Despite the cold and snow, Maglor stood patiently as the scout strung together syllables to make long words that were at times sentences in and of themselves. Although he did not fluently speak the tongue of the Lossoth people, there were a few things he could pick out. These he murmured to himself in his own language as he understood them. There was a translator in the party that greeted him, and he appreciated that fact now as the scout spoke fast and gestured wildly toward the icy waters.
“…umiaksavirajak…”
“…they came in kayaks, huge, made of steel and cut through the ice like knives…”
“…angusaluk………tuktu………piaraq…….”
“…and killed bears and took only their pelts. The caribou they hunt endlessly. Even the wolf cubs are not safe. They take more than they need…”
“….ikajunga….”
“…and the overfishing will hurt us all. We need your help if you will aid us.”
- - -
Maglor looked out at the vast ocean. Bobbing near the shore some distance away was the silver-grey ship with sails of black. It was a Corsair vessel, a ghastly thing, built to withstand the cold and with a keel built to cut through ice. “Qatsiit?” he asked, still watching the wind whip the canvas about.
A number was given, and the translator repeated it. “About twenty men.” There was a long pause before the translator spoke for himself. “We do not care if they need food or furs, but they hunt more than they need. They kill more than they can use. The scraps they leave could feed whole families. They will harm us, and they will harm the animals they prey upon.”
“I will talk to them,” said Maglor. “Tell your people that I will speak to them on your behalf, but I must have you with me, and five warriors more.”
The message was relayed, and after much discussion a party of six Lossoth and one Noldo began the snowy trek across the icy shore. Maglor’s gut feeling was that their negotiations would not be successful – it was doubtful that pirates cared at all if they were seen to be over-plundering. On the other hand, even the most skilled of the Lossoth translators tended to lose things in translation. If it was a simple matter of miscommunication, there was some chance of success. Still, Maglor refused to get his hopes up. As it was, he tended to live now in a perpetual state of pessimism.
“Ask them when they want to rest.” It was the first thing Maglor had said in the hours since the group had set off, though everyone in the party had been equally quiet and focused.
“They will not stop until we reach the outsider’s kayak,” the translator declared.
Maglor nodded, and then after some minutes said, “That is a ship, not a kayak.”
“Not a kayak,” repeated the man.
“Ship.” Maglor raised his arm, pointing towards the towering vessel that was still far from them. He hoped he was not being rude in doing so, but in the past when he had traveled here and spoken with the natives, the interpreters had all appreciated his corrections and additions.
Because of his long life and tendency to travel from the far reaches and back again slowly, each time he was here there was someone new. This particular translator was the youngest he could recall seeing, no more than sixteen summers if he had to guess. He almost smiled at his thought – did they even know what summer was here?
“They will not stop until we reach the outsider’s ship.” The translator had taken a small leather book from inside his fur-lined parka and was now scratching it onto one of the pages with a stubby writing implement. Maglor glanced over, and saw that the newly written entry for ‘ship’ equated roughly to ‘big kayak which cuts ice’.
‘Close enough,’ thought the elf as they continued to make their way through the snow and ice. Though Maglor had many times in many lands traveled with men over frozen ground, there were none so graceful as the Lossoth. Though they might trudge between igloos when storms were bearing down, they were light on their feet when the snow was not falling, despite their heavy gear and outer clothing. He had seen them many times when they hunted, and while most men would cause snow to crunch with one step, they could travel the distance of many paces without disturbing a single flake. Though many of the animals here would be deadly foes to southern dwellers, the Lossoth did not fear the walrus or the polar bear as others might.
Neither did the men of Umbar, whose ship, still some distance away, loomed forebodingly upon the icy waters. These untrustworthy Corsairs had managed to either steal or construct a ship with a constitution mighty enough to ram through ice without the shards and icebergs penetrating the hull. On the one hand, it was a commendable piece of construction. On the other, it was a terrible discovery.
It was not the first time that these pirates had docked at Forochel. According to what Maglor was told when he arrived, they had ventured up to the frozen lands nearly a dozen times. The first few times were spent exploring and learning what was in the strange new world they claimed to have ‘found’. The Lossoth had at first welcomed them, but after a few meetings it was quite apparent that the Corsairs were not as interested in the people and culture of Forochel as they were in what they could take back.
