Maglor’s Song: Prologue

(Disclaimer: All of the characters, places, and the main story line are JRR Tolkien’s wonderful creations. All references are from The Silmarillion, or HoME Volumes 1, 3, 10, 11 or 12 Nothing is mine, except the interpretation, and any mistakes.)

With thanks to ‘Fëanor’ for beta reading and suggestions.

“And it is told of Maglor that he could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him; and he cast it at last into the Sea, and thereafter he wandered ever, upon the shores singing in pain and regret beside the waves.”

(Of the Voyage of Eärendil The Silmarillion J. R. R. Tolkien. Ed C. Tolkien.)

Now in the late spring of that year a light snowfall had shrouded the small settlement on the river Lune, just south of Forochel. In the fading afternoon light, it had lent a near mystical glow to the dwellings that huddled under the rainbow shimmer of the fast appearing northern stars, that the place seemed then to be as of another world. Few were interested in anything mystical. Few appreciated the intrinsic beauty of that scene. Most were concerned with basic survival; with what little comfort they could glean from their short, hard lives. Indeed, few then lived in those parts – few of the race of Men, and far fewer of the Firstborn. The hardy inhabitants had therefore been somewhat surprised to see an emaciated Elf drag himself past the two gatekeepers who stood guard at the high, wooden fence, and head towards the building that served as an inn and moot hall in that place. His boots had been near worn through; his feet appeared to be bleeding from a walk of many leagues. The grey, tattered cloak he was wearing had hardly offered any protection from the bitter wind and snow, though – as the snowfall had shrouded the settlement from all but the keenest sight – the cloak had served to render him all but invisible until he was only a few yards from them.

At first glance they had thought him a Man like themselves. But the walk, the bearing of that creature held a notable difference to anything most of them had ever seen. And to be nigh at the inn before being noticed spoke of a skill beyond any of their hunter’s ability. Women had called to their slight, poorly nourished children to come indoors, away from the memory of a bygone age – the apparition of doom. Some of the men folk followed – at a discreet distance – once they noticed the gleaming sword that hung so incongruously at the Elf’s side.

Seeming from his slow movements to have hardly enough strength to push open the heavy door, the Elf had entered the inn, shook the snow out of his long, black hair and brushed it off of his thin shoulders.

“Do you have food? Any bread or fish?” he had asked, in a rasping voice that yet held no tone of begging.

The innkeeper, a surly and harsh type, long used to arguments with the trappers and hunters that were his main customers, had taken a long, disparaging, look. Surely this miserable excuse for an Elf had nothing to offer in return for food, nothing save the sword. The innkeeper had rightly assessed that it would take more strength than he had to wrest that object from the creature, half dead though he appeared to be.

“I have bread aplenty,” he had replied cautiously, placing his large, heavy hands on top of the table. “And a good broth cooking in the kitchen, and warm ale, for those that can pay!”

The Elf had sighed deeply, drawing himself up to his considerable full height. Looking down upon the Innkeeper with an air of innate superiority, it seemed to those others in the room that his grey eyes were lit with flame.

“Lachend!” A whisper had gone through a group of three drinking companions who had been playing dice in one corner of the room. “He is of the High Elves, if the stories of old be true.”

Ignoring the comment that had been surely audible to him, the Elf addressed the innkeeper. “I have no furs nor treasures to pay you with, honourable barman.” His voice, though still rough, held a tone of bitter irony and a hint of a promise of something else. “But I have songs and tales to fill your tavern with eager listeners, aye, with any that are hereabout, and fill your pockets with profit.”

A laugh had gone up from the larger group of trappers sitting closest to the roaring fire on the far side of the room.

“You can barely stand, Elf, and you have a voice that sounds like it has had far better days. You ask us to think you are a bard?”

The Elf had turned slightly, and his movement was then most finely controlled. He glanced at them disdainfully. “I have sung in the courts of High Kings and of Elven Lords of the most noble Houses. If you allow me a jug of ale to moisten my throat, then you shall hear, and know for yourself my worth.”

Pushing back the threadbare cloak, he had taken out from under it a harp of finest silver, engraved with elvish script that none in that room, save he, could read. But they had become interested.

“What’s good enough for Elven Lords is good enough for us!” One who had drunken overmuch laughed in mocking reply.

“Let the Elf sing for his supper!” another, fur clad, man contributed. “What have we to lose? Precious little has brightened our long nights this winter and spring, or any other.”

There had seemed to be a chorus of agreement, although the innkeeper looked less happy with the suggestion. He had sullenly pushed a jar of ale in the direction of the dark haired Elf. “You get the food if we like what we hear. And in this inn, I am High King! Remember that!”

The Elf’s expression had not changed from its measured disdain, but he had nodded in agreement, reaching eagerly for the drink. He had drained the jar swiftly, before taking up his harp to play. And a different creature in all senses, did he then appear to be. His voice, the richness of the earth and the lightness of the stars combined, was like none other they had ever heard.

