Maglor

The Sea… I must have reached it, for there is sound of the waves and cries of the seabirds. In a sudden flash of clarity, I remember who and what I am, but nothing of that any longer matters. I know why I sought the Sea. I will surrender my breath and my body to the waves. The Sea will take the pain, the regret, the inconsolable grief. It will take everything.  

But I do not find strength even for opening my eyes and looking at the wide expanse of water. I am shivering; my chest is burning, my arm and shoulder are throbbing. Maybe after a short rest the pain will retreat a little, and I will be able to rise and take those final steps. Just a short rest… The cries of the seabirds fade away.

I wake to a rolling, heaving motion. At each toss pain shoots through me in blinding flashes. Where am I? For a moment I discern an indistinct outline of wooden beams, but even the meagre light hurts my eyes and I squeeze them shut again. Voices assail me in the darkness, cold, cruel voices, and there is no escape from the accusations they throw at me. Murderer. Traitor. Coward. I am them all, and I have neither right to plead for mercy, nor strength to do so. Another heave, another flash of agony. Is this what dying feels like? I am falling in a cold roaring abyss, and all fades to darkness.

The rhythm of my own breath. The scent of healing herbs. Sound? Smell? Why are these sensations still here? The fog lifts a bit more. I live. I am not a disembodied spirit.

Slowly I open my eyes. Golden glow enfolds me. I lie in a bed, a light blanket drawn up to my chest. In a flash, everything comes back. The brigands. The fight. King’s soldiers. My left hand closes over my right and finds the ring in its place. My ruined fingers, long bereft of finer sense of touch, can still discern the contrast between the solid and smooth surface of the golden band and the finger it rests upon. Someone has apparently saved me. But... what of the Sea?

The door opens. I turn my head and focus my gaze on the one who stands on the threshold. Who…? I stop breathing. Beyond the strong, beautiful, unmistakeably Noldorin features I recognize the child I once knew.

We stare at each other. These grey eyes once looked upon me with caution, then – with trust, and finally – with love. Now… I try to unravel their expression.

“Do not pity me!”

Elrond flinches as my voice erupts from beneath the layers of frozen silence. What impression must the harsh and rasping sounds have on him, who likely remembers the songs and the music that once were part of me?

“It is good to see you awake.” A moment later the shadow departs from Elrond’s face. He sits beside me and lays his hand on my misshapen fingers. “I have been looking for you,” he softly says. “For a long time. And I very much regret my search was vain. If I had found you... this would not have happened.”

I should find words of gratitude and kindness, I should say I am glad to see him—

…but instead, I jerk away. “I need not your pity and your care!” My heart harbours neither kindness, nor gratitude. I am like one of those rocks that have once been smooth, but wind and sand have withered away all softer bits leaving only sharp edges that hurt the hand that touches them. “I did not want to be found! I did not ask you to save me! You should have sailed! You should have left this Valar-forsaken shore! Leave me alone!”

Elrond pales and draws back his hand. “I am a healer. I cannot leave alone someone who is hurt and suffering,” he softly replies. “And… I sailed. We are in Valinor, Maglor. My sons found you gravely injured not far from Mithlond. They took you here, on a ship from Endor.”

“Go away!”

My voice is no more than a grating, pitiful whisper. Yet I am shaking with anger, and were I strong enough, I would strike him. Probably Elrond reads the threat in my eyes. After a short hesitation he rises and leaves the room. I press my face into the pillow. Valinor…

A strangled sob escapes my lips. That instead of finally finding peace under the waves, I should come here where even the air reminds of everything I have forever lost… what a cruel turn of fate! Why? Why?

