36: The Journey Continues

500 years later:

Maglor stood looking out upon the bustle of activity surrounding the ship. Or rather, the two ships. Standing on the quay, he watched the loading as people stowed away any personal items they wanted to bring along. Even after nearly three-and-a-half yéni, that wasn’t much. As he watched Denethor and Damrod direct the others he thought back over those yéni and all that had been accomplished and smiled.

It had not been easy and there were times when even he despaired that they would ever accomplish their goal of building a ship and Sailing to the Blessed Realm. The stars and the moon had positioned themselves as they had on the night he had renounced the Oath many times, but the Seas remained locked in ice and it was only in the last hundred years or so that the earth had warmed enough for the waters to return. Denethor had wisely placed an outpost at the headland at Harlond to keep watch on the waters and to warn them of their approach.

Now, the Gulf truly was a gulf and the only way to reach the west side of the city was in small coracles for they never bothered to replace the bridge that had once connected the two parts of the city. It was too great an engineering feat for them and ultimately it did not matter.

Maglor sighed as he looked back into the city. His gaze fell upon the small gardens that had sprung up here and there as the climate warmed. Trees now shaded some of the avenues and several of the nearby buildings had been rebuilt out of the ruins that the city had been when they first came, turned into living spaces and workshops. It had been their home for long enough that leaving it would be hard for most of them. He reflected on that for a moment and accepted that even he was finding it hard. He had made a good life here with the Harthadrim, and he had long ceased to consider himself an outsider. He was one of them and he belonged to them in ways that he had never belonged elsewhere, not even among his own family.

He glanced at the sky. The sun was several hours from setting but they would need to set sail within the hour if they wished to clear the Gulf for the open Sea before moonrise.

“Ada,” a voice called behind him and he turned and greeted his oldest son with a smile. “Nana says to get your lazy hraw moving and come help.” The ellon gave him a cheeky grin.

Maglor laughed and hugged his firstborn. “Tell your nana that I’ll be right there.” He gazed fondly after his son, whom he and Glóredhel had named Estel. He had been added to their household about ten years after he had renounced his Oath. Estel had shown a talent for creating in gemstones, capable of capturing the light of sun and moon in crystal, providing them with light that never dimmed or went out. Maglor marveled at the similarity between his son’s creations and the Silmarils, though the light created by Estel was not as bright or as pure. Yet, unlike his grandfather, he gladly shared his creations with all and delighted in lighting the city with emerald lamps that cast a warm, green glow upon them all.

“All those gemstones my brother had me collect finally came in handy,” Arthalion had commented when Estel produced his first lamp and Maglor had simply nodded, pleased that someone had found a use for those worthless baubles.

Maglor nearly laughed at the memory as he headed for the ship in which he and his family would sail. He spied his two younger children checking the sails. His daughter, Míriel, had been born about a yén after Estel and had inherited Maglor’s love of music, but also Glóredhel’s pragmatism and she had proven to be an accomplished sailor and shipbuilder. Their youngest, Russandol, so named for his red hair, was just now reaching his majority. He did not seem to have any particular talent for crafting but he was an excellent hunter.

Over the years, several children had been added to the Harthadrim. Duilinn and Gwilwileth had actually been the first to declare their love for one another and now were the proud parents of four children, and others followed: Saelmir and Aerin with two children, Arthalion and Amarthamíriel with three, even Voronwë had married an elleth named Nimloth, a shy child of mixed ancestry, and they had two children and a third on the way who would be born in Aman. Thus, they now boasted a population of forty-six.

Maglor smiled at that thought as he reached the gangplank and silently helped Ragnor with loading barrels of water onto the ship. It was a fine ship, they both were, though Maglor knew that Círdan would probably have shaken his head at the sight of them. None of them had any knowledge of shipbuilding and they had discovered the secret of the craft through trial and error — lots of trials and plenty of errors. He almost laughed out loud at the memory of the first real boat they had managed to build and how it had sunk almost immediately. There had been much cursing and many chagrined looks that day. Denethor had merely nodded as Celepharn and Gilgaran swam back to shore.