Lossoth weapons were deemed primitive, and these were not of interest. Maglor himself actually preferred the Lossoth spears, and carried a handful in his quiver. No longer of use for arrows, his hands still marred and marked by his fateful decision, he had given his bow to Cirdan ages ago to be passed along to Elrond. The quiver he kept, thinking it useful for storing things as he wandered. He had intended it for scrolls, but a quill was as difficult to hold steady as an arrow was to nock. Instead, he chose the short Lossoth spears when he was introduced to them. Four feet long, they were good for throwing. Light enough to carry in a bunch, but sharp enough from the expertly carved bone spikes on the end to pierce the blubbery flesh of seals. Maglor had once had to employ them against a mûmakil, and had in fact found them a very favorable alternative to arrows.
There were few other treasures that Forochel was able to offer – the people carried no currency, kept no jewels, and did no trade in precious metals that might have caught the eye of the Corsairs. But there was one thing in this cold land that was important – the thick furs of the bear and caribou and the long tusks of the walrus. As the Corsairs observed, they found other creatures that would fetch a high price if captured, and so the slaughter began. Wolves were tracked and whole packs killed; penguins were scooped up from the sea and bludgeoned. Only what could be sold and would keep during the long journey back was kept, while the rest was dumped over the side of the ship or left where the animals were skinned. From above, there was no doubt that the purity of this land was now stained red from the excessiveness.
The winds blew crisp across the terrain of the Cape of Forochel. Maglor always traveled light, but he felt weighted down by the few things he carried. His weapons, of course, and a small sack that hung from his belt. These were accompanied by his harp, still useless to him, still with him, his constant travel companion. He stopped to hoist his things up a little higher, then continued along with the Lossoth.
It was past nightfall when they reached the shore, but with lanterns hanging from the ship it was obvious that some if not all of the Corsairs were still awake. “Do you wish to greet them, or shall I?” asked Maglor of the translator, whose name was Ipiktok.
Ipiktok nodded. He stepped to the front of the party and shouted a greeting in his own language, then called out again in the common tongue. “Men of Umbar, I wish to again greet you to our land. I ask a meeting of you with your leader.”
A slightly grimy looking fellow with a belly that squashed against the rail of the ship had sauntered over to the side. He looked down, made a guttural noise, and spat over the edge of the ship. “Aye. An’ what reason have we to meet with you?”
Maglor stepped up beside Ipiktok and announced, “You speak to Chief Ipiktok, head of this tribe. He will speak to your leader directly and has no interest in subordinates.”
The sailor cocked a brow and shrugged. “Aye.” He disappeared, and before too long reappeared with a svelte blonde who appeared half his age. “He wants to speak with ye,” explained the bulky sailor before he left again.
The woman flipped her golden curls over her shoulder, better revealing a leather patch over her right eye. “Who here has the pleasure of wasting my time?”
It was more than evident to Maglor that the battle was already lost. From the captain’s body language alone, her crossed arms and glare, the boot that was settled up on the bottom rung of the rail impatiently, it was apparent that she thought everyone on shore beneath her. It still did not stop Maglor from trying. “I speak for Chief Ipiktok, leader of the Lossoth.” Maglor decided now was not the time to explain the various clans and which area specifically Ipiktok was in charge of. He hoped that Ipiktok would play along, and it seemed the young man planned to do just that as he folded his arms across the front of his parka, tilted his chin, and narrowed his eyes. “Your people have come here many times, and while the Lossoth respect your need to make an honest wage,” he said, almost laughing at the irony of what he was saying, “they ask that you respect their land and the animals that live here. Though they have no intention of forcing you to leave, they do request that you take only what you need and do not leave waste in your wake.”
The captain yawned, the fingertips of her satin-gloved hand raised up to her lips. “Is that all?”
Maglor nodded.
“Fine.” The woman began to move away from the railing, so Maglor did the only thing he could think to do to get her attention. The piercing whistle made her look back down at the party on the shore with disdain. “There was more?”
“No, but we would certainly like an answer from you,” said Maglor.
