This is my first serious story yet. Please tell me if it's terrible, since I don't know how to properly write fiction, and that's just a shame. The name Suyë is a Quenya translation of my own name, but the O/C is NOT me in any version. I'm sorry if the O/C's appearance seems cliché considering the story's setting, but it is an important element of the story. Just one request: tell me if this should be continued or not POLITELY. Thanks for flying on Tinuneth Airlines, and have a great day!
P.S. I'm still not sure if this will be a one-shot or a longer story, but I'm not sure how good this will be, or if I will ever finish it, so it will likely be very short. Plus, Maglor angst hurts my heart. But one must cross the river to reach the other bank.
P.P.S. This story will be very bittersweet.
Maglor was wandering along the shore, remembering his past. The faces of his brothers, twisted with fear and pain, his mother with tears in her eyes, his father as he spoke his last words. He remembered the Kinslayings; the despair in the faces of those he had once called friends, the terror of those he had so mercilessly slain in Doriath, the desperation with which those at Sirion had fought. To think that he had not turned back after Alqualondë! He would ever rue the day he had sworn the terrible Oath, as he had for ten thousand years! Tears swam in his gray eyes as he looked across the sea. How wide it seemed when he thought of the unreachable treasure beyond it. Home. The tears spilled over as he gazed across the steely waves. But he deserved no such mercy, no reprieve from his misery. Not even the release brought by death.
He drew his gaze away from the waters with much effort, and began to sing Mozart's Requiem.
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis, te decet
hymnus, Deus in Sion, et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem; exaudi
orationem meam, ad te omnis caro veniet.
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.
Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison.
Maglor bitterly remembered when he could yet play his harp. He looked down at his mangled hand in disgust, wishing that the Silmarils had never been wrought. Better to live together in darkness and grief for a time than… this. Finwe is dead. Feanor is dead. Maedhros and Caranthir and Celegorm and Curufin and Amrod and Amras are dead, he thought despairingly. But Mother yet lives, a tiny voice of hope cried. He silenced it. He could not think of Nerdanel when he would not see her again in this life. Guilt expanded in his chest like a lead balloon. Some sick part of him wished that she had followed her sons and husband, even at the cost of her life. But gone were the days when he watched her in awe as she worked. He would never again sit upon his battered red stool and play his harp in Laurelin's light. He would never sing of joy or life again. He had not thought of life since he had been maddened by grief at the loss of the Silmarils and his beloved Daerada.
His dark thought was shattered by a light, childish giggle. He wondered if it was a figment of imagination, a memory from his childhood. But no. He heard the sound, filled with such joy, again. He pivoted on his heel, scanning the shore for life. He found it. A small child, no older than three, sat upon an oar lodged between two rocks. Her curling, copper-colored hair was whipped around her freckled face like flames. The sight reminded him of a time, many years ago… No. He focused on the small child once more. She was alone, save for Maglor. The girl wore a crinkled white sundress, and was playing with an abalone shell, laughing at her distorted reflection in its gleaming surface. His heart ached when he thought of his days of such innocence. He scanned the area for a family. When he saw no others, he searched for a boat or car to no avail. The oar she sat upon was new-looking, and was the color was not at all bleached on the top. It could not have been lodged there long. Indeed, it shifted under the child's weight as she sat. His curiosity was piqued. Should I approach her? Maglor thought, or do I wait for a family to find her? He reached out with his mind for life, but there was only the girl's presence.
Maglor approached her slowly, making his way haphazardly across the gravelly, narrow shore to the rocks. Halfway across the small beach, he tripped over a bit of twisted driftwood, cursing rather loudly in Quenya. The girl saw him at last and giggled. Her eyes were alit with mirth and the simple joy of living that for Maglor was only a memory, but she did not speak. She sat up straighter on her oar as he made his way towards her across the rocks. When he reached, he sat on one of the flatter rocks that held the oar in place. He glanced it again, and his suspicions about the time it had spent in that place were confirmed. It was still damp with seawater. The girl had salt dried onto her skin and hair, and her dress dripped at the hem.
"Where is your family, henig?" The child shrugged. "What is your name?" She simply shrugged her shoulders once more. "Then I shall call you Suyë." Living.