Elrond returns to tend my injuries, to bring me a meal I do not touch. When he speaks to me, I turn away. I feel… cheated. Bereft of hope for release from memories and pain I have harboured for centuries. I harden my heart and hide behind a mask of icy silence, and he abandons the attempt of conversation with a resigned sigh.                                                                            

The journey must have taken a good while, or else I have slept long, for my injuries are almost healed. Despite still feeling weak, I can move my left arm again. Most of the bruises have faded, broken bones have mended, and breathing is no longer painful. The very air of Valinor has power to heal, but to what purpose? I am a dark stain upon the face of this pure and beautiful land. The marks of my crimes I still bear in my heart and on my hands. I lie still staring at the hideous scars on my palms and fingers, the reminder of my sins. Traitor. Murderer. Wicked. Ungrateful. I squeeze shut my eyes. Oh, how I hate all my choices, how I hate myself!

In the evening, I turn away from the sleeping draught Elrond brings me. Untroubled rest is a blessing I do not deserve. In strange spitefulness, after a day filled with loathing, I welcome nightmares of blood and battles and that one recurring dream, the most terrible of them all.

Pale face and copper hair bearing reflection of red glow. Dull, lifeless eyes. Voice, devoid of hope. The last flash of light… and silence. In my dream I am always close enough to see my brother taking the step over the edge of the fire-filled crevice, and always complete silence falls afterwards. I wonder if it happened thus. I vaguely recall running, stumbling over boulders, screaming on top of my voice, falling to my knees by the chasm, staring down in the flaming depths… but now, ages later, I am no longer sure of my memory. Maybe I did reach the place too late. Maybe I stood by and did nothing. Maybe I pushed Maedhros in. In the dream I have seen hundreds, maybe thousands times, I have done all these things.

Tonight, I am late. When all grows still and quiet and the thread that bound me to the last one of my brothers is severed, I am more than hundred paces from the crevice. I cry out in despair, but there is no sound. I weep, but a scorching wind dries my tears. Alone. I am alone in the night.

Drawing a shuddering breath, I open my eyes. A ceiling. A room. A bed. I am not on the fiery plain before the walls of Angband but far away in space and time from the gaping fissures.

The door is half-open. Elrond stands there, leaning against the doorframe. Our eyes briefly meet, then I turn away. Moments later, the door closes with a soft click. Candle casts a flickering glow on the walls.

But light from the outside cannot banish the darkness that festers within.

It is time to break the circle of suffering I cause to those who love me.

***

It is still dark when I leave the room and freeze in the hallway, listening for voices, for approaching feet. All is quiet. I take a cautious step, then another. Even the small effort of dressing has exhausted me and I am slow, but at length I stand before what looks like a front door. Breath catching in my throat, I press the handle.

An orchard lies in front of me, on either side of the path. Gentle fragrance rises in the air. Branches stir in the wind, cherry blossoms flutter in the air like snowflakes. Above the pale clouds of the fruit trees stretches starlit night sky. A snow-tipped mountain range looms in the distance, and after surveying the peaks for a while, I recognize their shape. I know where I am. And I know where I must go.

I step down the porch, leave the path and make haste to fade in the shadows of the trees, but soon stumble and halt, leaning against a gnarled stem, short of breath, heart pounding.  I cannot travel that distance on foot; my strength will not last even a mile. Despairing, I shiver in the cold night air. But then the breeze brings scents and sounds from the far side of the garden, and I sigh in relief. I may yet reach my destination.

The air in the stable feels warm after the chill outside. Horses, wary of a stranger, snort and whinny softly, but I have always been good with horses and I quickly placate them. When I ask one of them to bear me, a grey-coated mare stands still for a while quietly breathing on my cheek, then gently prods my shoulder and follows me outside.

I lose no time searching for saddle and tack, but ride bareback hoping that my strength will suffice to the journey’s end. My trembling hands are clutching tight the horse’s mane as the world rushes by. Struggling to remain astride, I note only bits and pieces of the road. The clean and crisp air. The silver shadows on the grass.

The dark outline of the stone seats of Ezellohar looms before me when my steed halts and I slide off its back. My knees buckle, so that I must steady myself against the horse.

