Communication… It's something we take for granted. I certainly never gave it much thought; 17-year-olds generally have better things to do than pondering over the wonders of language. But… well, you think differently about things when they're suddenly missing. It's like having lost a limb; you aren't aware of how much you use it until it's gone and you're left to figure out how to cope without it.
…
Thomas opened his eyes with a start. The blinding front lights and deafening claxon still echoed through his head, and it took a moment before he realized he wasn't sitting in his father's car anymore, ready to be crushed by a truck driving in the wrong lane. He was lying in a hospital bed, attached to machines with electrodes and IV tubes. The only sound he heard was his own breathing, and the quiet beeping of the heart monitor. It didn't leave much question as to what had happened; they had obviously not been able to evade collision with the ghost driver. How long had he been out? Had he been in a coma? Thomas tried to recall as much details about himself and his life as possible.
My name is Thomas Ashworth. I am an only child. My parents are divorced. My father's name is Frank. My mother's name was Linda. She died of cancer 11 years ago. I'm 17 years old, 18 in October. I'm going to college next year. My zodiac sign is Libra. Timothy Hardwick owes me 5 pounds. I like Mac n' cheese. Dad was going to take me out to the movies next week. I had an assignment for English literature due Monday.
After a while, Thomas was convinced that he had no memory loss. He could move his limbs, and all of those were present, he could see, hear, and speak, and his mind was –in his opinion- rather clear for someone who had just woken up from a potential coma. He seemed to be surprisingly all right… so why did he feel as if something was completely wrong?
When the doctors came in and excitedly started asking questions, he knew. They spoke to him, but he didn't understand a word of what they were saying. The language sounded familiar, but all the same he didn't comprehend it. Slowly, his panic started to rise. Did they even understand him?
"Ma hanyatyen?"
From the way their speech fell silent, he could tell they didn't. Maybe he could write? After making a scribbling motion with his hand, he was handed the notebook and pen of one of the doctors. He confidently started writing, only to stop when he noticed the printed characters atop the notebook. He couldn't read them, and their odd, angular shapes didn't look a thing like the perfectly readable letters he had just penned down. Fear suddenly grabbed him by the throat. Could it be… could it be that he was completely incomprehensible?
…
"Heca! Eca cenienyallo!"
A bedpan clattered against the wall as a nurse hurried away. She looked scared, Thomas noted with grim satisfaction. He was mad at her. He was mad at everyone. The mere fact that they were all part of a society of people who understood each other made him want to bash their heads in. Mere months ago he had never even imagined being this angry, but now? He had to make-do with picture books for communication, point towards images like a fucking two-year-old to make himself understood. People treated him like a retard. It had taken him an entire month to get someone to explain him where his father was… as if it was so difficult to draw a coffin on a piece of paper. Thomas scowled to himself. They had done tests at the hospital until every square inch of his body had been scanned and mapped, and concluding that he had irreparable brain damage, they had sent him to a so-called "revalidation centre". It was a crossover of a retirement home and an insane asylum, and to him, a dead end on the road to recovery. He was housed among drooling vegetables, people who had lost multiple limbs, who couldn't eat by themselves, who didn't even recognize their own reflection anymore… and no matter how much he wanted to think that he wasn't so far gone, he couldn't be sure. In his head his speech made sense, and he could read the things he wrote, but he seemed to be the only one seeing some logic in it. For all he knew he was just uttering random syllables and scribbling aimlessly; they certainly treated him as if that was the case. They called it Aphasia; the word had been used often enough for him to pick it up as a term for his condition. Thomas had picked up several words over time; food, bathroom, bed, therapy, no, yes, and several others… but the doctors and therapists always applauded him as if he had made a major achievement every time he used one of those, so he had simply stopped it. He wasn't in kindergarten; he didn't need a prize for being able to express himself, thank you very much.
Sometimes he felt a little guilty for the way he acted towards everybody. It was perhaps no wonder that they treated him like a toddler, as he threw temper tantrums like one… But he was so pissed, and he couldn't explain it to anybody, and every time he was reminded of how he could not explain what he felt, the anger became worse. It was like being locked up in a tiny prison cell without windows; all he could do was yell and scream and bang at the walls, hoping that someone might hear his distress. The rage kept him fighting. Somehow he knew that if he stopped being angry, he would simply stop living. And he didn't want to die… although he didn't dare to ask himself what he was living for. Right now, all he had was stubbornness.