“Would you?” The captain leaned on the railing and studied Maglor for a few moments. “You are not from around here, are you?” Her question was posed in Sindarin.
“Neither are you,” replied Maglor. “And let us be honest,” he continued in Sindarin. “Neither of us should be here.”
“Mmm.” She stood back up again and shook her head. “You can leave whenever you want, but I am not going until our hold is filled with everything we came here for.”
“So, no?”
“No.”
Maglor sighed. He turned to Ipiktok, but the young chief held up his hand. “You do not need to translate for me,” he said. “I can know her answer without knowing her words.”
The party traveled back to where the sparse trees began to speckle the land before finally settling down to camp. “I apologize,” said Maglor once a fire was started. “I may not have expected things to go well, but I did think they would go better than that.”
“I appreciate your trying,” said Ipiktok. “My father was right about you. I am glad that I found you. At least you came.”
Maglor gave a half-hearted smile and recalled the day that the young man had found him on the beaches of Lindon. Unable to reason with the Corsairs, Ipiktok began a solo journey to the south, appealing to anyone with power that he could find for help. Few took him at his word that he, so young a man, not yet fully grown, no trace of a beard, would be the leader of anyone. Those who did would not offer assistance in a land so far from their own home. It was pure happenstance, or perhaps fate, that the two should meet. Maglor had known of Ipiktok’s father from his journeys, and the relationship was evident. Ipiktok had first only seen Maglor from the back, but the spears of his people he took as a sign to approach the wanderer.
“I do not like to only try. I like to succeed.” Maglor looked round at the ship, the lantern light flickering against the dark sails. “Words have failed. No more time for talking.” He turned back to the party gathered around the fire. “Who among them has the strongest arm?”
Ipiktok looked a little worried, but if there was any thought that he might be afraid of the suggestion of battle, it would be an unnecessary concern. To prove himself chief upon his father’s death, the man had to hunt and kill a caribou, on his own, without the aid of skillfully made weapons and without the comfort of a parka. The Lossoth’s truest test of manhood had been passed by this youth, who now raised a hand and motioned toward the strongest looking warrior of the group. “Sangilak is best. What are your thoughts?”
“I have a plan. A very old, ancient plan,” said Maglor. “It would mean destroying everything that the Corsairs have amassed on their ship, but it would most likely keep them from ever returning, if they manage to leave.”
“We will not kill them?” Ipiktok did not ask the question as if it was something he hoped to do, and Maglor knew enough of the Lossoth to know that their way was one of peace.
Maglor shook his head. “You may even have them as neighbors for a while.”
Ipiktok was now standing, looking across the ice at the ship. “We destroy their home before they destroy ours.”
“Exactly,” said Maglor.
- - -
The bone of the spears was sharp, and Maglor almost wished the weapons were not as good as they were. He hated to lose them, but more than that, he hated to think of what would happen if the Corsairs were allowed to continue their rape of the Cape of Forochel. One had a length of rope tied to it, which allowed for it to be pulled back when fishing, but the rope was too short for the throwing they had in mind.
After they waited a little while, Ipiktok, Sangilak, and Maglor returned to the shore. They crept along quietly, not wishing to gain the attention of anyone on the ship. It did not seem to be something to worry about, for they did not see anyone as they approached. The crow’s nest was empty, and the deck bare, but a few of the lanterns still lit the ship. “I will aim for those,” said Maglor as he pulled two of the spears from his quiver. “Both of you should concentrate on the sails. The higher, the better.”
Ipiktok translated for Sangilak, who nodded. The Lossoth brought a torch with them from the campfire, and used it now to light strips of cloth that they had tied around their own spears. As soon as they nodded that they were ready, Maglor positioned his own spear. Ipiktok counted off, and three of the wood and bone weapons flew up from the icy beach, all hitting their marks precisely. Another volley was made immediately, and another, until the sails of black were alight in red and gold anger, and the wood of the deck crackled and burned.
The crew ran frantically up from where they were, some jumping clear overboard despite the temperature of the water, while others slightly more patiently climbed down ropes hanging off the side of the ship. Last to leave was the captain, staring at the burning ship in shock from the deck before finally taking the latter exit from the ship.