A song he then began, of the First Age of Arda, of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and the bravery and fall of so many of the noblest Men and Elves. He sang of the hope that lit the heart of Maedhros, Elf Lord of Himring, and of the plans to devise a union to overthrow the stronghold of the Dark Lord, Morgoth. He sang of the Naugrim, and of the Men of the East; of Bór and of Ulfang; of the Elves, of Fingon the Valiant, High King at that time, and of his brother Turgon of the hidden city; and of the people of Haleth, of Haldir and of Huor and Húrin.

“Utúlie’n aurë! Aiya Eldalië ar Atanatári, utúlie’n aurë!” the dark haired Elf called out, amidst the song.

The echo of those words from another age, seemed to light a hope in the hearts of many in that room, as they had been intended to light hope in years past. As a forgotten memory, now recalled again in sorrow and in joy, it seemed to those in the inn. Most had put down their jugs and tankards, and some men smiled, lost in their thoughts and memories of tales passed down from childhood.

But the hope – it had soon seemed to fade, as the Elf had closed his eyes in contemplation, lost in a memory of his own. He sang on – of the fall of Azaghâl, Lord of the Naugrim of Belegost under the rage of the dragon, Glaurung: of the fall of Huor and the courage and nobility of Húrin, crying ‘Aurë entuluva!’ seventy times, until he was taken captive: of the fall of Fingon to the Lord of Balrogs, to Gothmog, and of how the defeated king was beaten into the dust. At that point the Elf had suddenly put aside his harp and abruptly halted his song. Some in the room saw the tears upon his cheek and, hardened folk though they were, they found they mourned with him over the fall of the valiant Fingon. Though it seemed that perhaps, there was another, older memory of such a death, which brought this creature so low.

“He sings this tale because there is another tale behind it. And that is the one that he should be singing, though I don’t think to us.” Cold sober now, the elder of the three dice players observed the Elf thoughtfully. “Sing on, Elf!” the man then called aloud. “You take us so far in the tale, but will not give us the ending! What manner of singer are you? Elves may delight in mysteries, but we are a simple folk here. We like a beginning, and an ending.”

Voices murmured in agreement, for it had seemed to them that a glory that had been upon them, had then departed. They were left feeling more chilled than at the touch of any winter’s breath.

“So be it!”

Music was in the tone of the Elf’s spoken word then, as in his song. With a look of fixed concentration and a fiercer flame in his eyes, he took up the harp again. He sang of Balrogs and dragons, of orcs beyond number, and, at the last, he sang of the treachery of Men. He sang of the sons of Ulfang, who had turned traitor to the sons of Fëanor, coming nigh to the standard of Maedhros himself in their hope of Morgoth’s promised reward of land. At the end, the song was bitter indeed. For through Men did Morgoth triumph; thus the league of Elves and Men was broken. Little trust remained between the races, save with the three houses of the Edain. The High King was dead, and the sons of Fëanor wandered as late autumn leaves blown before the wind.

When the song had ended there had been silence for some time. No dry eye had there been in the inn. All had been moved by the transcendent beauty and sorrow of what they had heard, nay, experienced. All had felt as if they had been in another place and time, as if they had stood shoulder to shoulder with those ancient kin of theirs. They felt as if they had stood alongside the Men of the West, and the honourable tribe of Bór who, with Maglor, brother of Maedhros, slew many of the traitors.

None there save one felt they stood shoulder to shoulder with those accused of betrayal.

“He sings as if he remembers it all.” Another drinker, who had found himself stone cold sober, whispered to his companion.

“Aye! And who knows, maybe he does remember it? These Elves are immortal, after all. No telling how long this one has been around?”

So it was that, with his song of ‘unnumbered tears’, the dark haired Elf got his food. He ate it as one who tasted food for the first time in many a day.

But those who had sat closest to him in the inn had noticed his hands. Those slender hands that had played so skilfully and dexterously were scarred beyond measure. The men had seen the effort made by the elf to overcome the stiffness caused by those scars, and had wondered if this Elf played so well now, how beautiful had his song been when his hands had been whole?

“What has happened to him that he is so marked?” Tankards were raised again, and the dice-playing speaker continued to chew upon the salt fish from his wooden platter.

It was, one companion whispered to him, as if the Elf had plunged his hands into fire.

The other, older man of the group, had not resumed his eating and drinking but had continued to watch the elf closely. “Or as if he had taken up in his hands that which was so blessed, so holy, that it burned and tormented him beyond endurance,” he mused.

The cunning old hunter had scratched his chin, already calculating how much more wealth this years ‘trapping’ would bring him, if he could get word through to the tribe of Ulfar in the East, that Maglor Fëanorion yet lived.

– – – – – –

Lachend – Flame eyes. A term used of those who were born in the light of the Two Trees. A Noldo.
Nirnaeth Arnoediad – The Fifth Battle. The Battle of Unnumbered Tears.
Naugrim – Dwarves
“Utúlie’n aurë! Aiya Eldalië ar Atanatári, utúlie’n aurë!” – ‘The day has come! Behold, people of the Eldar and Fathers of Men, the day has come!’
“Aurë entuluva” – Day shall come again!