32: Moving On to Mithlond

Days and weeks passed. Winter still held sway and a blizzard came out of the north sometime in the month known as Gwaeron and forced them to remain inside for several days. All the entrances into the enclosure were blocked and it took most of the daylight hours to clear them once the storm moved on.

Maglor’s own situation did not change over much, for he was still guarded, but his own attitude changed slightly and he was less likely to withdraw into himself. He continued to work on the harp, though not all the time, so it was slow to take shape, but considering how much more winter they needed to endure, he could not see the point of finishing it too soon. Still, as Gwaeron made way for Gwirith, he finished carving the last piece and began gluing the separate pieces together, using the bones and skins of the deer and goats to create the adhesive. He would have preferred using the air bladders from fish to create the glue, but there weren’t enough of them to bother with, though he threw fish heads and the like into the mixture, not wishing to waste anything. Others also desired to have glue for their own particular use, so they made as much of it as they could with what they had, the smell of it sending everyone but those making it out to breathe fresh air.

“How soon will you play on it?” Glóredhel asked him as he carefully assembled the various parts.

“With this cold weather, it will probably take longer for the glue to set and I need to string it as well. I suspect it will be another week before I feel it is ready for playing.”

“We all look forward to that day,” she said.

Maglor cast her a knowing grin. “You mean you all look forward to hearing me sing, not just play.”

“Why are you so reluctant to sing? Except those simple lullabies you sang to Arthalion to soothe him, you have not really lifted your voice in song. Do you not yearn to sing? You are a bard, perhaps one of the best, yet you seem determined to deny your gift.”

Maglor paused in his work and stared pensively down at the harp taking shape. “I’ve tried, truly, but for some reason my throat tightens and I find I cannot sing. It was only out of desperation when Arthalion and I were beset by the cats that I sang to alert Gilgaran and the others of our presence and need for assistance.”

“When was the last time you sang for real before you joined us?” Glóredhel asked.

“Oh, I think well before I decided to come north to die,” Maglor admitted, giving her a faint smile. “When I accidently broke my harp while fighting off a bear, I mourned as if for a friend, but I realized soon enough how foolish such sentiments were. It’s not as if it was the one and only harp I’ve ever had. I’ve had to make too many over the long years to count.” He shrugged. “I guess its breaking symbolized for me how my own life was breaking apart. If I had died in truth, I would have had to leave the harp behind in any case. Perhaps, when this harp is ready to be played, I will find I can indeed sing again, for this is a harp created in hope and not in despair.”

Glóredhel nodded in understanding and she did not raise the subject again.

There was no way to judge what the true date was, but a day came when the air felt milder and the sun warmer. The snow on the ground was thinning and when they checked the cistern they found that it was no longer frozen. Denethor decided to declare a holiday.

“Let us celebrate the fact that we have survived our first winter in these regions and, while we will have to suffer many more before we can hope to leave for Dor Rodyn, we can take pride in the fact that we have not succumbed to despair.”

So, they put aside their usual daily tasks, save for cooking, and spent the day amusing themselves with dancing,  playing games and having races. Maglor was as enthusiastic as the rest and joined in with a good will, putting aside his own dark musings and sense of despair, for, while he had not been plagued by nightmares of late, the Silmaril still haunted his sleep and often enough his waking moments. More than once he unconsciously found himself attempting to leave the settlement only to have his guards stop him before he got too far. He would suddenly find himself waking from a fugue, unsure at first where he was or what he was doing, meekly allowing himself to be led back to the encampment, softly apologizing. No one ever took him to task, but he was embarrassed and it usually took a few days for him to recover from the sense of despondency that would take over.

Thus, he welcomed the celebration and all it represented, hoping that with the coming of warmer weather, he would be able to deal with the Silmaril once and for all. He still did not know in what manner he would do so, only that he could not let it go on. Something had to be done. He had to do something or he would never be free of it. As long as the Silmaril was in their vicinity, Maglor knew that Denethor would never allow him his freedom. But, they would have to wait a few weeks more before they could address the situation, for Ragnor, when asked, assured him that where he had hidden the jewel was now inaccessible with all the snow. They would have to wait until it was gone. In the meantime, he meant to enjoy himself this day and worry about the Silmaril later.

That evening, as they sat around the fire discussing the day’s events and what they would plan to do on the morrow, Maglor took up his harp and began stringing it, ignoring the conversation around him. He worked slowly but competently, testing each string before placing it in position, then once the last string was set, he began tuning the harp. All the while, the others continued their conversation, but Maglor knew without looking up that they were all watching him, wondering if he would actually play and even sing. He hid a smile as he bent over the harp and continued tuning it to his satisfaction.

