30: The Long Winter

The days shortened and the nights became longer. Now the snow fell more constantly and there were few days where the sky was blue and the sun was visible. When it was, it was a pale, cold thing that gave little warmth. For days on end there were often grey skies with lowering clouds and much snow. The Elves were grateful for the fact that they had reinforced the towers, affording them shelter. They kept one fire going in the west tower and, except when desiring privacy, they congregated there for warmth and companionship.

Most of them began working on their ‘winter projects’, as Denethor called them. Animal bone was carefully carved, either into deadly arrow points or beautiful works of art, even musical instruments. Goat and deer skins which had been tanned were made into clothes to supplement their wardrobes. Others took up more cerebral projects, making plans for the spring, deciding where best to look for evidence of a forge in Mithlond, checking the inventory on Arthalion’s cave to determine the quantity and quality of metals that could be melted down and reforged into more useful items. There was also talk of returning to the valley of trees and harvesting seeds and saplings with the intention of setting up their own nursery in some sheltered area. Denethor also consulted with Damrod, Maglor and Arthalion about mounting an expedition into the mountains to first eliminate the danger which the cat-creatures represented and then to find possible ores, for they would need far more metal than was available to them from Arthalion’s collection.

“Those crevices Arthalion and I discovered might well have been part of the mines spreading from Belegost or the remnants of Nogrod after it was completely destroyed and the land changed,” Maglor stated and the others nodded.

However, such discussions did not take up much time and other interests were pursued. Maglor pulled out the pieces of wood he had harvested from the valley of trees and began making a new harp, carefully carving the posts. He wished he had paints to brighten the carvings but had to be content without them. The harp took shape slowly, for he was in no hurry. Gilgaran was not shy about telling everyone how Maglor had sung the Noldolantë while slaying the cats.

“I have never heard it sung so beautifully or in so dark a manner,” the ellon said. “It is why we were late in going to their aid. We were too stunned by Maglor’s singing to move immediately.”

Naturally, everyone wanted to hear him sing, but he refused, saying that he was not ready for an audience and that his singing when he did was more a need to signal to the others of their presence than anything else. Many were disappointed, but when they realized he was constructing a harp, they took hope that perhaps by spring they would have the pleasure of listening to the great Maglor sing for real.

And so the days and nights passed. Whenever the sky cleared and the stars shone, they would gather outside and sing praises to Elbereth and walk under moonlight. On those nights, as people walked together or separately, it escaped no one’s notice that, more often than not, certain people could be found keeping company with each other: Duilinn with Gwilwileth, Aerin with Saelmir, Arthalion with Amarthamíriel. Even Maglor found that he was more likely to pair with Glóredhel than with Denethor or to tag along with Ragnor and Finduilas.

Not that he thought there was anything romantic between them, certainly not on his part. He wasn’t sure about Glóredhel, yet for the most part they spoke little that could be labeled ‘romantic’. When they spoke at all during their walks, their conversations usually centered around some aspect of metallurgy or some other lore with which they were acquainted. Otherwise, they were more likely to simply walk in companionable silence, occasionally joining with others who would start an impromptu dance under starlight.

And they did not dance only with each other but took other partners whenever a dance required one. Indeed, when one of the ellyn complained to no one in particular that there were not enough ellith to go around, Maglor caused much laughter and merriment when he calmly took the complaining ellon as his partner, the ellith gleefully commenting on the nonplused ellon’s dancing abilities as he stumbled through the steps, reminding him to ‘dance backwards’, as Aerin called it. However, most of their dances perforce were circle dances where partners were not a necessity.

The solstice came and went and now the days began to lengthen, grudgingly so, but now Anor’s course was northward and in a few months would be the equinox and the coming of spring. Spirits rose and hearts were lighter with the hope of summer, however short the season.

Yet, for Maglor, the long nights were beset by a different darkness as dreams — nightmares really — of the Silmaril began to plague him some weeks after he had recovered from his injuries. More than once he dreamt of hunting for it and finding it being played with by the cats and in one such dream, one of the creatures actually swallowed the jewel. In other dreams, his adar came to him, demanding that he fulfill his Oath, or one of his brothers would appear begging him to reclaim their heritage on their behalf. Oddly enough, the worst dreams centered around Maedhros and he dreaded those more than any of the others.

