Calma, Lambe, Lambe, Óre by sallysavestheday

Calma, Lambe, Lambe, Óre

Read Calma, Lambe, Lambe, Óre

The first problem is that there are simply not enough children.

Among the hosts of the Noldor, only twenty-two remain of the appropriate age and temperament to render Maglor’s vision. He can see it in his mind’s eye as he would have cast it for the stage in Tirion: thirty-six small bodies of perfectly equal height, their hair falling dark and pure against their silken gowns. Lantern-bearers. Wisdom-carriers. Bringers of light.

But there are only twenty-two, and those ill-matched. All dark, true, but some tall, some short, more than one halting from an injury on the Ice. Their people are unlikely to beget in the stress of war, and those who have done so guard their children jealously, as treasures far more precious than anything they have already lost to the snow or the flames. The littler ones will not be shared for this festival, nor indeed are they of an age to balance grace with joy, as he envisions.

There is nothing for it but to borrow from the Sindar. The children of Mithrim are by nature smaller and lighter than the Noldor; there will be no perfect symmetry. But there is something to a blended rank, a gesture to their hopes for integration. It will have to do.

And of course there is no silk, or not enough for theater!, as Caranthir tells him with an astounded roar when Maglor queries him on their stocks. What have they come to, that he must tear and recombine their linen sheets, cramping his own hands with needlework to fit frills to collars and hems?

Lanterns are easy enough to make, however, with willow-withies and the fine-scraped skins of rabbits and of deer. Thin enough to shed a gentle light, soothing and uplifting. Not the glory of the pierced brass pendants of Valinor, the luminaria crafted of bone or stone, or the hallowed Fëanorian lamps. But the softer glow suits this new landscape. It offers tenderness, as well as light. Very satisfactory, in terms of mood.

He is deep into rehearsals with his cast of little lantern-bearers when the greatest gaffe occurs.

Daeron of Doriath, scouting the Noldor ahead of the feast of reuniting, sniffs out the local drama and sidles into the clearing where the processional has convened. He watches and listens with amusement, silvery and wry, his eyebrows creeping slowly higher and higher the longer the children sing.

Maglor frowns, waving the little ones through their paces, listening as each sings the merits of a tengwa – gesturing for telco and lúva, telling the tale of the meaning of each letter, elucidating how they capture sound in sight. It is a Great Work they are illustrating in song: an elevation of the Speaking Peoples. Father’s own foundational achievement (yes, after Rumil, yes, yes): binding meaning into ink, taming memory’s darkness, letting in the light.

Daeron’s quirked mouth and ironic brow are not at all what Maglor hoped to achieve with this didactic art. The Noldor have much to offer these people of the mists and groves: work of their hands finer than any to be found here, to be sure, but even more so the work of their hearts. Capturing language! Writing down their thinking, their feeling, their imagining!

Maglor’s own heart sinks at the thought that the smirking Sinda might represent a world of people with no use or taste for script. He pastes on his most welcoming, professional smile and introduces himself, ready with a simplified explanation of the pageantry and of its desired effect.

Daeron smiles and nods and pats the children approvingly on their heads as Maglor expounds.

“It’s lovely and instructive,” he agrees. “How fortunate that I stopped by and heard your alphabet in song, with the feast still a full moon away. That will give me time to pull together a little lesson - for comparison, you know - on the source and shapes and meanings of the letters of my own.”

 

 

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Chapter End Notes

The lamps in the gorgeous banner for the calma prompt for this challenge reminded me of this painting, which I have always loved. Imagine the children are Maglor’s little artistes, getting ready to perform their alphabet song, with lanterns symbolizing the light of the mind. Noldor: always given to such overwrought metaphors!

Maglor hasn't paid attention to the Cirth before because he's an absolute snob. Hot Daeron's certainly gotten his attention now, though...