He had thought about singing, wondering if he could. Perhaps he would simply play a tune or three and let the others sing. At the moment, he felt he had no reason to do so, or perhaps he was simply waiting for the proper time. He wasn’t sure.

“When we are sure that the winter is over with, I wish to journey to the Sea,” Maglor said all of a sudden when there was a lull in the conversation, not even looking up as he continued working over the harp. “I wish to see for myself how far the waters have receded.” He looked up to speak directly to Denethor. “And there is something else I need to do as well.”

For a long moment there was only silence. Maglor never flinched from Denethor’s thoughtful gaze and finally the ellon nodded. “We will all go.”

“Do you think that wise, Denethor?” Damrod asked. “Should some of us not remain here on guard or in Mithlond?”

“No. I think we all need to be there. We all need to witness what Maglor would do,” came the reply.

More than one person looked dubious but no one offered any argument and the matter was dropped, for in truth such a trip was weeks away. In the meantime, they would continue as they had. Maglor finished tuning the harp and lightly ran his fingers over the strings, listening to any flaws of sound, but the strings were perfectly tuned as he knew they would be. Without giving anyone a glance he began playing, softly at first, almost hesitantly. The tune was a familiar one, for they had often sung it.

Maglor closed his eyes, letting himself feel the music pouring out of the strings. The fingers of his right hand felt cramped and tight as they always did and he had had to switch to his left hand as the dominant playing hand. After all this time, it felt right and he rarely thought of it. As he continued to play, the tightness in his fingers eased somewhat and his playing smoothed out and became more sure. It had not been all that long since he had last played, after all.

But he did not sing.

He segued into a different tune, one that was also popular among the Elves and now someone raised their voice in song and soon others were joining in. Maglor continued playing one song after another while others sang. Finally, his fingers tired and he stilled the strings. The silence that followed was the silence as between companions, between friends. Maglor opened his eyes, having kept them closed the entire time.

“Thank you,” Denethor said softly, speaking for them all.

Maglor just nodded as he reverently put the harp away, then excused himself, deciding he needed some fresh air. Arthalion joined him unasked but Maglor barely acknowledged him. He made his way toward the privy and then afterwards stepped outside the enclosure to look up at the stars, the Coll Elbereth spanning the midnight skies like a river of jewels.

“You played beautifully,” Arthalion said softly.

“Yes,” Maglor replied, never taking his eyes off the stars, treating Arthalion’s comment as a statement of fact rather than a compliment. He had played beautifully and could not have played otherwise.

“You did not play any laments or ballads,” Arthalion stated.

Maglor shook his head, but did not attempt an answer.

“And none of the songs you did play are attributed to you, as far as I know.”

Maglor tore his gaze from the stars to stare at the ellon standing beside him. In spite of the darkness, he could see Arthalion’s expression well enough: it was not accusing, but it was curious.

“No, none of the songs were mine.” Not waiting for a response, he turned and went back inside and was soon settled on his furs. He did not sleep that night, just stared into the fire until it was time for his watch.

****

The weeks passed. Winter grudgingly made way for a short spring. Snow melted for the most part and tiny flowers peeped out, though mostly only hardy moss and a few low shrubs showed themselves. Preparations were made to remove to Mithlond and to that end scouting parties were formed to ascertain the best place for setting up their new camp, for Denethor had decided that they would try to stay together rather than go their separate ways, feeling that there was safety in numbers and no one disputed him on that.

Maglor joined the scouts along with Arthalion and Glóredhel, his most constant companions. Glóredhel especially wished to see if they could find a forge. Voronwë recalled there had been several smithies on both sides of the Gulf, but whether they still existed or were even usable was anyone’s guess.

“Building or rebuilding a forge and a kiln is our first priority after securing a residence,” Denethor told them all. “Also, we need to collect all the metal stored in Arthalion’s cave and decide how much more we will need.”

Thus, while Maglor, Glóredhel and Arthalion were charged with looking for a forge, others were sent across the Gulf to collect everything that was in the caves, including the jewels and other items that Arthalion had collected. “For we have no idea what can prove useful to us and why continue making trips back and forth?” Denethor had said and everyone had agreed.

Others scoured both sides of the city to find a suitable residence where all might reside yet offer people more privacy if desired. In the end, they found what must have been a factor’s warehouse and office in what had once been the wharf district on the east side that was still largely intact, though the upper floor was open to the sky. There were several small rooms adjoining a larger hall on the ground floor and people claimed them for themselves. There weren’t enough separate rooms for everyone, but families and friends doubled up and soon everyone had a space to call their own.

