21: Opening Old Wounds

The silence inside the tower was complete as they all gazed in wonder and, in some cases fear, at the scintillating jewel sitting in Ragnor’s hand. Maglor had closed his eyes, unable to look upon it any longer without dread.

“We’ve been careful not to touch it,” he heard Ragnor say softly, breaking the silence.

“Where did you find it?” Damrod asked.

“How was it ever recovered?” Denethor added.

“We found it lying at the head of the… of the body,” Ragnor replied. “That cave is a treasure trove, Denethor, one to make any dragon proud. I can only assume that as the Sea receded, much that had remained hidden below the waves was revealed, including this.”

“Pwetty. My pwetty.”

Maglor opened his eyes as Arthalion stirred and saw the ellon gaze upon the Silmaril with a smile.

“Your pretty?” he asked.

Arthalion started to nod and then shake his head, looking more mournful. “No. Not my pretty. Arthad’s pretty. Arthad find.”

“How? How was it found?” Maglor demanded in a harsh whisper, never taking his eyes off Arthalion.

For a moment Arthalion did not answer, merely gazed upon the Silmaril, then he sighed. “Arthad and I decide to go home but we too late. No ship in Mithlond. We go to the Sea hoping to see ship and hail it but ship not there. We stay by Sea for long time and watch the water go away. We explore. We find many pwet... pretties, many other things. One day Arthad go out, far out. I not go that far. I stay close to shore. He come back carrying the pretty. Then he say we go back to Mithlond and wait.”

“Wait for what?” Glóredhel asked.

“Or whom?” Ragnor added, giving Maglor a significant look, which the ellon ignored.

“Did Arthad ever tell you how he found this?” Denethor asked gently, pointing to the Silmaril.

Arthalion shook his head. “No. He say he find, we keep safe.” Then his expression mutated to one of anger and he started to rise. “It is Arthad’s pretty. You not take from him.”

Maglor grabbed him and pulled him down and Glóredhel gave him her stern ‘nana’ look. “You behave,” she said firmly, and the ellon subsided, almost deflating. Maglor cast a knowing look at Glóredhel, who merely smirked in that infuriating way ellith had when they’d bested an ellon. Ragnor stood then, holding the Silmaril out to Maglor.

“By rights, Lord Maglor, this belongs to you.”

Maglor felt something within him go cold as he stared at the jewel before him. Arthalion stared at him in puzzlement. “Why belong to you?” he asked.

“The Silmarils were created by Maglor’s adar, Lord Fëanor,” Denethor answered when Maglor just sat there, apparently ignoring them all. “Maglor is his heir, so this Silmaril is his.” He stood up next to Ragnor and gave Maglor a stern look. “Wouldst thou take up thine inheritance, son of Fëanor? Doth thine Oath hold thee still in thrall? None here will deny thee this bauble, if thou dost desire it. Tell us, son of Fëanor, thy will in this.”

Maglor flinched every time Denethor mentioned his adar’s name, his scarred hand clenched with the remembered pain of the Silmaril burning his flesh. He had thought he had finally renounced the hated Oath, but it was still there; he could feel its insidious words reclaiming him. The hold which the Oath had over him had remained dormant all these millennia, but it had never gone away, not completely.

“I threw it away,” he whispered in anguish. “Why has it returned now? Is this some cruel jest of the Belain? Have I not suffered enough?” This last was practically screamed as he leapt to his feet and, pushing Arthalion away, he practically ran up the stairs, needing to get away from everything. He heard someone shouting his name, but ignored it as he climbed the rope ladder then hung onto the stone as he leaned out and became thoroughly sick. It was some time before he stopped retching, feeling suddenly weak in the knees and had to clutch the parapet even harder to keep himself from falling out of the tower. He felt, rather than heard, someone come up and stand beside him, holding the back of his tunic, helping him to straighten.

“Here, drink some water,” Denethor said, handing him a skin.

He took the proffered skin and rinsed his mouth, spewing the water over the side before taking a long drink. Denethor then helped him to sit with their backs against the stone and their feet dangling in midair. The Sinda offered no comfort or condemnation, merely sitting by him, waiting for him to speak or not.

“I renounced the Oath,” Maglor finally said in a whisper, staring into space. “I know I did.”

“You threw the Silmaril away,” Denethor replied just as softly, not looking at him. “That might not be the same thing.”

Maglor gave him a surprised look. “What do you mean?”

Denethor sighed, “I was not there, so I cannot speak from my own experience, but in all the tales told of that fateful last attempt by you and Maedhros to take the Silmarils it is said that you threw yours into the Sea, for you could not hold it in your hands any longer, stained as they were with the blood of your kin.”