“Well, now we know how not to make a boat,” their leader had said philosophically as he gave Gilgaran a hand.

So they had gone back to trying to figure out how to make a ship seaworthy. Maglor felt a sense of pride to think that it was his own daughter who had come up with the design that proved the most viable. He was looking forward to introducing Míriel to Círdan and hoped the ancient Elf would appreciate her talents.

True, these ships were nothing like the ones for which Círdan was famed, but Maglor thought they were fine nonetheless. They had been built by people with no previous knowledge of shipbuilding, only with the knowledge that it could and had been done before. And, of course, they had to create the tools with which to build the ships and that had not been easy, for they had had difficulty finding and mining the necessary ores. The ancient Dwarf mines had been played out long before and Denethor had declared that going into the deeper shafts too dangerous. But they had managed, however crudely made the tools might be.

All-in-all, Maglor thought they should all be proud of their accomplishments. They had nothing to be ashamed about. Those of Aman might sneer at their efforts, but what of it? Maglor doubted any of them could do better given the same circumstances.

He paused and contemplated that thought. He was returning to his ancient home and yet knew that it would never be his home nor would those residing there be his people. Mithlond, or rather, that part of Mithlond they had renamed Bârwain, was his home, more so than any other place and the Harthadrim were his people.

“Everything all set?”

Maglor turned to see Denethor standing at the top of the gangplank and nodded. “All set. We just have to stow these last barrels. How is the loading coming along on the other ship?”

“Still a few more barrels to go and your daughter is rechecking the sails,” Denethor answered. “I’m still not sure these sails will work, though.”

Maglor shrugged. “Míriel thinks they’ll do. They’re not canvas, but we’ve made the leather as thin and supple as possible. They really just have to catch the wind. I have a feeling Lord Ulmo will do the rest.”

“Do you think so?” Ragnor asked dubiously. “None of the Belain seemed particularly anxious to aid us in reaching Dor Rodyn after sending Denethor that dream that set us on this course.”

“But I suspect that was all they needed to do,” Maglor replied. “The Belain help those who first help themselves, or so my naneth used to say. For myself, I’m glad they did not show up with the solutions for our problems. I think these ships prove that we are worthy to return to Dor Rodyn for we built them with our own effort. We will not be returning as beggars at the door hoping for scraps from our betters.”

“Well said, Maglor,” Denethor exclaimed with a nod of approval. “Well, finish up. We have less than an hour before we must Sail.”

“Yes sir,” Maglor said with a grin, giving Denethor a salute before helping Ragnor with the last of the barrels. Even after all these years, Maglor had not once attempted to take over the leadership of the Harthadrim, though even Denethor had tried to convince him to do so. While he was willing to provide advice and his sword to the betterment of all, he was not willing to take over as leader.

“The Belain chose you to lead us,” he had pointed out to Denethor more than once. “To you came the dream. I gave up all rights to rule by my own actions. I will always be willing to offer you my thoughts and I will wield my sword for the protection of us all, but you are our chosen leader unless some other is willing to take the burden from you.”

But of course, everyone agreed with Maglor on that score, and so Denethor had remained their leader with Damrod as his second. Maglor was content to act as one of Denethor’s advisors, but then, in a sense, they all were. The population was still small enough that they all met in council and offered their opinions on matters. Even the children, once they reached their majority, were allowed a voice. But ultimately Denethor had the final say and over the yéni he had proven to be a wise and canny leader.

Maglor hoped that those of Aman would recognize the ellon’s worth and not be dismissive of him or any of them. He suspected that he would be looked upon with some disdain for who he was and accepted that possibility, but he feared that the others, especially the children, would also be dismissed by the Amaneldi as rude and untutored, little better than primitives, and that thought saddened and angered him. As the only recognized loremasters among them, he and Glóredhel had taken on the responsibility of designing a curriculum of studies for the children and teaching them the lore of their people. Maglor was proud of the fact that none of the children were ignorant of their history and all had acquired the skills needed to survive in what was still a harsh environment, though it was less harsh and unforgiving than it had been, especially once they had eliminated the cat-creatures that had threatened them, a task that had taken longer than any had anticipated. No, none of them had anything to be ashamed of. They might be unsophisticated in the eyes of the more cultured Amaneldi, no better than the mysterious Avari who had disappeared into the mists of the ancient past, but they had every right to be proud of their accomplishments and he, Maglor, would make sure that those snobs of Aman knew it.

