It was at the Mereth Aderthad that I first met him; he was attending his brother, though they attempted to play it off as a show of solidarity to walk beside one another. It was all too clear to me that Maedhros was weakened beyond report - he wore loose, yet elegant robes with long sleeves to cover the maimed stump of the hand he had lost. Perhaps that was why I noticed his brother all the more; Maglor was presented as a prince (and, though few remember it, former king for but a short and tumultuous while). His clothing fit his form, and his form was fitting for one whose brother carried such namesake. All of Feanor's sons - all six which I met, though I was told sorrowfully by the elder of the Ambarussa that his late brother was little different than he - could well have been named by their mother as the first had been. It was my opinion, however, that the second was by far the most beautiful of their clan.
From his sorrowful lips and ever deepening gaze to his softly spoken yet firm words that ranged from insightful wisdom to profound compassion, he was seen to me immediately to be different from his brothers. All others wore the colors of their house; black, in velvet and leather, and gleaming with adamant inlaid in pendants, bracers, and circlets were an outlined echo of the jewels they sought to reclaim. Maglor wore no such white gems, but he out-shined them all in his soft suede, dyed the blue of the late evening sky before the sun paints it violet and orange. I recall wondering just how much woad and indigo had been harvested to create such magnificence. Instead of diamonds, sapphires suited him, and I would find out later that what simple stones he wore he had polished himself.
Feanor, it turned out, had been a practical madman. Despite the shortcomings that I heard whispered for ages, he had been sensible when it came to his sons. Nary a one would suffer from lack of skills - he taught them all to hunt, fish, smith with metals and jewels, and build from wood and steel. All were commanding in their own right; not one suffered to stutter when speaking in public. Their confidence knew no bounds -- but it was Maglor, I soon learned, who had learned a trait the others had not.
Humility.
----
"Are there no minstrels in our midst to make merry and give us a song and a tale?" Celegorm, ever boisterous, his great hound beside him with tail thumping the ground like the beat of a wide and muffled drum, raised his goblet aloft to bring attention to himself should anyone have been deaf to his shouting. "Perhaps my brother Maglor?" he asked, though it was less of a request and more of demand. His eyes moved, though his head did not, as he sought out his elder brothers.
By this time, Maedhros was seated with Maglor standing beside his chair. They bent their heads together in brief and quiet counsel, then Maglor gave a single nod of his head. He spoke clearly and loud, though without shouting as Celegorm had. "I must retrieve my harp," he informed those present, and stepped away from Maedhros with a quick squeeze of his shoulder.
Amid the small group which had come from Doriath to represent King Thingol there was a bit of commotion. The two emissaries were discussing something in hisses and whispers, and Celegorm, his attention always on no one and everyone, called them out. "Are the tales of the lands beyond the sea too dull for those such as yourselves whose daily lives here have been so full of adventures?"
"Nay, Lord Celegorm," spoke Mablung as the other slouched down and drank fast from his own goblet of wine. "I sought only to convince my companion to entertain but a little while in your brother's absence. Unfortunately, it seems he believes his tales would be told in vain for lack of his own harp."
"Here, then," offered the crowned prince, the eldest son of King Fingolfin. Forward stepped Fingon, his brighter blue garments with threads of spun gold and silver complementing the gold that had been weaved through his own braided hair. "I have with me a small harp I travel with; will this do?"
To decline now would be a great insult, as all present knew the history of the harp which Fingon brought forth and held out to Daeron. He took it with greatest reverence, bowing both to Fingon, and then to Maedhros across the glen where the gathering was taking place. Slowly, Daeron approached the center of the party, more to allow himself time to make a decision on what to sing than out of nervousness. Someone had brought forth a wide stool, and he sat down upon it fluidly. Knowing that he might be called upon to sing, he had worn simple clothing with no loose ties or flowing sleeves to get in his way, though his harp had remained in Doriath, too heavy and valuable to transport from the throne chamber.
Once seated, Daeron drew his fingers across the strings to test the sound they made, and without another moment spared began his silver-throated retelling of the awakening of the Eldar, of their first glimpse of the stars and first steps upon grass and through water flowing, of purple pale skies and of flowers growing. Along the way he sang of the three clans sweetly, of their meeting of Orome, and how they were content completely. Then came dissonance, and discord and then disaster, and the breaking of the clans, and who should be their masters. And from this tale a bloom did grow, the tale of Thingol and Melian, and trilled of devotion to their daughter before his song came to an end.