He kept the dreams to himself, not wishing to burden his friends with his troubles, yet, whenever such dreams plagued him, he would fall into a dark mood and become unresponsive. The others learned quickly to leave him be to work things out for himself, most of them putting his dark mood down to the enforced inactivity which the winter brought to them all, and he let them believe that. Only a few, he suspected, knew the truth. Denethor certainly did and he had no doubt Arthalion and Glóredhel did as well, but they were wise enough not to force him to speak of it.

At one point he simply refused to sleep at all, spending the long hours of the night keeping sentry at the top of the west tower, more often than not taking all the watches, allowing himself to be relieved only at dawn. Then he would take a little sustenance and leave the tower to spend the day roaming the hills when the weather allowed, otherwise, he would huddle in the tower with the others and work on his harp. Yet, he could not go without sleep forever and while waking dreams could refresh him, he still needed to sleep occasionally, but only in daylight, hoping the dreams would not come to him then.

It was a futile hope.

“Maglor! Maglor!”

He felt someone shaking him.

“Where is he going?”

“I don’t know. Maglor. Wake up.”

It took him several seconds to realize that Arthalion was calling him. He blinked and blinked again. Hands were upon him and he tried to brush them off, but they were insistent and they would not let him go.

“Maglor, for the love of the Belain, wake up!”

His vision focused and he saw that he was no longer in the tower but was halfway down the escarpment that would lead to the eastern plains and the Shire beyond. He looked about and saw Arthalion on his right and Denethor on his left, both ellyn holding him.

“Wh-what?”

“Where were you off to, Maglor?” Denethor asked.

“Where?” He shook his head, trying to clear it of the cobwebs. “How did I get here?” he finally asked.

“You walked,” Arthalion replied with a grim smile. “You were sound asleep and then all of a sudden you seemed to wake and without a word you stormed out of the tower. I didn’t realize what you were about at first. I thought you might be heading for the privy, but when you did not return after a reasonable time I went hunting for you. It was quickly made evident that you were nowhere in the encampment and that’s when we came looking for you. We’ve got search parties in all directions.”

“I had better see about calling them back in,” Denethor said, clapping Maglor on the shoulder. “Will you be all right?”

Arthalion nodded. “We’ll be along soon enough.” Denethor nodded and headed back up. Maglor just sat there, trying to understand what had happened.

“I was asleep,” he finally said.

Arthalion nodded. “Apparently you were sleepwalking, something I thought only Mortals did.” He gave him a brief scrutiny. “Are you sure you’re an Elf?”

Maglor ignored the jibe, staring into the distance, trying to put the pieces together. “I was dreaming.”

“And that dream sent you off. Where were you going, do you know?”

“The Silmaril… I was hunting for it.”

“Ah…”

Maglor glanced at his friend. “Is that all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say, Maglor? Do you want me to tell you that you were heading in the right direction, that Ragnor hid it somewhere around here? I won’t do that. Whether you are near or far, you will have to determine that on your own. Now, will you return to the camp or will you stay here and freeze?” He stood up and waited for an answer.

Maglor sighed, his gaze on the horizon. “That damn jewel plagues my every waking moment and invades my dreams. I cannot seem to escape it.”

“Your own fault, taking that Oath as you did,” Arthalion said softly. “You need to deal with it before you destroy yourself… or us. The more I think on it, the more I am convinced that Arthad finding it was no coincidence. Somehow, the Powers knew you would come here, knew you would find me. I think they know what you are only just suspecting: you threw the Silmaril away, but you did not necessarily reject the Oath at the same time. I do not think you will be allowed to return to Dor Rodyn until you’ve resolved this issue to your and their satisfaction.”