“Thank you, friend,” I whisper releasing the patient beast. “Go home now. I will not need another ride. Go.” The mare walks a few steps, then halts, looks at me over her shoulder and starts nibbling grass. I sigh. “Do what you will. I cannot make you.”

It takes a while ere I gather enough courage to approach the Ring of Doom. Stars fade. Pale light of dawn colours the eastern sky. First shafts of sunlight appear over the mountains, and the snowy peaks glimmer in pink and golden hues. I draw a deep breath, turn away from the fair sight that is to be my last of this world, pass between the stone columns and sink to my knees amid the circle.

I do not know how much time passes ere they appear. Heartbeats? Hours? Days? A year? Time stands still in this place; the world outside no longer matters. I kneel on the ground unmoving, with downcast eyes until I feel – I am no longer alone. The air is humming with divine presence.

I look up. Only four seats are taken. Manwë sits beside his spouse. On their right is Námo, on their left – Ulmo. I should not be surprised. Long enough my presence has defiled the shores of his realm.

“Declare yourself and your case.” The voice of the Elder King is wind and thunder. His blue eyes seem to be looking right into my heart.

Fear chains my limbs and seals my lips, but some remnant of the former pride, some spark of a long-extinguished fire flares up briefly, and I find my voice.

“I am Canafinwë Makalaurë Fëanárion. I have come to accept the judgement of the Valar. To give up my life in atonement for my crimes.”

“What crimes?”

“Disobedience and blasphemy. Betrayal of kin. Murder.” Why do they ask? All this they know.

“Speak them.” I look around, but meet only expectant eyes, impassive faces. “Your crimes. Speak them,” Manwë repeats.

If they indeed wish to bestow upon me this last torment, so be it! I clench my fists and recite them all, from joining my father’s Oath and first drawing of my sword in Alqualondë to the avalanche of disastrous decisions that followed. Kindling the torch at Losgar. Leaving my brother in the hands of the Enemy. Waging a futile war that took the lives of my people. Attacking my kin in Doriath and Sirion. Killing the guards in Eönwë’s camp and stealing the Silmarils. Last of all, killing that outlaw over a piece of gold. I speak all this and loathe myself. My voice is grating like stone upon stone, so unlike what it once was, and I am so unlike who I once was… I fall silent and close my eyes. A fitting end.

“Why are you not looking?”

I draw a shuddering breath. I can do this. I have seen death. I have dealt death. Surely I can meet my own end with open eyes. I am not afraid. I am not—

I am shaking. My breath comes in gasps as the piercing eyes survey me.

“Please…” I can hardly force the words from my lips. “Let it be quick.”

Námo leans forward. “What, Makalaurë?” Likely he reads the reply in my mind, for he frowns and shakes his head. “We cannot take what you offer. Your life is the gift of the One. Only He has the right to withdraw it from you. As for the judgement – you have judged and punished yourself long and harshly enough. There is no other penance we would have you serve. From our part, you are forgiven.”

Frozen in horror, I stare at the Judge. Forgiven...? To linger in Arda, to face days, months, years of guilt and regret... No!

“I do not deserve to be forgiven. I do not deserve life. And this is no life anyway but an endless torment. Please... end this misery. I beg you!”

But as my gaze shifts from one timeless face to another, hope for peace grows faint, and the words of the Elder King put it out entirely.

“It is neither in our authority, nor in our power to grant such requests, Child of the One,” says Manwë. “As Námo already said – life and death rest in the hand of Ilúvatar. And we have no reason to punish you further. All crimes you recounted to us you have regretted.”

“And your repentance is true.” Ulmo’s voice is like waves crashing on the coastal cliffs. “My waters still carry the echo of your songs.”

I hide my face in my ruined hands. All songs are broken, all melodies have unravelled, their strands faded, drowned in the mire of grief. Repentance will not restore them.

“Why do you wish for death so?”

It is a voice full of gentle compassion. Yet I dare not look up.