Reactions were mixed, to say the least. Some clapped politely, while others remained still as the words and the scene that Daeron painted in the air before them slowly dissipated. Intrigue could be seen deep in Celegorm's eyes for those who dared catch his powerful gaze, and Fingon looked amazed to hear such notes drawn forth from an instrument that had managed to survive the harshest of winters and the mightiest of cliffs. When Daeron looked up, he was startled to see Maglor before him, sitting on the grass closer than anyone else would dare, his eyes closed to keep his tears from falling.
"For me to follow such a performance would be an insult to you, loremaster," said Maglor. He opened his eyes, still glistening, like the polished gems he wore. "Fingon, come take your harp," he directed, and though of higher rank, the son of Fingolfin did as he was told. "No better instrument than this will you find on either side of the sea," said Maglor as he lifted his own harp up for Daeron to take. It was exquisitely made, pale like the moon, made of the richest, creamiest ivory tusks, etched with gold and inlaid with gems of every hue, smoothed on the surface to create a flawless and seemingly unending scrolling piece with the images of birds and deer upon it. "My hands do not do the craftsmanship justice," he said in that melodic voice that sang even when speaking, "but perhaps yours will."
----
That harp has been my second most prized possession. I tried silently to decline, but he wordlessly placed it in my hands. He spoke to me, amid our audience, of the work his father had put into its creation, how the strings were finely spun gold woven by his mother, and the tusks from a great beast he and his brothers and their cousins had hunted while with the Great Hunter. As he spoke to me, forsaking all others there on the green, we became lost in the conversation of two masters of a craft and did not notice the others slowly recede, until only Mablung and Maedhros and Fingon awaited us, speaking amongst themselves of tougher things, like swords and war and strife. Who knew that when next those three met, it would mean the death of the prince turned king by then and tears unnumbered for us all.
When next Maglor and I would meet, however, it would be upon no battlefield. It was pure chance, long years after so many had fallen. My liege dared not allow the sons of Feanor into his kingdom, and when they took it upon themselves to try to take back what they believed to be theirs by force, their numbers were halved from it, and the doom weighed heavy upon them all.
I had long since left my once peaceful home, on a never-ending search of my own. I was not so naïve as they to think that what I sought could be found, but I had learned through the years that pride flourished in the hearts of Feanor’s progeny. It was at a rally point that I encountered them, and took pity upon them. No longer the majestic force, I was greeted only with forlorn looks and lips drawn in tight, thin lines. Maedhros spoke not at all; the remaining Ambarussa but a little. Maglor openly wept.
----
“And we did this to them! There was no good to come of it – any of it!” Maglor picked up an unlit lantern and threw it down again, shards of blue and silver glass shattering at the feet of his brothers and a few of the straggling followers who yet believed in them and their quest. Maedhros was seated on a log with a bowl of warmed sludge that passed for stew, and slid his foot forward to crunch through the remains with the hard, cracked leather of his boot. He shook his head to Ambarussa, standing beside him and about to say something; a silent plea to let their sibling release his rage.
After stomping around the campfire and almost sitting beside the eldest, Maglor stopped to kick the side of the log, jostling Maedhros and causing some of the stew to slide up and over the side of the bowl, falling into the dirt with a plop. Not even the ants raced to investigate the greenish-grey puddle. “We keep losing! We lose land, we lose lives, we have lost most of our family! What have we gained? We have become the very things we loathed – how are we any better than the twisted ones that Morgoth sends out against us!?” Maglor paced aimlessly, vision blurred, until he came to crouch down in front of Maedhros, grasping him by the shoulders to force their gazes to meet. “I! Hate! My! Soul!” Each word was screamed louder, so that all but Ambarussa had backed away from the pair, and it was Ambarussa who finally ended the tirade.
“Enough!” The youngest among them pulled Maglor to his feet again, shoving him aside. “We all knew what we were doing when we spoke our oath – or have you forgotten your promise to our father?”
