33: Journey to the Sea

Once it was decided to make the journey, Denethor sent Ragnor back to the tower along with three others to retrieve the Silmaril from its hiding place. When they returned the day before they were due to set out for the coast, Maglor was grateful for the fact that Ragnor removed himself to Gil-galad’s tower, as everyone called it, situated in West Mithlond. Even so, Denethor asked the other three Noldor to guard Maglor that night, for he needed to sleep while he could; he did not think he would do so during the trek, not with the Silmaril so close at hand. As it was, his dreams were plagued by nightmares of his adar and brothers calling to him, begging him to fulfill his Oath, and he woke yelling, drenched in sweat, and had to be held down until he calmed himself.

Dawn saw them all gathering what supplies they needed. Maglor was subdued and barely spoke. They made their way down to the valley where Ragnor and the three who had accompanied him waited. Arthalion had assured Denethor that traveling the valley that had once been the floor of the Gulf would prove the best way to go, for the cliffs further west were too dangerous to climb. Plus the river would provide them with water and fish and possibly some succulents.

So, they headed west, staying to the north, which Arthalion told them was less marshy than the south side of the river. The day was fair and the air warmer than it had been all week. The breeze coming at them from the west was pleasant and smelled faintly of the Sea. Maglor strode in front along with Denethor and Arthalion, who had the pleasure of acting as their guide. Ragnor stayed well to the back and Maglor patently ignored him.

“When the Sea receded too far, Arthad and I used this route rather than following the shoulder of the mountains,” Arthalion explained to Denethor when he asked him about it. “We ended up creating semi-permanent campsites along the way, spaced out more or less evenly and it usually took us six days to reach the coast.”

“Will those campsites still exist after all this time?” Denethor asked.

“Possibly,” Arthalion answered. “We constructed these circular stone walls that are barely two feet high and camped inside them. They should still be there, though in truth I have not been this way for a very long time.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Denethor said philosophically and Maglor silently agreed, prepared to find no trace of the campsites. Thus, he was pleasantly surprised when a couple of hours after noon, they came upon a circular stone structure that was perhaps ten feet in diameter and about two feet high. There were no breaks in the circle and they simply climbed over the low wall. In the middle was a smaller ring of stones that turned out to be the fire pit.

“Well, obviously, we can’t all fit in here,” Denethor commented, “though it’s certainly large enough for us to sit on the wall with the fire in the middle.”

“We can take turns sleeping or sleep outside the circle,” Damrod suggested. “It’s warm enough even at night that we would not be too bothered by it under our furs.”

“That would certainly work,” Denethor said, “and I would also have sentries, just to be safe.”

No one protested that idea and Maglor volunteered to be part of the watch that first night, silently promising himself that he would be on watch duty all night and every night until they had reached the coast. He still did not know what he would do once they were there and decided to wait until he had seen for himself what it was like. In the meantime, he helped get the fire going while others went to the river to fill their pots for the fish stew that would be that night’s dinner.

“I’m surprised that we came to this camp so early,” Denethor commented to Arthalion as everyone busied themselves with setting up the campsite.

“Arthad spaced the camps so that we could easily reach each one before it became too dark when we were hunting during the winter months.”

“You went to the coast even in winter?” Maglor asked in surprise, looking up from his labors at Arthalion standing nearby.

“No, but we did hunt. You can see that the valley is somewhat protected and sometimes larger game would make its way down here during the winter.”

Maglor and Denethor nodded.

They settled into a routine during the rest of the journey, waking at dawn and setting out an hour later, going only as far as the next stone circle even if it meant stopping hours before sunset. As Denethor pointed out when one or two others complained of the slow pace, to ignore ready-made camps was foolish and it wasn’t as if they were on a schedule.

“The Sea will still be waiting for us whether we get there two days from now or two weeks from now,” he told them and they had to be content with that.

Maglor did not care. He was in no particular hurry even though the entire journey was for his benefit. He would have preferred to have gone with only a few people to keep him company but appreciated what Denethor was doing in insisting they all accompany him. Too much was at stake for them all.

He did whatever chores were required of him when they stopped to camp and made no complaint as at least two others followed him wherever he went and made sure that he and Ragnor never spoke to one another and stayed as far from each other as possible. Maglor understood the necessity and applauded it, but sorrowed that it was so, for he and Ragnor were good friends and he missed the ellon’s company and quiet wit.

Still, it was only for a few more days and once he was freed of the Silmaril….

