaurë whirled towards the sound. Upon the marbled breakwater: Tyelkormo surrounded by a wall of spears. Their bearers beat out a rhythm against the stones, singing together. A dreadful choir.

“Cáno!” his brother called again, his voice cut through with the shrillness of panic. “Stop them!”

All the Eldar could draw forth thoughts and sensations with Song, but few had Macalaurë’s gift for singing them into being.

He gathered his fear into his lungs. He felt, for the first time, what it was to wield a Song. The Teleri parried with a deluge of music and arrows. Macalaurë’s Song faltered, his shield arm was struck.

The circle closed around Tyelkormo. Mighty Tyelkormo, who had never needed Macalaurë once before.

In desperation, scarcely conscious of his choice, he allowed a strain of discord into his Music. His vision darkened. The clamour of weapons hushed. The sound carried on his breath was deep and full, the words ancient and unholy. The choir fell silent.

He opened his eyes and saw, for the first time, that Song could destroy.

“Canafinwë!” his father bellowed. Between them, crackling, flaming whips cut through the northern sky. Fëanáro cried through the noise, “Sing! Sing our Enemy to ruin!”

But the songs in Macalaurë’s breast had tied themselves in knots and stoppered his throat since that night on the piers. It was the price, he deemed, of borrowing threads of the Enemy’s Music for himself.

Varda’s stars flickered overhead, distant and cold. The winds were still. The air grew thick with the ash-laden breath of the fire demons. Even so had a cloud of smoke engulfed the firth when the ships burned. By the time the first great mast toppled, Macalaurë could no longer make out where his blazing arrows fell.

There was no beauty in such foul fire.

Fëanáro’s flashing helm was swallowed by the shadow of the greatest of the Valaraukar. Macalaurë’s commands rose above the tumult, sending line after line of soldiers crashing against their foes. It was not enough.

“Macalaurë!” Maitimo called to him now. “You must sing!”

Faced with destruction, the knots unravelled. Macalaurë’s Song, deep and terrible, surged over the field of battle. The whips of the Valaraukar were as streaming seaweeds caught up and tangled in the wave of sound. The elven forces followed in its wake, their swords gleaming like silver foam.

As their foes faltered, the warriors of the Noldor took up the Song and pressed forwards. A thousand mighty voices rolled over the plain. The enemy fled.

Fëanáro exulted – then collapsed. The victorious Noldor made their retreat in heavy silence.

No dirge was sung for Fëanáro’s remains as they sped away on a black gust.

It had not been enough.