He caught himself up short at that thought and almost laughed. They hadn’t even set sail yet and already he was deciding how he would respond to imagined slights against him and the others. Shaking his head, he looked about to see what else needed doing but it seemed that everything was in order. He saw Glóredhel speaking with Finduilas and Eirien, her two closest friends, as the three stood by the railing apparently taking a short break from their work and smiled fondly at the sight. She was more beautiful than ever, his beloved, and he gave thanks once again that he had found her, marveling anew that she had consented to be his wife and the mother of his children. He gave Ragnor a nod and the two headed for the ellith and greeted them.

“How are we doing?” Glóredhel asked.

“All set,” Maglor replied, giving her a hug and a kiss. “We’ve stowed the last of the water barrels and I think Míriel is finished checking over the sails. We could leave anytime and indeed we must leave soon if we are to reach the open waters before moonrise.”

“It’s hard to believe that we are finally Sailing,” Finduilas said, looking about. “I never thought I would miss this place, but I will.”

“We all will,” Eirien responded. “We’ve invested so much of ourselves in this place, more so I suspect than we have done anywhere else.”

“We always knew that this was but a temporary camp,” Maglor said, “yet, I think because we knew that someday we would leave, this place has become dear to us in ways that no other place where we may have resided ever has. We built upon the ruins of another age and we built with hope."

“And now that hope is about to be realized,” Glóredhel commented.

“Hey!”

They turned to see Damrod on the quay gesturing to them. “Denethor wishes everyone to gather together before we leave.”

“Shall we go see what our fearless leader wishes to say?” Maglor asked and the others laughed as they headed down the gangplank and were soon joining all the others on the quay where Denethor stood on a block of stone so all could see him. Maglor put an arm around his youngest son’s shoulders even as he wrapped his other arm around Glóredhel’s waist and listened to what the ellon had to say.

Denethor gave them all a fond smile. “And so it comes to this: that at last we are ready to Sail. It has been a long road for some of us and I know that there were times when even I thought that this day would never come, and yet it has. I do not know what adventures lie ahead of us on the sea-road. I do not know what we will find when we finally come to Dor Rodyn. Maglor is the only one who can tell us about that and his information, I fear, is woefully out-of-date.”

There were chuckles among them and Maglor just shrugged, giving Denethor a merry look. “At any rate,” Denethor continued, “I wish only to tell you how very proud I am of all of you and all that we have accomplished here. We have nothing to be ashamed of. Others may look down at us as latecomers to their shores and disparage our feeble attempts at shipbuilding, but I think, given the circumstances, we did well enough and none of us need hang our head in shame. Well, the tide is turning and it is time to board. You all know which ship you are on. Míriel, I’ll leave you to direct the crews. Anyone who has not been chosen to be a sailor should congregate toward the prow and stay out of the way. The Belain go with us all.”

He stepped down and everyone spent several minutes hugging each other as they separated to go to their respective ships. Maglor and his family boarded the Mir Aear while others boarded the Aearloth. Estel and Russandol stayed with their sister, who was acting as captain, while Maglor escorted Glóredhel to the prow along with the others who were not acting as sailors.

“I wish we could all be together on a single ship,” Glóredhel said as she waved to Finduilas who, along with Ragnor and their children, were on the other ship.

“As do I,” Maglor responded, giving his wife a brief hug, “but I think we were wise to build two ships. Even splitting us up, we’re still going to be in crowded conditions and who knows how long the journey will last?”