“I know what I did,” Maglor hissed, his expression harsh. “You need not repeat the tale of my sins back to me.”

“But that’s just it,” Denethor replied equably. “It is a tale, nothing more. Only you know for sure if you renounced the Oath at the same time as you threw away the Silmaril. By all accounts, you threw it away simply because you could no longer hold it in your hand, but it does not necessarily follow that you renounced the Oath that led you to attempt the theft from right under the Maiar’s noses, killing the Vanyar guarding them.”

For a long moment Maglor did not respond, mentally reviewing all that he had done and thought and felt on that fateful night. He had cursed Maedhros even as he mourned him and wished that he had had the courage to end his own life then and there instead of running away like a puling coward. He had hoped someone would have slain him as he ran, but no one had offered him that particular mercy and now, now after all this time…

“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispered. “I can’t… I can’t….” Now he was weeping and Denethor wrapped an arm around his shoulders and held him through his tears, never saying a word, just holding him until the tears abated.

“I told Ragnor to take the Silmaril and hide it somewhere away from here. There is nothing we can do about it or with it for the moment. It won’t put food in our bellies or keep us warm in the night. It’s a useless bauble. “

“Perhaps not too useless,” Maglor replied, straightening and wiping the tears from his face. “It was found and kept safe for a reason, and I doubt it was only so as to test my resolve in renouncing any claim to it, for I do renounce it and the Oath. I want nothing more to do with the accursed thing, but that is not to say that its finding does not hold another purpose besides testing me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Maglor admitted. “But you know as well as I that short of walking across the Sea, we may have no way of reaching Dor Rodyn unless we miraculously find a ship waiting to take us. We may well have to wait until the climate has warmed enough for trees to grow again before we can build our own.”

“What about the trees in Tûm Ivon? Could we use them?”

“Possibly, though it would be an incredible undertaking to get the wood all the way to the Sea. I just don’t know.”

“I cannot believe that the Belain would inspire us to come all the way here and then abandon us.”

Maglor gave him a wintry smile. “A nasty habit of theirs,” he retorted. “I am not all that surprised. My impression is that the Belain are willing enough to inspire us toward a certain goal but leave it to us to figure out the rest. Are you and the others prepared to spend who knows how many more ennin it will take for the climate to warm, for trees to grow, for the Sea to return until we can ever hope to reach the Blessed Realm?”

“Are you?” Denethor retorted.

Maglor sighed, shaking his head. “I honestly don’t know. I was all set to die, wanted to die, have been wanting to die for a long time, though every attempt was rudely interrupted by something or someone.” He cast Denethor a wry look.

“Which must tell you something right there, my friend,” Denethor replied with a chuckle. “I think if the Belain wanted you dead, they would have cheerfully arranged matters to accommodate you instead of thwarting your attempts one way or another.”

Maglor frowned. “You seriously think they interfered with my attempts to die? Why?”

“I think you know the answer to that, Lord Maglor,” Denethor said firmly. “Now, as much as I am enjoying sitting here dangling my feet like an elfling, I have a community to look after. As long as you’re up here, though, you can take the watch. I’ll send someone up to relieve you in a couple of hours. That will give you time to think things over in private. Ragnor is the only person who knows where he’s hidden the Silmaril. I told him even I do not want to know. Therefore, if you are so inclined to look for it, please limit yourself to torturing Ragnor for the information and leave the rest of us alone.”

And with that outrageous statement, which left Maglor sitting there with his mouth hanging open, Denethor rose and made his way back down the stairs, leaving Maglor alone.

****

Maglor was staring northwestward toward Mithlond and the Sea beyond, lost in thought. It was almost time for his relief to arrive. He’d spent much of the last couple of hours standing there, gazing toward the West, though he had made a conscious effort to circle the tower at regular intervals to keep an eye on things. He saw Ragnor return from the east about an hour into his watch, stopping to speak to Denethor briefly. They both looked up at the same time to see him staring down at them and he found he had to look away, pretend that he was simply keeping watch, though he doubted he had fooled them. He certainly hadn’t fooled himself.

He spent the time rethinking all that Denethor had said, calling to mind all the times in the long years of his exile where he had attempted to end his sorry existence and failed for some reason or another. He had always put it down to bad luck or bad timing, never thinking that there was a purpose behind his failures.

Now, however, he was seeing things in a new and different light and he found he was not happy with the implications. In fact, he was feeling downright frightened. Had this all been for the sole purpose of bringing him to where the Silmaril was and see what he would do with it so readily at hand? He realized that it had been easy enough to renounce it and the Oath when the Silmaril was no longer reachable by him or anyone else for that matter. It was an entirely different matter when it was nearby and all he had to do was to convince Ragnor to take him to it.