Maglor had been unsure where he would be welcomed and had not attempted to claim any of the storerooms for himself, content to remain in the larger hall if necessary, but Arthalion, Neldorion and Voronwë invited him to join them in their room.

“We Noldor have to stick together,” Arthalion insisted when Maglor started to demur and both Neldorion and Voronwë had echoed Arthalion’s sentiment, so he gratefully stored his meager belongings in the room which Neldorion insisted on calling Gódhelroth. There was much groaning and rolling of eyes when the others learned of it. Maglor wisely kept his own opinions on the matter to himself.

Once the question of residence had been resolved, Maglor, with Arthalion and Glóredhel in tow, began checking for signs of a forge, starting in the wharf district, thinking that, logically, one had to be in the vicinity as part of Círdan’s shipbuilding endeavors.

“He would have wanted at least one forge, possibly more than one, ready at hand,” Maglor explained.

“You never visited Mithlond?” Glóredhel asked as they walked along the quays, heading west from the building they had chosen as their residence, which Denethor had decided to call Bârwain, stating that, for the foreseeable future, it was indeed their new home.

“Just once or twice and I did not remain long,” Maglor replied. “There were too many who would have recognized me and I was never sure of my welcome anywhere among our people. If I needed supplies or someplace to stay when the weather became inclement, I went into the villages of Men and traded my songs for room and board. The Mortals appreciated my music.”

“Surely they knew you for an Elf,” Arthalion said.

“Oh, yes. I did not attempt to hide that fact. Rather difficult to do in any case, but I did not use my own name and after the first hundred years after the War of Wrath there were no Mortals alive who would remember my face. I was safe enough among Men. I am sure there were rumors about me, but no one was foolish enough to ask me outright if I were in truth Maglor. Here, what do you think? Could this have been a forge?”

“Looks more like a stable,” Glóredhel commented.

“And that would make sense, since blacksmiths would also create horseshoes and other tack when not engaged in other projects,” Maglor replied. “Won’t hurt to look.”

“It’s certainly close enough to the shipbuilding district,” Arthalion said. “At least where Voronwë says the ships were built.”

“It’s farther away from Bârwain than I would like, though,” Glóredhel countered, frowning slightly.

Maglor just shrugged and looked about for an entrance. It had indeed been a stable, of that there was no doubt, once they were inside and saw the layout of the interior. Maglor suspected that horses had been kept here for rent or possibly boarded here by their owners who lived in the district. He also suspected that at least one inn used its services given the size of the place. They wandered about, staring into stalls and storerooms. It was Arthalion who discovered the forge, or what was left of it. It had once had its own entrance that faced a courtyard overlooking a square rather than what would have been the Gulf. The furnace was mostly intact, though both Maglor and Glóredhel thought that some repairs were in order.

“We’ll have to create a new bellows,” Maglor said, wiping his hands of accumulated dust and debris that clogged the room which had been open to the elements for longer than even he wished to contemplate.

“Should we look for other forges and see if there’s one closer to our residence?” Glóredhel asked.

“It wouldn’t hurt to go look,” Maglor said. “There may be one that is in better shape than this one and closer, but I do not wish to use one that is too far from the quays. When we come to actually build our ship, we will want the forge to be close at hand.”

Both Glóredhel and Arthalion nodded. “Well, where do you suggest we look?” Arthalion asked.

“Let’s go back east and see what we can find,” Maglor suggested. “No sense going further west.”

The others agreed and they retraced their steps, stopping at Bârwain where they spoke briefly with Denethor to let him know what they had found and where they were going. Denethor nodded and wished them luck. “I have Duilinn and Haldir scouring the city for iron in any shape or condition.”

“Most of it would have rusted away after all this time,” Maglor said with a frown.

“Still, you need iron to build the tools we’ll need, will you not? And I know that our smiths used a process that kept iron from rusting completely, which is why our swords have remained in pristine condition even after all this time.”

“True,” Maglor averred. “Well, we’ll deal with all that when we must. For now, we do have one forge ready at hand though Glóredhel feels it’s too far from here to be practical.”

“Any place will be too far, if you think about it,” Denethor said. “We do not know if the Sea will reclaim the Gulf when the ice finally melts and releases the waters of the ocean.”

“I would think it would, though,” Arthalion stated. “The water has to go somewhere.”