“I just hope the ships are able to stay together,” Arthalion said as he and his wife, Amarthamíriel, joined them. “Ivorwen, stop distracting Estel with your chatter and come over here.” Maglor looked to where the elleth was standing next to Estel, who sat on the rowing bench with Russandol, the two waiting, along with the other rowers, for Míriel’s signal. Arthalion gestured to his daughter, who pouted a little as she obeyed. He grinned at Estel’s longing looks and Russandol rolling his eyes in disgust as Arthalion continued gently chiding his daughter. “There will be plenty of time for speaking when he’s not on duty. Now sit here with your nana and don’t get in the way.”

“Yes, Ada,” Ivorwen said with a sigh as she sat beside Amarthamíriel, who gave her a sympathetic smile and a hug.

Arthalion exchanged amused smiles with Maglor. “So how much do you want to bet that they declare themselves as soon as we come ashore?” Arthalion asked.

“They’re both too young for that,” Maglor said with a grin. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if they did.”

“Cast the lines!”

Everyone turned at the sound of Míriel shouting her commands and watched as the lines were cast.

“Rowers!” Míriel called and those who had been chosen as sailors began to row in unison with the beat of a drum. There had been a long discussion about the need for rowers but given the uncertainty of what they would find upon the open waters, it was decided that they would be necessary, so the ships were more like the galleys built by Mortals, though much smaller and with fewer rowers.

The two ships made their way slowly away from the quays. Many looked back at the city that had been their home for so many years but Maglor was not one of them. He kept his eyes ever westward, refusing to look back.

They rowed down the Gulf, the tide helping to speed them on their way. As the ships reached the Harlond, Maglor and Arthalion, along with others, spelled the rowers, so he was rowing when they finally reached the Straits and the open sea.

“Rowers stop!” came the command and Maglor gratefully shipped the oar but did not immediately get up to see what was happening. “Raise sails!”

He watched as several people began pulling on the lines and the main sail was raised. The leather had been bleached and a sun-in-glory had been painted on it. For a long moment, nothing happened, but then the sails billowed slightly as the evening breeze quickened and they began moving. There were shouts of joy and clapping on both ships.

“Well, we’re away,” Arthalion commented to no one in particular.

By now, the sun had set, though the moon had yet to rise. The sky deepened into a midnight blue and the stars shone out in splendor with Eärendil’s Star outshining them all. Maglor rose from the bench and stretched aching muscles, gratefully accepting a cup of water from Glóredhel. He made his way to the prow where the rest of his family, except Míriel who stood by the wheel with Saelmir at the helm, were gathered.

“How long do you suppose the journey will take, Ada?” young Russandol asked him.

“I do not know, iôn nîn,” he replied. “When we crossed over from Dor Rodyn to Beleriand it was at the narrowest point between the two lands and it was not a long journey though it was certainly frigid enough. Here, the distance between Ennorath and Dor Rodyn is greater, even more so for we must tread the Straight Road and there is no way of knowing when we will find it.”

“Yet, you were convinced that night when you renounced your Oath, that when the stars and the moon aligned themselves as they did that night that the Straight Road would open for us,” Glóredhel said.

“Yes, and I still hold to that, but again, I have no real certainty as to when that will happen. We may have to sail beyond sight of all land before that happens.”

“Well, we will see soon enough, I think,” Arthalion said.

They fell into silence, each lost in his or her own thoughts. Maglor wondered what his children were thinking, for they were leaving the only home they had ever known. Indeed, for most of them, that was true. He had never thought to ask them and that troubled him. For so many years his one goal was to see this day come round when they would finally Sail and he would go home at last.

And yet, was it truly his home? He had lived longer in Ennorath than he had ever lived in Valinor. He knew the Mortal lands more intimately than he knew even the city of his birth. To what, really, was he going home? What truly awaited him there? On one level, he hoped that he would find his brothers waiting for him; on another level, he feared that very thing.

He snorted quietly in derision at his ambivalence, but he knew it to be true. His feelings about what they were attempting were very ambivalent, yet, this was the entire purpose of their lives and had been these last three-and-a-half yéni: to obey the Valar’s summons and seek the Straight Road. For he had no doubt that it was indeed a summons, one that could not be ignored however long it took for them to accomplish it. He had no doubt that when the Valar had sent Denethor the dream that had set the Harthadrim north in search of him, that they knew that their arrival would not be immediate, yet it was assured. Of that, he had no doubt.

