In Golden Song of Joy by Arveldis

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In Golden Song of Joy

Written for @dreamingthroughthenoise's Tumblr prompt: "Maglor and Elrond, ‘poured forth their joy in music and song,’ and Rivendell"

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Elrond watched Maglor’s fingers as he plucked at the strings of the harp. He was always entranced by Maglor’s hands, long-fingered, graceful, and elegant, capable of creating melodies of surpassing beauty, and yet they were the same hands that had wrought violence unthinkable. The same hands that could spin stories from strings had laid the havens to waste until the streets were stained scarlet.

Fear and awe and a strange sense of peace—Elrond could little name the emotions he felt when Maglor was near, but these he could identify. Beauty and terror, comfort and pain. He never knew quite what he felt around Maglor, but he was strangely drawn to him, like a moth to flame. 

He and Elros had been saved, but he did not know why, and he was too frightened to ask.

Maglor began to sing in the High Tongue, and though Elrond did not understand the words that spun through the air, he could understand the shapes of their meaning—the joy of life and growth, and the dance of renewal and rebirth.

Elrond stood in awe, transfixed by the beauty of the song and the lilt of the harp. He felt almost as if he could touch the music, if he bent his mind and will hard enough to the task. He felt Maglor’s voice in his chest, in his heart, in the pulse of the air around him. Everything listened, bending ear to the power of the song.

The strange words took form, and Elrond heard new voices join the song. The sweet, pure voices of nightingales sang from the shadows, and Elrond caught a glimpse of fluttering wings. White petals of night-blooming jasmine bloomed upon the pillars, and their light scent filled the room. 

Elrond reached out to stroke a petal of the pale flower that grew before his feet, twisting upward until its petals brushed against his chest. His fingers passed through the petals, and the flower melted away at his touch.

“It is only an illusion,” Maglor said softly, and the spell was broken. “The same kind of illusion that Finrod wove in Tol-in-Gaurhoth.”

“Where is it—where are the flowers and birds from?”

Maglor was silent for a moment. “They once filled the gardens of Nargothrond, before its fall.”

Elrond considered this. “Can you teach me to weave illusions with songs?”

Maglor smiled and beckoned him near. “I can teach you that and more.”

 

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“Will you not stay?” Elrond asked.

“Only for the night,” Maglor said. 

They stood beneath the eaves of the Last Homely House. Nearby, the waterfall poured into the starlit pool that lay behind the slope the house stood upon. Evening birds called softly to one another, hidden among the boughs of the trees, and the faint sounds of laughter and music spilled from the doors of the house. In the valley around them, all was painted in the soft purple of twilight.

In the silver light that fell from the lanterns hanging overhead, Maglor looked younger than he had for many centuries, and the soft shadows of twilight removed the lines of care from his face. 

“Will you join us in the Hall of Fire?” Celebrían asked, nodding at the harp fastened to Maglor’s back. “It is Midsummer and a time of celebration here. We would welcome your craft. There are few among us now who can sing and play with the skill of the Elder Days, and it is long since the Hall of Fire has been graced with such skill.” She turned and smiled at Elrond. “Perhaps Elrond will join you. He does not often sing anymore, and little of the lays of the First Age, but perhaps now that you are here he might be convinced.”

Elrond pressed Celebrían’s fingers gratefully. Ever gracious, she had smoothed away any uncertainty Maglor might have felt.

“Please, join us,” Elrond said, gesturing for Maglor to enter the house. “Tonight, we shall sing as we once did.”

Maglor smiled.

 

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Inside the Hall of Fire, the fire burned low in the hearth, little needed with the warmth the summer sun had laid upon the house. The lanterns glowed brightly upon the walls, and the faces of the gathered Elves were merry, for they had just finished the Midsummer Feast and gathered now for tales and songs of joy and wonder.

Maglor set his harp between his knees and placed his fingers over the strings. Elrond readied his lute, waiting for Maglor to begin. Maglor’s fingers brushed over the strings of his harp, and a few quiet notes drifted into the hall.

The hall fell silent.

Maglor plucked the strings louder, his hands rippling over the harp like rain. At his glance, Elrond joined in.

Maglor began to sing with a voice that held the power and gentleness of the sea—now the voice of the ocean’s might and majesty, now the voice of the softly spilling waves. Elrond joined his voice with Maglor’s, weaving in and out of the ebb and flow of Maglor’s voice.

Images began to fill the hall. Elrond scarcely heard the gasps of the gathered Elves, so consumed was he by the power of Maglor’s voice and the strength of the song they sang. 

Golden light filtered through the hall. It was the light of high noon on a Midsummer’s day in Valinor. This Elrond knew in his heart, though he had never seen the shores of Aman. If he looked closely enough, he could almost see the golden leaves of Laurelin spread above the heads of the gathered Elves.

The sun-golden and star-silver petals of elanor sprung up from the floor, their star-shaped heads nodding in a gentle breeze. Between them sprouted the fragrant stems of lissuin , filling the hall with their light scent.

Elrond heard now the soft splashing of waves upon the shoreline and the distant cry of gulls winging overhead, and his heart was stirred with longing for a distant country he had never seen.

Maglor turned to him and smiled, and in his eyes shone bright, unrestrained joy.

Warmth pooled in Elrond’s chest as he smiled back.