The Noldolantë (Sirion verses) by Tehta

Chapter One

Read Chapter One

In the delta of a great river, where its mighty flow divided into many smaller streams, forming many islands, there lay a city. It was not a particularly beautiful or harmonious place: the houses had been built in an assortment of styles and materials, and likely in haste. Some were unfinished, timbers jutting into the sky; others were little more than tents. And yet, all were adorned somehow, their walls brightened with colourful frescoes, sprays of climbing, flowering plants, or garlands made of scraps of bright fabric.

It might have been a charming place to visit, on a nice day.

This was not a nice day. 

There were bodies in the streets, and blood in the water. Grim warriors in heavy mail marched up and down its streets and bridges, dripping weapons in hand, while the inhabitants ran towards choke-points, to help construct hasty barricades, or fled towards the sea or the marshes. The air echoed with the cries of Elves, Men, and seagulls, some fearful, some angry.

On the largest island, in a square surrounded by buildings of stone, stood a man. His armour was brighter than most and adorned with a jewelled star; his sword was particularly gory. He lifted it high, pointing it towards a small group of opponents who tried to surround him, fishing spears in hand. In a voice powerful as hammer-blows, he sang:

I am slaying, I am slaying
As I did ‘cross the sea
I am slaying distant kinsmen
Since the Oath won’t let me be.

The sadness he brought to these words was an odd mixture of epic sorrow and petty self-pity. His opponents stepped back as if dazed–except for one, who dropped his weapon and walked out towards the warrior-singer, arms outstretched…

Straight onto the sharp point of the gory sword. 

As his friends cried out in grief and dismay, he fell to the ground, his melodious voice rising above theirs as he took up his killer's tune.

I am dying, I am dying
For my love of a sad song
Music is the source of Arda
Dying for it just feels wrong.

His lyrics seemed to touch the killer, whose morose expression deepened, turning his fair face into a tragic mask. It did not, however, prevent him from singing another verse.

I am slaying, I am slaying,
For the Oath won't let me be.
I am slaying distant kinsmen
Though it will not set me free.

A little further out to sea, on another, rockier island dominated by a lighthouse, two heavily-armed men with hair the colour of blood paused to listen. Then, in unison, they stopped kicking the lighthouse-door and joined in.

We are slaying, we are slaying
Though it will not set us free
We are slaying distant kinsmen
To our brother’s melod- EEEE

Their song ended in twin death-screams when another warrior–one whose jewelled mail shone with all the colours of the rainbow–sliced both their throats with one mighty blow of his curved sword. His expression as he looked down on their fallen bodies was both sad and accusatory, and his voice sounded aggrieved as he sang.

This is madness, this is madness!
After all the death I’ve seen
I am forced to slay my kinsmen
Hoping it will save our Queen.

The last note still lingered in the air as another terrifying red-haired attacker appeared, his eyes flashing, his battle-stained sword held loosely in his left hand, and belted out his own contribution.

Please keep talking, please keep talking,
Tell me where to find this Queen.
Or my sword will find its target
In your heart, your lungs, and spleen.

His prediction proved quite accurate–as did his sword. Although the rainbow-hued warrior put up a spirited defence, he was no match for his fiery opponent, and soon fell, bleeding from several mortal wounds.

The injury to his lungs could not, however, have been very severe, since he still managed to cough out a few lines.

I am dying, finally dying
After all the death I’ve seen.
Mandos, call me to fly westward
With my friends to reconvene.

His red-haired killer opened his mouth as if to respond, but whatever he had meant to sing was lost in the wind as a sudden gust blew through the city, past the colourful flags, which moved in response, and the fallen warriors, who didn't. The wind carried both a sharp, salty scent and a faint melody, sung by a voice deep as Doom.

Can you hear me, can you hear me
Through the ocean, far away?
Heed my call and face my judgement
And be reborn, who can say?

The gust died down then, but the music did not, not quite. It was taken up by other voices, low and strangely muted, but numerous.

We are flying, we are flying
Our lost souls are on their way
We are leaving, flying westward
To be reborn, who can say?

In the silence that followed, seagulls screamed, for the most part incoherently–except for one, which had ascended from behind the lighthouse, soaring higher and higher. Her cries, though still seagull-hoarse, carried a recognizable tune.

I am flying, I am flying
As a bird and not a queen
I am flying, passing high clouds
To escape this sordid scene

Something flashed on the seagull's chest, bright enough to blind, as she wheeled there, high up in the sky. Then, she shrieked one final time and flew into the west, leaving the sad sacked city behind.

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Chapter End Notes

– I think “Oh my darling Clementine” would work for these verses, too. Try it! You are welcome.
– What of Elrond and Elros? I think they are already captured. Lured by Maglor’s singing, probably.
– Many thanks for the beta, mouse and merihobu! I am sorry for inflicting this on you. Or am I?