“Look! The moon rises!” someone exclaimed.

Maglor came out of his reverie to see the moon rising behind them, large and golden, and as his light illuminated the night, a single beam, as if a road, spread westward.

“Stay the course!” he heard Míriel shout. “Denethor, make sure you stay directly behind us,” she ordered, calling out to the other ship where Denethor acted as captain.

They heard the ellon acknowledge Míriel’s words. Maglor found his harp where he had stowed it earlier and unlaced the bindings on its cover, quickly tuning it by feel alone to a mode called Milië Eldamar. He struck a chord and began singing an ancient lament of the Noldor:

“My soul's desire over the sea-torrents
forth bids me fare, that I afar should seek
over the ancient water's awful mountains
Elvenhome, the land of my youth…”

He continued singing as they sailed on, on, on over the sea, following the road of light; and it became very bright and very calm — no clouds, no wind. The sails drooped and yet they were still moving forward. Someone gasped.

“Look to the sea, the sea!”

Maglor’s singing faltered and he moved to stand closer to the railing and looked down. The water seemed thin and white below and then he suddenly saw lands and mountains down in the water shining ghostly in the pale moonlight. He looked up into the heavens and thought that Eärendil’s Star was brighter and closer than it had ever seemed since the War of Wrath when the Mariner had done battle with Ancalagon the Black. He quickly retuned his harp to the mode called Gilgalad am Nîn Ngail in Sindarin and began singing a far different song as the ships continued sailing, though no wind billowed the sails:

“O Shore beyond the Shadowy Sea!
O Land where still the Edhil are!
O Haven where my heart would be!
The waves still beat upon thy bar,
The white birds wheel; there flowers the Tree!
Again I glimpse them long afar
When rising west of West I see
Beyond the world the wayward Star,
Than beacons bright in Gondobar
More fair and keen, more clear and high.
O Star that shadow may not mar,
Nor ever darkness doom to die.”

And then it seemed almost as if the air had thinned and it became difficult to breathe and many gasped for air, some even succumbing to unconsciousness. Maglor stopped singing and thrust his harp into Estel’s hands as he reached out to catch Glóredhel who fainted and held her in his arms as they continued to Sail, crooning soft words into his wife’s unhearing ears. Then after a time that was timeless, it seemed to him that he smelled a marvelous fragrance as of land and flowers, a fragrance that he had long forgotten, for it had never been smelled in Ennorath. As the fragrance grew, they found that they could now breathe properly and Glóredhel and others came out of their swoon.

Maglor helped his wife to rise and they looked out to find that all was as before: they were still on the sea but now there was a stiff wind blowing them westward. And though there was no sight of land as yet, the fragrance of flowers never seen in Ennorath grew and Maglor smiled, knowing that their long journey was finally coming to an end.

They were home at last.

****

Hraw: body.

Russandol: (Quenya) Copper-top; a nickname first given to Maedhros for his red hair.

Amaneldi: (Quenya) Plural of Amanelda (sic): Elves of Aman.

Avari: (Quenya) The Refusers; those Elves who never left Cuiviénen.

Mir Aear; Jewel of the Sea.

Aearloth: Sea-flower.

Iôn nîn: My son.

Milië Eldamar: (Quenya) The Longing for Eldamar.

Gilgalad am Nîn Ngail: Starlight upon Bright Waters.

Edhil: Plural of Edhel: Elf.

Gondobar: City of Stone, literally, ‘Stone-Home’; according to Tolkien, one of the Seven Names of Gondolin. See Book of Lost Tales II and The Lays of Beleriand.

Notes:

1. Maglor’s first song is derived from a translation by Tolkien, with obvious alterations, of lines 36-38 of the Old English poem The Seafarer. See The Lost Road and Sauron Defeated, ‘The Notion Club Papers’.

2. Maglor’s second song is taken directly from a poem written by Tolkien entitled The Song of Ælfwine. See The Lost Road.

3. The description of the Straight Path is based on one given by Tolkien in The Lost Road, when he is describing the voyage of Ælfwine.