Ambarussa and Maglor glared at one another, neither willing to back down. It was when a rider approached that the spell was broken; Maglor at first only sparingly glanced, but then turned away from the others to greet the newcomer. “If Doriath wishes to parlay, they have waited overlong,” he called out without consult with his brothers.
Daeron slowed his mare, eyes scanning the scene before him. “I come not as a messenger, but wander as a minstrel. I have no king to speak of; music is my mistress.”
“Good, because Dior is dead, and so is Doriath.” Ambarussa flinched at a gesture from Maedhros, and ushered the others away.
Left at the campfire with the two eldest remaining Feanorians, Daeron took a moment to bow his head and pay his respects for the son of the woman who once enchanted him. “In battle, I would suspect.” Maedhros gave a nod. “By your hand?” guessed Daeron, but Maedhros only sighed.
“We are trying to find his children,” explained Maglor. “Celegorm ordered his servants take the boys into the forest to starve or be eaten by the animals of the wilds. Six days and six nights have we searched, and it has been in vain.”
“And Elwing?”
Maglor furrowed his brow. “Who?”
“The daughter.”
The brothers exchanged looks. “We… were unaware of another child,” admitted Maglor. “Our intelligence told of us two sons, twins.”
Daeron nodded slowly. “And a daughter. She is the elder, about six or seven years I believe.”
Maedhros stood with a defeated look and followed after Ambarussa and the others. Once gone, Maglor said, “This has been the hardest part of it for him. Our purpose was made clear at the onset, and children were to be spared. Celegorm never was good at listening.”
An awkward silence followed, broken only when Daeron said, “I still have your harp. It is really the only thing I have kept with me all these years.”
“Have you?” Maglor looked to the horse, and saw the small cart pulled behind, just the size to keep a harp. “It has been years since I have heard music in my heart… would you play for me?” he asked, and Daeron did not need the request to be made a second time.
----
From then on I traveled with them - not as one of them, but as an observer and chronologist, keeping a close watch on those final years of the First Age. I documented what I could, and passed songs on to others on all I had witnessed. I grew fond of Maglor, not only for his previous generosity to me, but to the compassion he and his brother showed when given a second chance to aid twin sons they had not expected to encounter after the death of Ambarussa. My time, when not spent with him, was spent thinking of him, or writing music that he would find enjoyment in hearing, or songs about him, or secret songs of love about him which I dared not share with anyone.
I held onto hope that repentance was at hand. Maglor was always the calmer of the two, and Maedhros seemed to mellow as the years went by. Despite my hopes, it was not to be.
----
Two figures sat on the shore, staring out at the fathomless distance before them. The sun was setting, painting the rippling water with ever-changing colors.
One of them looked down at his own hands, still in shock over seeing the blackened and deformed flesh he saw. "I have nothing," he whispered, loud enough so that the waves did not break the words upon the rocks.
Slowly, the head of the other turned. He studied the other, head still bowed, hands still displayed in the fading light, then slowly he looked back, eyes squinting at the receding sun. "I love you," he said, timing them with the crash of the water.
Time passed, and the evening faded to night, darkness stilling the waves. The water barely licked the sandy shore, its surface seemingly turned to glass. Serenity was broken as a glint of light shone brightly, a precious jewel, last of its kind. Maglor dropped it onto the ground as soon as it was taken from his pocket, the biting pain returning in an instant once held. "Bitter grief and a cold stone," he mumbled, picking up a piece of driftwood with which to push the gem about. "How cruel an end, for it to come to this. The least devoted has one of the three in his possession, and yet still I have failed, for while I might try to conquer the skies, my own brother has denied me the chance for success by taking the other to his grave."
Maglor looked down the shore at Daeron as if expecting some sort of answer. He received none, and stood up, his face turned to the heavens. "You may have lost your prize, Morgoth, but so, too, have I lost everything. To have only something is to have nothing, and nothing shall I have." With these words, he picked the jewel up from the ground, and with a mighty yell, whether in defiance or from the pain of holding the blessed gem again, he cast the silmaril into the sea, and the light burst forth, upwards from the water for a moment, then faded, then was gone.
He swooned then, and Daeron scrambled to his side to keep him upright. With a rapid shake of his head, Maglor's focus concentrated upon Daeron as he steadied his hands upon his shoulders. "Why did you never tell me?" he asked, his words bittersweet.