“I… fear death. But I do not know how to keep living,” at length I whisper with trembling lips. “I do not know what to live for. Once, I had hope. Now there is only despair. Once, everything was music to me. Now… now it is gone. Music is gone.”

There. I have admitted it at last, I have said it aloud. Music is gone. My hands, once able to lure the sweetest sounds from a harp, are crippled, my voice, unused for centuries, is flat and harsh.  I know I played and sang once. But now I cannot recall even the simplest melody. And, while my hearing is as sharp as ever, patterns that once connected all sounds around me in intricate themes are lost.

“That is not true.” Light steps fall on the pavestones. Strong, yet gentle arms pull me to my feet, and I raise my gaze towards the Lady of Stars. Her face glimmers like Moon on a cloudless night, her eyes are clear and radiant. She is holding my hands; her fingers are cool and soft against mine. “The music is all around you still. You just have to listen more closely,” Varda says. “Listen closely, Makalaurë.”

She brushes a light kiss on my brow, and they all vanish. The stone seats are empty.

Scraping together the last bits of my strength, I stagger out of the Ring of Doom. The Sun burns high above in the unclouded sky. Red mist blurs my vision. My legs are no longer able to support my shaking body, and I collapse on the ground. For a brief while I cling to consciousness, to the words of the Valar about hope, about forgiveness. I try to push myself up on my hands; small pebbles and stalks of grass are pressing into my palms… but then the world slides back into the abyss of despair. I cannot do this. I have not the strength. There is but one last path left for me.

***

I am burning. Fire spreads from my scorched hands to my entire body. A few moments more, and I will wither away, a dry leaf in a firestorm. Did I run back to the crevice where my brother ended his life, and now the same flames are peeling flesh from my bones? But it cannot be. Centuries, no, ages have passed since then, and those lands lie under the wave. I was seeking the Sea; why am I burning now?

A fleeting relief, a cool breeze is caressing my brow. I am thirsty… so thirsty… water trickles past my dry, chipped lips… but I have not the strength to swallow it. Something… someone… lifts me up; there is water again, but this time a light brush on my throat helps me swallow some of the precious drops. Still… it is so much effort. Everything is so much effort, even breathing. I am so weary, more than weary. I am falling apart, piece by piece.

“I will not let you go.”

I do not recognize the quiet grief-laden voice, but I vaguely realize I am the cause of this grief. I must have said something cruel, done something wrong… I should ask forgiveness, I should make it right… but I cannot speak, cannot move, cannot even look. The nothingness creeps closer and closer. Too late. The last flickering remnant of my strength is to go out any moment with my failing breath. Too late.

“Stay.”

Spoken by the same quiet voice, this is not a plea but a command. Strong arms close around me. Another fëa finds mine and holds it fast, strengthens its unravelling link with my body. The nearly extinguished flame flares up, and with a gasp I open my eyes.  

The room with white-washed walls looks vaguely familiar… Candles cast a soft light on the walls. I am sitting upright in a bed, leaning against someone supporting me. This someone is likely the source of the voice I heard before, someone with a spirit so kind and beautiful that tears blur my vision… Who…? Where…? My thoughts move as if through deep water, slow and confused, but I am no longer hovering on the edge of nothingness. Rim of a cup touches my lips. I drink deeply, then allow my head to sink back on the shoulder of the one holding me. I should do or say something, but I cannot remember what… and I am still so tired. My eyes stray out of focus and drift shut.

“Rest now.” Whoever is holding me, now lowers me gently on the bed. Bereft of the comforting touch, I stir with a soft whimper of disappointment. The touch is back in a heartbeat, a firm hold on my hand. “Sleep. I will stay with you.”

There is a link between us, a thread along which peace and strength are slowly trickling into my fëa. The voice starts singing softly. This is wrong. I should be the one to sing, to offer comfort… should I not? But I am too tired to deal with the twisted reality. I allow the song to carry me to the world of dreams.