Maglor looked up at Arthalion. “How? I don’t even know where it is hid and I am not about to torture anyone to find out.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Arthalion retorted gruffly. Then he relented a little, sighing as he crouched down, laying a hand on Maglor’s shoulder. “I have no real answers for you, my friend, except to say you have thirty other people who are willing to help you if you would let them. You do not have to do this on your own. Too long, even longer than I, you have been alone, but that time is over. Don’t shut us out, Maglor. Don’t deny us the privilege of helping you. That is what friends are for, after all.” He stood again and held out a hand, saying nothing. Maglor hesitated for a moment and then reached out and allowed the ellon to pull him up. “Let’s get back,” was all Arthalion said and Maglor nodded.

When they returned to the towers, everyone gathered around them, but no one demanded an explanation, yet Maglor could see the genuine concern in their expressions. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset anyone,” he said quietly, speaking directly to Denethor. “I apparently was caught up in a dream or nightmare and….”

“Well, at least you didn’t start screaming,” Damrod said with a grin. “I really hate it when people are screaming. Does nothing for my digestion.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow, staring at the ellon in disbelief. Others were less inhibited in their response. Ragnor actually swatted him upside his head; Denethor simply rolled his eyes. One or two even sniggered into their hands.

“Yes, well, screaming aside, I’m just glad we were able to find you, Maglor,” Denethor said, shooting a quelling look at Damrod.

“As am I,” Maglor said humbly and sincerely.

“You seem to be troubled lately, more so than usual,” Ragnor said, giving Maglor a scowl. “Do you know why? Perhaps your injuries….”

“I am sure that is part of it,” Maglor said, “for I was beset by nightmares while feverish and they seem to have followed me. Most of the dreams appear to center around those cat-creatures.”

There were understanding nods all around. Maglor hoped that they would be satisfied with that explanation, though he noticed Glóredhel did not look convinced, nor did Denethor.

“But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” Arthalion asked, giving him a significant look.

Maglor was tempted to deny it, but realized that if he did not tell them Arthalion would, not out of maliciousness, but out of a genuine concern for him and for the others. The Silmaril was dangerous to all of them and if he wished to rid himself of it, he knew he would need help.

“Yes,” he finally said, not looking at anyone. “Mixed in with the cats is… is the Silmaril.”

There were gasps from several throats and expressions of concern mutated to ones of wariness.

“That’s where we found him, looking for it,” Arthalion explained. “In his dreams he is hunting for the Silmaril and this time he went hunting for real.”

“Do you know where it is?” Ragnor asked.

“No, nor do I wish to, yet it calls to me, waking or dreaming. Ever since I was injured, I’ve heard it calling to me.”

“You did not hear it calling to you prior to that?” Denethor asked.

Maglor shook his head. “No, not that I recall. I think when I was injured my defenses were down and it was able to insinuate itself into my fever dreams and now I cannot shut it out.”

“What do you mean to do, then?” Denethor demanded.

“There is little I can do, is there?” Maglor shot back. “You will not tell me where it is hid and I will not force that information from anyone. I think I need to get away from here. Distance might help mute its call.”

“So where would you go?” Arthalion asked.

“Mithlond is the most logical place,” Maglor answered. “Or your cave might be even better. If I leave now I can be there tomorrow.”

“And how do we know you would stay there?” Denethor enquired. “How do we know that once out of our sight, you will not return by another way and look for the jewel?”

“And what if I did? Why do you care? Why do any of you care?” Maglor demanded, becoming angry all of a sudden. The Silmaril was his by right. How dare they keep it from him, deny him that most precious of jewels. He should just kill them all and be done with it. Make them pay, make them all pay for what—

The slap was hard and the shock of it brought his thoughts skittering to a halt. He stared in disbelief at Denethor standing before him and then realized someone was holding his right hand in a death grip. He stared at Ragnor and then at his own hand that was clenching his knife and at the sight of it, he released his hold on it, letting it drop. Ragnor, however, did not release his own hold. The silence surrounding them was complete.

“We cannot let you go, Maglor,” Denethor said softly, almost regretfully. “More important, we will not let you go. Whether you like it or not, you are one of us and your troubles are ours. We will help you if you let us but we will respect your right to refuse our help. In the meantime, until we feel we can trust you I will ask that you give over your weapons. You will remain within the towers and will not go beyond the walls unless accompanied by two others.”