And there, of course, was the sticking point: how was he to free himself from the damnable jewel? He still did not know, did not even know how to renounce the Oath that had haunted him for so long. He could only hope that once they reached the Sea, he would be inspired. In the meantime, he stood his watches at night, refusing to sleep, forcing himself not to listen to the Silmaril calling to him, though it was hard and on the third night he had to call to Arthalion and others to hold him back from attacking Ragnor, screaming as they did so, cursing them all for keeping the Silmaril from him, promising death and destruction upon them all for denying him. It was hours before he succumbed to unconsciousness and in the morning when he woke he refused to look at anyone and never spoke the entire day.

Denethor had him set off with Arthalion and Glóredhel an hour before the others, hoping the distance would help. When the rest of the company reached them at their next campsite, they found that Maglor had crossed over to the south side of the river and refused to return even to eat. He remained there the entire night, huddled against the cliffs on that side, returning only at dawn. This time Denethor had Ragnor go on ahead, refusing to allow Maglor to leave until he had eaten. Maglor refused to eat until Ragnor was out of sight, staring the entire time at the ellon’s retreating figure. Arthalion and Voronwë stood on either side of Maglor, ready to hold him back if he tried to follow.

His weapons, perforce, were taken from him and he was not allowed to stand any more watches, but huddled near the fire, sunk in apathy, ignoring, or trying to ignore, the whispers and looks of pity cast his way.

By the sixth and presumably the last day of their journey, Maglor was nearly comatose and he had to be led by Arthalion and Voronwë, else he would simply stand there staring at nothing. He ate whatever was put in his hands and he was capable of attending to his personal needs, but beyond that he was unable or unwilling to respond to anything or anyone.

And he was constantly clenching and unclenching his right hand.

“I hope this is resolved when we reach the Sea,” Denethor said softly as they went about breaking camp.

“Something has to happen,” Damrod said. “None of us can go on like this, Maglor least of all.”

“That Oath will destroy him if he doesn’t renounce it,” Arthalion added. “He may actually force us to kill him.”

Denethor gave the ellon a sharp glance. “Do you think so?”

“He may give us no other choice,” Arthalion answered as he stared sorrowfully at the son of Fëanor sitting on his haunches with his left arm wrapped around his knees and his right hand extended before him constantly clenching and unclenching. He rocked back and forth and his eyes were blank. Arthalion crouched beside him. “Time to go, Maglor. Neldorion, help me with him please.”

“I find it interesting that he lets only Arthalion, Voronwë and Neldorion touch him,” Damrod commented. “He won’t even let Glóredhel near him anymore.”

“Or any of us Sindar,” Denethor said with a nod. He gave Damrod a wry look. “I don’t think he trusts us.”

“Or himself,” Damrod countered.

“We’re ready, Denethor,” Arthalion said.

“Go ahead, we’ll follow,” Denethor ordered.

Arthalion and Neldorion started forward, keeping Maglor between them while Voronwë followed. Denethor allowed them to get a good distance away before giving the order for the rest to set off. Ragnor and his two sons had already left an hour or so earlier. Arthalion had told them the night before that they were only half a day from where the Gulf originally opened to the Sea, so Denethor had asked Ragnor to leave at first light and wait for them to arrive.

All along, the days had been fair, with blue skies and a warming sun, but this day was cooler and there was a sharp breeze with a slight tang to it that smelled of rain though Arthalion assured Denethor that he had never known it to rain even in the short summer season.

“Perhaps it will now that the ice seems to be receding,” Denethor commented, and Arthalion just shrugged.

The river, they noticed, was widening and becoming more marsh-like though Arthalion promised that the ground they were treading was solid enough and they need not fear quicksand so long as they stayed close to the cliffs.

“Though it does look marshier than the last time I was this way,” he added with a frown.

“Another sign that this age of ice is finally coming to an end,” Damrod said.

“You may be right,” Denethor replied. “We can only hope that it is not a false sign. There have been times in the past when we thought the world was warming again only to find that it was at best a short reprieve.”

“Long or short, we would be fools not to take advantage of it as best we may,” Damrod countered.

“Absolutely,” Denethor said with a nod, “which is why we’re here. This entire thing with Maglor and the Silmaril needs to be resolved if we ever hope to be able to survive. That jewel will destroy us all if we don’t do something about it now.”

“Let us hope then that Maglor does indeed do something,” Damrod said. “My heart tells me that if he does not, none of us will be able to. The Silmaril is not our destiny, but his, yet we may well suffer because of it.”

Neither Arthalion nor Denethor disputed the ellon’s words.