Among them, they had naught a weapon – a very good sign, Ipiktok decided to tell Maglor as they helped to pull half-drowned Corsairs from the freezing water. After the initial and short-lived thankfulness at not being burned alive, the Corsairs turned to cursing and inappropriate hand gestures. When at last the cold compelled them to shiver more than swear, Ipiktok offered to them a place at the campfire, a safe place to sleep, assistance in building igloos, and basic supplies that they might need.
“You may journey home. The path is south, and it is long,” he told them. “I have traveled it and I know it can be done.”
“Maybe you can do it,” grumped the rotund sailor who had spoken briefly to them earlier, “but me gout acts up fiercely when on me feet.”
“You have another option,” Ipiktok said. “If you stay here, we will teach you how to survive in this land. You will learn what it means to be Lossoth, and you will understand what you were taking from this land.”
While most everyone sat in a large circle around the fire, the captain stood alone and leaned back against a tree. Her eyes were cold and she did not look anyone in the eye. Maglor felt the need to reach out, and approached her, but she felt his presence before he reached her and swiftly walked to a different tree further away. The elf did not pursue her.
He, too, walked away from the others, but took himself to the shore. There he stood as close as he dared and watched the great ship creek and bend as the fire consumed it. Maglor let out a deep sigh, remembering the hurt from so long ago. It was an unfortunate memory, but all the same, he could not help but remember something his mother had once told him.
“Everything happens for a reason.”
It seemed so very sad that, if his mother’s sentiment was true, that so many lives had to be lost in the crossing of the Helcaraxë in order for him to have a solution to a problem that would not even exist for nearly six thousand years. As with every adventure that ended with some hope that his penance had been fulfilled, Maglor whispered the words he had so often done.
“I want to go home.”
He closed his eyes and listened, but there were no gulls here, and though the desire within him was great, he felt no answer from beyond the sea.
- - -
Come the morning, the Corsair party numbered twenty-two of the original twenty-three. “It was an unfortunate discovery,” explained Ipiktok. “I had hoped that she might decide to stay.”
Maglor looked down at the lifeless body, one cloudy pale blue eye staring blankly towards grey skies. Damp curls of gold were partially frozen in place, snowflakes clinging to unblinking eyelashes. “She would not have been happy, but it is unfortunate.” He looked to the smoldering heap of wood and metal that once was the ship. “What do you plan to do with her?”
“She was their leader,” said Ipiktok. “We will take her body back and perform the funeral ceremony befitting of a warrior of high rank.”
“It is more than she might have done for you,” Maglor said.
Ipiktok nodded. “I am not just a leader. I am Lossoth.”
“And I am honored to know you, Ipiktok.” Maglor held out his arm and grasped Ipiktok’s when it was offered. “I am glad to have met you, Ipiktok of the Suluk clan. Perhaps we shall meet again one day.”
“You are leaving already?” questioned Ipiktok. “We have not had a chance to thank you properly for all you have done.”
Maglor waved his hand. “You do not need to thank me. I did the right thing – what I believed in. But now, something reminded me that I do not belong here. I have other places to go.”
“Perhaps we shall meet again,” said Ipiktok. “You are always welcome here.” The young chief took from his own bundle enough spears to refill Maglor’s quiver. “It is a small gift, but I hope you can accept these.”
“Thank you.” Maglor added them to his own, which were down to just two after their burning of the ship.
“Forgive me if I misunderstand the custom, but your people have many names,” said Ipiktok. “Others give you names besides your parents?”
“They do,” confirmed Maglor. “In fact, each parent gives a different name.”
“Do you have many names?” asked Ipiktok.
There was a shrug and a sideways look. “I have a few.”
“If you would accept another, then I offer on behalf of my people Kuvageegai, for you always be a part of our people, and you have shown by your spirit that your love of this land is as great as ours.”
Roughly translated, the name was meant for one who loved their homeland greatly. Maglor, who could only thank Ipiktok with a nod, looked over the sea to the West and realized as he reflected again upon his mother’s words just how truly fitting the name was.
Story Notes:
Written for the 2010 Gen Fic Swap, for Pandemonium.