“Then I am a prisoner,” Maglor stated in a flat tone.

“No, not a prisoner, just not free to wander unattended. It’s as much for your own sake as for ours,” Denethor replied. “We do want to help you, but only if you let us. In the meantime, we will guard your sleep as best we may so that the dreams do not trouble you. I think we were wrong to simply hide the Silmaril away, and come spring you will have to decide what you wish to do about it. For now, try to accept that we care enough about you to want to see you safe, and if that means keeping a guard on you, then so be it.”

“I’m sorry,” was all Maglor could think to say, a sense of defeat washing over him.

“I know you are,” Denethor said gently, then nodded at Ragnor who released his grip on Maglor’s wrist and stooped down to retrieve the knife, sticking it in his belt. As Maglor did not have his sword with him they went back into the tower where Ragnor claimed it along with Maglor’s bow and arrows. Maglor just stood there, not sure what to do or say and finally decided not to do or say anything, but huddled on his furs refusing to look at anyone.

For the most part, the others ignored him, though he could not help overhearing snatches of conversation as people wandered in and out of the tower. Most of what he heard was about him, but there did not seem to be anything acrimonious in what was said, merely comments about his behavior. That was nigh on embarrassing, realizing that they spoke of him much as one would speak about other people’s children and for the same reason.

Arthalion and Glóredhel hovered over him for a while, one trying to get him to eat something, the other trying to get him to talk. Both failed in their endeavors, and they finally left him to himself, for which he was grateful. Yet, left alone was not the same as left unattended. When need drove him to leave the tower for the privy, he immediately picked up an escort: Saelmir and Duilinn. Both ellyn looked uncomfortable in their roles as guardsmen, but neither backed away when Maglor stopped and confronted them.

“I am only going to the privy. Surely, prisoner though I be, I am allowed some privacy to attend to personal needs.”

“Denethor said you were not a prisoner,” Duilinn countered.

“He could have fooled me,” Maglor snarled, then shrugged and continued on. He was grateful though when the two ellyn stopped at the entrance.

“We’ll just wait here,” Saelmir said and Maglor nodded as he went inside.

And so his ‘prisoner days’, as he referred to them later, began. As long as he stayed within the enclosure he was ignored unless he himself initiated a conversation. Maglor realized that they were not being cruel, treating him as an outcast, but respecting his privacy. If he wished companionship, he had to make the first overture, for they would not intrude.

At first, Maglor was fine with that. But as the days and weeks went by, his initial chagrin slowly turned to anger, anger at himself, anger at his adar, anger at the Belain, yet never anger toward his fellow Elves. He spent the hours sitting on his furs, not even working on his harp, which was half finished. He would just sit there, staring at the ever-present fire. Denethor came to him later that first day of his confinement and spoke briefly with him.

“If you decide to sleep, let one of us know so we can be on watch,” the ellon said. Maglor nodded but otherwise did not speak nor did he look at Denethor. After another moment of awkward silence between them, Denethor sighed and left.

Maglor was determined to hold off sleep as long as possible, but he could not hold it off forever, and after two days he let them know that he needed to sleep. Immediately, Glóredhel, Arthalion and Damrod were there and sat beside him as he stretched out, the three softly singing. As he slipped onto the Path of Dreams, he hoped that he would not suffer any nightmares. That hope seemed founded, for he woke several hours later feeling refreshed, more than he had in a long while and he came to look forward to sleeping, especially when Glóredhel was there to sing to him.

Yet, it was only a reprieve and within a few weeks the dreams began returning. The storm that was presently raging in the outside world seemed to follow him into sleep and the howling of the wind became the snarling of the cats. He woke with a start, gasping for breath as if he had run miles and leagues, and he was drenched with sweat.

“Easy now,” Denethor said, for he was taking his turn watching over Maglor’s sleep. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

“The dreams are back,” Maglor panted. Denethor reached over and snagged a nearby waterskin and handed it to Maglor who took it gratefully, practically drowning himself with the water, as if trying to wash away any remnant of the dream.