He shook his head. Pure foolishness. What would he do? Torture his friend? Threaten his family? The very thought of harming any of them for that accursed jewel made him ill. But what was he supposed to do now? He had no idea and the very thought of having to do anything overwhelmed him and left him feeling weak and defeated.

The sound of someone climbing the rope ladder alerted him and he turned his attention to the new arrival and was surprised to see Arthalion there.

“Denthur… I mean Denethor say… um… said I should relieve you,” the ellon informed him, taking care to speak more correctly.

“You?” Maglor could only say, too surprised to be more polite.

Arthalion nodded. “Yes. He say… said I was a member of the comu… comun… the group and had to take my turn on watch. You go and eat and rest. I watch.”

“I’m not hungry,” Maglor said, “nor do I desire sleep.”

“Then stay and watch with me. It is lonely up here. I not like being alone… not anymore.” He gave Maglor a shy look and Maglor nodded, gesturing for the ellon to join him.

“I can do that,” he said. For a time, the two of them stood side-by-side staring out, saying nothing. Maglor was not sure what he felt about Arthalion now. The ellon seemed to be reclaiming himself more quickly than Maglor had anticipated. He found he was almost missing the elfling-like behavior of this newest member of their community. The person standing silently beside him seemed more a stranger. He had to consciously think of him as ‘Arthalion’ and not ‘Thurin’. He was not sure he liked the change. ‘Thurin’ had become his project. He had anticipated spending the winter socializing the ellon, teaching him language. He had even begun planning lessons. That thought forced a rueful chuckle from him. Arthalion gave him an enquiring look.

“It’s all right,” Maglor said. “I was just thinking I liked you better as Thurin. Er… sorry. That didn’t come out right. I just meant that I’d been looking forward to spending the winter helping you to become Arthalion but you beat me to it.”

“I forgot who I was,” the ellon said with a nod. “I forgot many things, even Arthad. You help… helped me remember, though it hurts to do so. Still, I am grateful. Losing yourself is a terrible thing.”

“I cannot even begin to imagine what you endured. It amazes me, all of us, that you did not fade.”

Arthalion looked pensive. “I think I forgot even that. I was too focused on surviving, too focused on carrying out my brother’s last wish.”

Maglor felt his eyebrows leave his forehead. “Last wish?” he repeated in a whisper.

“Yes. With his last breath he thanked me for showing him mercy and then said, ‘Keep the Silmaril safe for the one who will come and claim it.’” He gave Maglor a significant look. “I think he meant you.”

“And you kept it safe all this time,” Maglor said, refusing to acknowledge Arthalion’s last words.

“No. Arthad kept it safe. I left it with him. I never visited him after that. I avoided the cave where I put him, but all the while I knew I could not forsake the watch. Arthad was depending on me, only as the years went by I began to forget, forget Arthad, forget the pretty… I mean the Silmaril, forget myself. I was more animal than Elf when you found me. I had long ceased to even remember how to cook my food. I ate it raw as any animal would.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling with humor. “When you gave me that cooked goat meat to eat, I could not believe how wonderful it tasted. That first meal saved me in more ways than one.”

“I am glad, truly,” Maglor said with as much sincerity as he could muster. “My own life has been one of exile. I mainly interacted with the Mortals on those occasions when I had no other choice, but I avoided the company of Elves for I did not wish to be burdened with their horror or pity or downright hatred. It was safer to have nothing to do with them.”

“Denethor does not hate you,” Arthalion responded. “I do not hate you. I do not know what you did or if I ever knew, I’ve forgotten. Should I know?”

“Perhaps,” Maglor said. “How much of your former life do you remember?”

Arthalion shrugged. “I am not sure. Much is still hidden from me, I think. I remember mostly the long, lonely years. I am not even sure where Arthad and I lived before we came to Mithlond seeking for a ship.”

“Perhaps over the winter you will remember more of your life,” Maglor suggested.

“I am afraid of what I will remember, though,” Arthalion admitted, looking embarrassed.

“I know, but keep in mind that you are with friends now. You do not have to remember alone. We will all be here for you when any memory becomes too much for you.”

“Thank you,” Arthalion said simply. He looked back out to the West where the sun was now sinking below the horizon and sighed. “Ragnor has hid the Silmaril.”

“Yes.”

“I followed him. I know where he hid it. Do you want me to tell you?”

Maglor hesitated for a long moment before answering. “No.”

“Good, because I won’t,” Arthalion said, giving him a pointed look.

Maglor raised an eyebrow. “Another test?”

Arthalion shrugged. “I will take the east side if you wish to remain here,” was all he said and when Maglor nodded, he moved around to take up his post. Neither one spoke another word until Sador arrived four hours later to relieve them.