As they had journeyed down the valley they had noted how it had widened, especially after passing the bay at Harlond, and indeed, at its widest, it was nearly a hundred miles before narrowing again to a mere thirty miles just before one reached the sea. As the party approached the entrance of the straits, they saw Ragnor and his sons had already set up a camp against the northern cliffs, a merry fire burning. The three ellyn waved in greeting and the others hailed them, but their voices died when they came abreast of the camp and stared out into the distance.

Of them all, only Arthalion was the least affected by what they saw. Even Maglor blinked several times, as if coming awake, and stared in awe at what was before them.

It was a graveyard of ships.

They were scattered across the floor of the Sea, which was now dry land, stretching several miles in all directions. The Sea, itself was a distant grey-blue smudge on the horizon. Many of the ships were barely recognizable as such, the wood of their hulls having long since disintegrated or been crushed by the ice, leaving behind rusted metal and the occasional thick spar that was not completely rotted away. Yet, there was enough evidence that ships had foundered in heavy seas sometime in the distant past.

“Arthad determined that these ships were all made by Men,” Arthalion said, breaking the silence that had fallen amongst them as they stared in wonder at the sight. “We never found any Elvish-made ships here.”

“Well, naturally,” Damrod said with a snort. “No ship built by Círdan would dare do something so crass as to sink.”

There were quiet chuckles among them, though Maglor remained silent, staring, not so much at the wreckage about them, but further out.

“I have to go there,” he whispered and more than one person started at the sound of his voice, for he had not uttered a word for nearly three days.

“Where do you have to go?” Denethor asked.

For an answer, Maglor started walking away, heading west.

“Wait, Maglor!” Arthalion called out, running after him and grabbing his arm, forcing him to stop. “You cannot go yet. You need to do something first, remember?”

Maglor frowned. The sight of the wrecks had brought him momentarily out from where he had hidden deep within himself as they had traveled to the coast. He realized he could not have said how long they had been traveling, and that realization disturbed him, as did Arthalion’s question.

“What must I do?” he asked, feeling very confused. There was something he had to do, he now knew, but just what still eluded him.

“The Silmaril,” Arthalion said gently. “Have you forgotten the Silmaril?”

Maglor started at that, his expression becoming wary, his eyes turning cold with calculation as he stared at one he thought of as a friend who might still be an enemy.

“Where—?”

“It is safe,” Arthalion assured him quickly. “We only wait to know what you plan to do with it.”

“Do… I… I have to do something….” He remembered now. The Oath. He had to do something about the Oath. He stared about, taking note of the wrecks and where they were in relation to where the coast had been. Now his expression was calculating in a different manner.

“You do not know where your brother found it?” he asked.

“No. He did not describe the place to me,” Arthalion answered. “Certainly, it had not been found in any of these wrecks though perhaps a wreck was near where it was found.”

Maglor nodded. “Yes, that would make sense. I wish I could remember just where we were camped at the time. It would make things easier.”

“In what way?” Denethor asked as he came up to them with everyone else following.

Maglor turned his gaze upon the Sinda. “I had thought to return it to where it was found. I had thought to simply leave it here on the strand, perhaps even bury it. Eventually, the waters of the Sea will be unlocked as the ice melts and all this will once again be covered and no one will be able to find it.”

“Yet, until that day comes, we will know, and more important, you will know. There would be nothing to stop you from returning here to retrieve it before the Sea returns. There must be another way.”

“I do not see any other way,” Maglor said, his shoulders slumping and a look of defeat crossed his fair visage as he continued to clench and unclench his right hand.

“Why don’t we have something to eat and discuss it amongst ourselves?” Glóredhel suggested. “Perhaps you are too close to the situation to see anything clearly, Maglor. Perhaps one of us can find a solution to your problem.”

“An excellent idea,” Denethor said. “Come. We will have something to eat and think about it.”

“Well, it will take an hour or so for us to get a stew together,” Finduilas said. “Why not spend the time exploring? Perhaps we will find things that can be of use to us, more so than gemstones.”

Arthalion blushed slightly. “I do not know why my brother was so insistent about collecting them,” he offered by way of apology. “I can only say that I’d always trusted him and did not question him as to his reasons.”

“It is of no consequence now,” Denethor said in a kind voice. “However, we certainly should take advantage of the fact that we are here and see what else might be available for us to take back with us. We will split into groups. No one is to explore alone. We still have several hours of daylight left to us, so let us get started. Maglor, you are welcome to explore as well, but only if Arthalion, Neldorion and Voronwë are with you and you are not to approach Ragnor.”