"Tell you what?" questioned the other minstrel back, his heart fluttering for a moment of uncertainty.
Maglor answered with a kiss, his eyes wide open, searching for something, finding it when Daeron's eyes closed and lips parted, and then he, too, lowered his lids. His arms slid around Daeron's back, pulling him closer as they continued, tumbling down onto the sand. When the sand proved too coarse and uncomfortable for them, they moved into the water.
They stood in the light of the moon, with the water to their shoulders, clothing drenched and sometimes pulling at their limbs. This was ignored as they entwined their bodies clumsily, catching misty breaths in the salty air when they were forced to part.
Finally, they made their way back to the shore, stripping bare to leave their worn traveling clothes in a wet, sloppy pile on the bank. From there they trudged up the slope to an alcove of some near caves. It was shallow and open on one end, but it provided enough cover for their further exploration of each other. One of them had the sense to pull the blanket from Daeron’s horse to spread on the ground, and upon this they consummated their clandestine love for each other.
No words of devotion were spoken, nothing more than the simple sighs and shuddering moans that echoed softly in their hideaway. What began with gentle caresses ended with fervent enthusiasm and the thrusting and grinding of their building desire for one another that had lain dormant but certainly not unknown.
Cries in the night came as flesh was possessively marked and bodies were joined, a soul once ripped asunder now rejoined, two halves clinging desperately, fighting not to let go, hoping for the night never to end. Release came with heaving, trembling, sweat-slicked bodies, keening wails and whimpers, and hands gripping strongly, nails biting into flesh, hoarse whispers, and a blissful all-too-brief time of peaceful acceptance and calm in their weary war-torn world.
----
In the morning, he was gone. Around my neck I later discovered the sapphire he often wore on the long silver chain, and believed it to be a promise of his eventual return. I took the harp to the havens, and left it there in Cirdan's care. My journey took me once again into the East, to lands I had traversed and was familiar with. It was reported he went south, then north, then south again, wandering the shores and lamenting his life. I was glad for the time apart - he thought not with a clear mind, and his pity for himself consumed him. I would have grown bitter to think that I was not enough for him, that my love for him was so easily cast away as he had cast away the last silmaril.
Years rolled on, the world changed. I continued to sing, continued to play, and watched my kinfolk flourish and diminished many times over in the wars that followed. Another age passed, and another began, and westward the exodus began. We were coming full cycle, and I found myself journeying less and less into the deep reaches of the East, and more and more I wandered closer toward the shores, to the blessed realm so many spoke of, to the lands that my forebears did not wish to go. I listened for the sea-birds, but I think that is something of a faery tale, put in children’s heads to comfort them, to excuse them, when their longing to live the safe and surrendered life causes them to retreat to the undying lands.
For me, my place is here, and has been here always. I expected to hear word of either his death or his travel West for forgiveness eventually. What I never expected was the encounter I had when the Fourth Age began. I was living with a nomadic tribe at that point, one of the more peaceful groups of Easterlings, who wished to be left alone by those who wished to reform them or change them, but welcomed any willing to learn their ways. I felt with them a sense of belonging I had felt only twice before, and when one of their hunters poked open the flap of my tent in the midst of my practice to inform me of an outsider, I think I knew in that moment that he had finally accepted that our fates were entwined.
-----
“This man seeks you,” spoke the Elder Chief to Daeron. He spoke again, in the language of the East, a tongue that Maglor would not understand, and said, “I kill him for you now if he is not your friend.”
“He is a friend,” answered Daeron, and the hunters lowered their multi-pronged spears. “I will take responsibility for him and his actions.” The Elder Chief nodded, and gave leave with a jerk of his head for Maglor to go with Daeron.
“He wear too much,” spoke one woman in the small crowd gathered outside of their tents. Maglor stopped walking, and held out the reins of his stallion to Daeron. He approached the woman, who held a nursing babe in her arms, and had another child clinging to her knee.
He removed the circlet from his head and held is out to her. “Here,” he offered. “It will look better on you than it does on me.”
“What good that?” she demanded. “No can eat it, can no cook with it. Can no fight with it,” she added as a few of the tribesmen around her chuckled. “No good. Waste good steel.”
“This is actually mithril,” Maglor trailed off as he settled it back onto his head.