“The same dream?” Denethor asked softly.

Maglor looked about and realized that the two were alone and gave Denethor a questioning look.

“As soon as you started thrashing about, I sent everyone else away to the other tower,” Denethor answered his unspoken question. “I felt you should have some privacy. The Belain know we’ve given you little enough of it these last few weeks.”

Maglor shrugged, for what could he say to that? Instead, he took another swig of water, not so much because he was thirsty but as a way of stalling. If Denethor felt any impatience, he did not show it. Finally, Maglor put the waterskin down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said in a whisper.

“Do what?”

“This,” Maglor replied. “Waiting for the dreams to come, dreading what I will do when in the throes of nightmare. You have taken away my weapons, but that does not mean I cannot hurt others. I do not need weapons for that.”

“Yet, what alternative do we have? I will not let you go off on your own. I cannot risk it or you. Maglor, whether you believe me or not, I do not do this out of hatred or to punish you. I do this to protect you and everyone else. That jewel is too dangerous for any of us, but you especially because of who you are. In another couple of months we will be entering spring and we will begin the various projects we’ve been discussing. That will be the time to deal with the Silmaril and deal with it we must. In the meantime, we will help you if you will allow it. We cannot lift this burden from you, only you can do that, but we can offer you our love and support so that you know that you are not alone in this.”

Silence fell between them as Maglor contemplated Denethor’s words and sincerity.

“When was the last time you went through your forgiveness list?” Denethor suddenly asked.

Maglor gave him a shocked look. “How—?”

“I overheard you one time,” Denethor answered. “You were standing watch and I had come to relieve you. You were standing there asking someone only you could see for their forgiveness. You paused, as if for an answer, which you must have received, for you spoke another name and asked that person for forgiveness. I realized what you must be doing so I did not interrupt, but waited. I think you spoke to a couple of more people before you stopped and looked up at the stars. I could tell you were gauging the time and wondering where your relief was and that was when I let myself be known to you, pretending that I had been delayed for personal reasons.”

“And you never said anything,” Maglor commented.

“I respect you too much to importune you in that manner. Now I think I understand why you wished to leave our camps at night when you first joined us.”

“It is a private thing and I did not wish to have to explain,” Maglor replied. He briefly told him about his conversation with the mortal Wisewoman and what his litany was all about.

“Well, you haven’t answered my question,” Denethor said once Maglor finished his explanation.

“Hmm? Oh, well, I suppose not since before I was injured.”

“As I suspected.”

“And what does that have to do with anything?”

“Perhaps nothing, but consider this: in your list, have you put your own name on it?”

Maglor stared at him, not understanding. “Why would I?”

“Why would you not?” Denethor countered. “Maglor, I do not consider myself to be among the Wise, certainly not by your standards, much less Master Elrond’s, but I do know that forgiving oneself is far harder than forgiving others. And only as we forgive ourselves can we truly forgive others, just as we cannot truly love others until we first love ourselves. I do not think you do either. I think there is much self-hatred and unforgiveness on your part, though you may deny it, bury it deep within you.”

“So you’re saying that my ritual has been for nothing, that I will have to start all over again but only after I’ve forgiven myself? Forgiven myself for what? For living when all others of my family have died?”

“That would be a start, but I think it is something more basic than that,” Denethor replied. “I think you need to forgive yourself for being you, for being Maglor Fëanorion, and not someone else. As for the rest, if you have been as sincere as you can be in asking these people for forgiveness, then that counts for something and I would not concern myself with them.” Denethor stood up. “If you are all right, I will let the others know they can return.”

Maglor nodded, his thoughts elsewhere. Denethor headed for the doorway. “You’re wrong about one thing, Denethor,” Maglor called to him. Denethor stopped and gave him an enquiring look. “You are very wise, wiser than I, if not wiser than my foster son.”

Denethor smiled. “I doubt anyone is wiser than Elrond, Maglor, except the Belain, and maybe not even they.” With that, he pulled aside the deerskin curtain hanging in the doorway to step out, letting the curtain fall, leaving Maglor alone for the first time in several weeks.