Maglor nodded his understanding and raised no objections. “I am not in the mood to explore,” he said. “I will sit beside the fire and watch the stew while everyone else explores.”

“I will watch with you, if I may,” Glóredhel said.

Maglor raised an eyebrow. “I do not need anyone guarding me while I watch over the stew. It’s not as if I plan to poison it. I don’t have any poison anyway.”

“And I never said I was guarding you,” Glóredhel retorted, looking angry. “I said I would watch with you.”

“I cannot believe that you, a loremaster, would pass up the opportunity….”

“No more than you,” she shot back. “Now, let us stop arguing. You and I will tend to the stew while everyone else explores.” She headed back toward the campsite then stopped after a few paces and glared at him. “Well? Are you coming or not?”

Maglor wisely said nothing, but meekly followed her and allowed her to direct him in preparing the stew. Soon enough, the two were sitting side-by-side watching as everyone else wandered in groups of twos and threes, sometimes staying only for a moment at a wreck before moving on, sometimes taking time to explore more thoroughly. They could see Arthalion with Denethor and Damrod, enthusiastically waving his arms as he pointed to one wreck or another, apparently telling them something about what they saw about them.

“What is the real reason you are not out there with the others?” Maglor finally asked, speaking softly as he leaned over to give the stew a stir and add more dung to the fire.

“I meant what I said, Maglor,” Glóredhel answered just as softly. “Besides, you’ve been ignoring me for far too long and this is as good a time as any for you to stop ignoring me.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “I’ve been ignoring everyone,” was all he could think to say as a way of apologizing.

“Yes, I saw that,” she retorted, giving him a rather unlady-like snort of disgust. “We’re your friends, even your family, and you refuse to let us help you.”

“What help could you possibly give me?” Maglor asked. “There is no help and no hope. Not for me. Not so long as I am bound to the Silmaril and my Oath.”

“Then unbind yourself.”

Maglor snorted. “Easier said than done.”

“Perhaps, but I can tell you that if you don’t find a way, no one will. If you do not renounce your Oath and the Silmaril, I think Denethor will simply leave you here with it and will not allow you to return with us to Mithlond.”

Maglor gave her a sharp look. “He has said this?”

She shook her head. “No, not in so many words, but think about it. That jewel is a danger to us all and Denethor cannot afford to allow it to remain in our vicinity. If you do not somehow find a way to renounce it so that it no longer has any hold whatsoever over you, then I think he will leave you behind when we return to Mithlond. You will be given your weapons back and some supplies to see you through a few days and then you will be on your own.”

“And if I followed you?”

“We would be forced to kill you, for we could not allow you to taint us with your darkness. It would sadden us but if you gave us no choice we would do it to preserve our own future. We want to Sail. I have never been sure if that was your desire as well or if you simply came along because you did not really want to die, at least not alone.”

For several minutes, silence fell between them as Maglor contemplated Glóredhel’s words.

“It is true that at first I did not care if we Sailed or not,” he finally said, speaking almost to himself. “No, that’s not entirely true. I did not believe we would ever find the Straight Road.”

“But you came with us anyway, even though you had no belief in what we would do.”

Maglor shrugged. “As you say, I found I did not want to die alone. I figured the only way any of us would reach Dor Rodyn was to die. That thought did not bother me. Yet, the closer we came to the Sea, the more I began to hope that a way would be found. The last thing I ever expected was to be confronted with the Silmaril and my own sordid past.”

“Perhaps this was the only way,” Glóredhel offered. “Perhaps the Belain knew that you could never return home unless you had renounced your past, all of it, especially that part that is tied up with the Silmaril.”

“Which just about covers much of my life,” Maglor retorted with a wry grin.

Glóredhel shrugged. “A large part, no doubt, but not the all of it. There was a time before the Silmaril, wasn’t there?”

“Yes. A happier time, a more innocent time. But one cannot go back to one’s first innocence.”

“No, but one can certainly go forward to a different kind of innocence, an innocence that accepts what has been and looks forward to what can be again. I don’t think you’ve really accepted what has been. You’ve allowed the past to haunt you, to control you. You need to take control of it, accept it and allow it to have no hold over you. Then and only then can you hope to rediscover your innocence that is not born of naivety but is tempered with experience.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Nothing worth doing is ever easy, Maglor. You should know that by now. I think the stew is ready. Why don’t you call everyone back and I’ll start dishing it out?”

Maglor nodded and walked away from the fire, calling to the others and waving to get their attention. In minutes they were all gathered together to eat, but Maglor stayed away, sitting on a boulder and staring west, wishing to think about what Glóredhel had said.