“Perhaps, but we saw how the land has changed over the millennia and we have not yet visited the coast. That river down there is marshy and shallow. I doubt we can use it to float the ship down to the Sea.”

“So we either have to remove to the coast eventually or find a way to move the ship there if the Sea does not reclaim the Gulf,” Maglor said.

“Well, that is something that will not be decided today or any time soon, but we must prepare ourselves to accept any eventuality. The Belain only promised me that a way would be found, they did not promise me it would be easy.”

Everyone nodded and Maglor, Arthalion and Glóredhel took their leave, spending another hour or so scouring the area for another forge. They found evidence of one that was closer to their residence than the other but it was in worse condition and repairing it would not be worth the effort. They did, however, discover what might have been a kiln that was in reasonably good shape.

“We’ll have someone who is more knowledgeable about such things take a look,” Maglor said. “It looks as if it can be used but I am no expert in kilns.”

“They’re easy enough to construct,” Arthalion said, “but if this one is usable, it will save us the bother. Amarthamíriel would know.”

Maglor and Glóredhel exchanged knowing grins when Arthalion’s back was to them.

“Come, let us go back and let the others know what we’ve found and see what everyone else has discovered,” Maglor suggested and the other two agreed.

Later, when all parties had returned, reports were shared. Everything in Arthalion’s cave had been removed and was now stored in an adjacent building, neatly piled.

“Not sure what use those gemstones will be unless we want to decorate the ship with them,” Aerin said, having been in the party that had collected the items from the cave.

Others chuckled. “We’ll just have to see,” was Denethor’s only comment.

Maglor told them about the forge and the kiln and Amarthamíriel, who had been part of the fishing party, said she would look at the kiln in the morning and see if it could still be used.

“What about the towers?” Sador asked. “Will we abandon them completely?”

“No,” Denethor answered. “That would be foolish. Once we are secure here, I would like to set up a rotating schedule of watches there. Two people for one week. Yes, I know it will be lonely and dull and it will feel more like a punishment detail than anything, but I hesitate to abandon the place entirely. We know there is game there for the taking and there are those cat-creatures to deal with.”

“We still need to decide if we should just leave them alone or seek to eliminate them completely,” Damrod stated.

“And if we wish to hunt for ores in those mountains, we’ll need to eliminate them,” Ragnor added. “I would not risk anyone in those mountains otherwise.”

“And that’s assuming that there is only that one colony of the creatures there,” Finduilas said. “Don’t forget the ones that attacked us on the Downs. They were a separate group entirely.”

“All things that we must consider in the next few weeks,” Denethor said with a nod. “However, there is one thing that we need to do first before we can concentrate on anything else.” He glanced at Maglor, who nodded.

“We, or at least, I need to go to the Sea,” he said. “There is something I need to do there and it would be a good idea for us to see just how far the water has receded. Also, as did Arthad and Arthalion, we might find things of use to bring back.”

“We will plan to leave in a week’s time,” Denethor said. “I wish to secure this place more before we do and we’ll need to ready supplies and such for the trip. I estimate that it will take at least a week to reach what used to be the coast.”

Maglor nodded. “At least that long. I would plan our being away for at least two weeks but I suspect it will be closer to a month, especially if we end up scavenging for things.”

“Do you know what you will do when we get there?” Arthalion asked.

“No. Not yet. I only know that that is where I must go.”

“Then we will devote the next week to preparing for the trip,” Denethor said and they moved on to other matters of concern with Eirien asking if an expedition to the valley of trees would be undertaken sometime in the near future and it was agreed that a suitable place for a nursery would need to be found or constructed first.

“We have time,” Denethor said after a few minutes of discussion. “Those trees are not going anywhere but I agree we should consider collecting as many seeds and even saplings as we can as soon as we can. When we return from the coast, we will see about setting up an appropriate nursery. Perhaps one of the valleys in the Emyn Beraid will prove suitable. Those who are assigned to tower duty could then occupy their time with keeping watch over the trees, making sure the goats and deer do not destroy them.”

Everyone agreed to that idea and the rest of the evening was spent in song and storytelling.

****

Gwaeron: March/April in the Gregorian calendar; also known as Súlimë.

Gwirith: April/May in the Gregorian calendar; also known as Víressë.

Coll Elbereth: Elbereth’s Cloak, what we would call the Milky Way. The term is noncanonical.

Gódhelroth: Noldo-cave. While Golodh is the actual Sindarin cognate of Quenya Noldo, according to Tolkien, the Noldor themselves apparently found this form unpleasing and preferred the word Gódhel (WJ:379).

Bârwain: New Home.