“No good,” repeated the woman, and even Daeron, whose attire consisted of a simple, loose tunic and a long, comfortable skirt in the style of most of the tribesmen, was laughing at poor Maglor’s attempts to garnish reputation among the tribe. “So much clothes,” she said, shaking her head in a scolding manner. “You wear your whole tent!”
Indeed, Maglor appeared quite overdressed for the environment. He stretched out his arms, his robes that same brilliant blue he often favored, decorated with fine embroidery of singing birds and flowering branches. “But, m’lady,” he tried in his final plea, smirking a little, “Velvet would make for a terrible tent!”
“Bah!” She disappeared into her home as the laughter for Maglor continued, and Daeron chuckled and led Maglor swiftly to his own tent.
Once inside, Daeron stole the crown from Maglor’s head. “Since you seem keen on giving away your finery…” He perched it upon his own brow for a moment, then laughed giddily and set it back on Maglor’s head. “It is so very good to see you.”
“I was a little concerned back there – would he really have killed me if you had asked him to?” wondered Maglor apprehensively.
“No, no,” assured Daeron, shaking his head seriously. “He has men to do that for him.” The corner of his mouth began to twitch up in a smile.
“Good to know,” Maglor replied. He looked around the tent, observing the sparse adequacy of it. “How long have you been here with them?”
Daeron licked his lips, looking as if he might pounce upon Maglor, but he held himself in check and sat down again at the harp. “I really stopped counting years a long time ago. I feel this is my place.” He watched Maglor wander and added, “How long do you plan to wait before you sail?”
There was a slow turn on his heel, and Maglor narrowed his eyes scrutinizingly at Daeron. “I think we both know that I am not likely to board a ship soon, if ever.”
“I had my suspicions you would seek me out before you sought out the shores of your youth.” Daeron began to stand up, but feigned that he was only settling in. “So… I had heard a rumor once…”
“That I had married?” guessed Maglor. “Taken a wife?” Daeron nodded. “Complete fabrication. Probably reported by the same people who believe my brothers and I all had red hair.” He came by the harp and drew several fingers across the strings. “Still in perfect tune after all these years,” he marveled as if forgetting his father’s abilities.
“Aye. And played every day.” Daeron danced his hands in the air, fingertips deftly plucking the strings.
“I never wanted to leave you,” Maglor blurted out suddenly. “I just… it seemed… I needed…”
But Daeron never made him finish those uncertain thoughts. “Shhh.. you are home now,” he said, patting his hand upon a cushion that was settled on the floor at his feet. “Sing with me and be at peace.”
It did not take long for Maglor to find his place among the tribe. He embraced their laws and customs, and became a much sought-after craftsman in their ranks. While his hands had never quite healed to allow him to play harp as he once had, he had picked up a fife at some point in his wanderings and often played along with Daeron late in the evenings when daily work was done.
Other times, Daeron would bring his smaller harp with him to the outdoor forges and play while Maglor worked on his own interests. Weaponsmithing kept his days busy, but the evening was reserved for jewelcraft. Precious metals most members of the tribe saw as frivolous were lovingly twisted and melded into finery that at least the pair of Elves appreciated.
One such night, Maglor kept his work secreted, blocking Daeron’s glances by shifting his position and constantly looking over his shoulder. Teasingly, Daeron played along with the game and made to try to look, though he was more interested in being caught by Maglor than finding out what he was doing.
Finally, Maglor turned, his hands folded behind his back. “I never really figured out how to thank you for giving me the time I needed; for waiting for me.”
“You never had to,” replied Daeron as he set his harp aside. “I can be a very patient person.”
“Yes, I know,” agreed Maglor. He revealed an empty hand, which he used to take hold of Daeron’s hand. “I know that silver is traditional, but, I think we have both earned this.” He moved his other hand in front of him, and slowly slid a gold band encrusted with sapphires onto Daeron’s finger. “I kept thinking I had lost everything, but I finally realized that I have everything I need right here.”
-----
It is not that one of us is better than the other, in love or life or in our musical qualities. It is the simple truth that we are but one soul torn asunder, one song with the harmony and melody broken apart, reunited as a perfect complement to each other.
Story Notes:
Written for Erulisse for the 2012 My Slashy Valentine Exchange