His future didn't look too bright. In the best case he would stay here until he was old and decrepit, still calling the doctors "stinking pigs" in his own unintelligible pig Latin. And that was the best-case scenario, in which he didn't provide himself with a premature death by cutting his wrists or jumping out of a window. Thomas' frown deepened. Now he thought about it, he wasn't so sure anymore that the scenario in which he lived the longest was also the best…
….
The nurse came in again. This time, she had brought a plastic folder with pictures. This usually meant that something would change about his day-to-day schedule, so Thomas allowed her to come in without throwing stuff at her head and yelling to fuck off. The occasional bout of tolerance was also good for his chamber plants; the more temper tantrums he threw, the more pills he had to pretend to swallow and then bury in the plant pots, and he feared that it was starting to show.
The nurse spoke slowly, and pointed towards different brightly coloured pictures in the folder. Therapy, Music, Afternoon… All right, he was apparently having some kind of musical therapy in the afternoon. He nodded towards the nurse to show that he had understood, but internally he was shaking his head. Music therapy? They must be getting truly desperate. They had set a hoard of speech- and other therapists on him when he had first arrived, but one by one those had given up, sometimes because the therapy wasn't suited to his problem, but mostly because he refused to cooperate. His comprehension had not been reduced to the level of a first grader, but apparently that was too difficult to grasp for the people in the centre. They heard him babble nonsense, so they assumed that his knowledge of the world had been reduced to nonsense as well. And without the ability to explain what he could and could not understand, he had no other defence against asininity than his silence. Thomas put it quite simply for himself: he was not retarded and he wasn't in preschool, so he would be treated like an adult or not at all. And everyone who disagreed could eat shit.
He angrily started drawing in his sketchbook. At least his drawings were universally understandable. He had always liked to draw, but ever since it was his sole method of communication besides those infantile picture books, he had gotten significantly better at it. However, because he had nothing much to communicate except for anger, he specialized in drawing things to unsettle the medical personnel. He was becoming particularly skilled at drawing corpses... This time he decided to go all out and draw a massacre, so he would have something to frighten the new therapist with. Thomas already had an image in his head of what a "music therapist" might look like, and he didn't think they would be the type to appreciate a good dose of gore… He chuckled in unholy glee when he imagined the face the therapist would probably pull when she entered the room to such a sight…
In the 7th age he had run into an elf he had thought long gone. Daeron, the bard of Doriath. There was irony in the fact that of all elves, he had to come across the only other anguished, wandering minstrel in Middle Earth… but in the end that hadn't mattered much. They had both been desperate for company, and in the face of loneliness they had set aside their differences and opted to live together. He had told himself at the time that it was only a matter of practicality; when you were the only remaining specimens of your kind, it made sense to stick together after all. Yet over time he had come to care for the Sinda, which had made their eventual parting all the more painful. Maglor had thought his heart had turned to stone when he had cast away the Silmaril, but the death of Daeron had proven him that he was still capable of grief.
When they had first met Daeron had already been weakened, and as more years had passed the Sinda had only diminished more. A cold that no fire could warm had spread through his body, and a veil of weariness had fallen over his once so sharp mind. In the end, he had slept almost all the time, his dreams only calm when Maglor had held him. The Noldo could only guess why the same hadn't happened to him, as he had experienced enough pain to break any fëa. Perhaps it was the light of the Trees that had nurtured his being, or the stubborn blood of his father, or even his wretched Oath… but either way, he had remained bound to the world while his friend had diminished and passed into the Halls. Before, Maglor would have considered it part of his punishment, being forced to endure while all others passed on… but having to care for Daeron while he faded had changed his perspective. He had truly helped the tormented Sinda; their friendship had given Daeron peace and eased his passing. Even while mourning, Maglor had felt that he had done a good thing.
And so, in the wake of the minstrel's death, he had made his decision. Instead of adding to his own suffering and continuing to wallow in self-pity, he would try to relieve the suffering of others. His deeds had brought enough pain into the world; trying to take some of that away would be the least he could do.
Throughout the ages Maglor had never lacked for work, for of all things the world had never had a shortage of sorrow. He had travelled around and tried to make himself useful, wherever and however the situation demanded; he had worked on battlefields, in hospitals, in the ravage of natural disasters, in slums, in homes for the elderly… more places than even he remembered clearly.
It might have been coincidence that he found himself in the Charlesbury Revalidation Clinic in the Cotswolds that faithful Monday afternoon, as he could just as well have been in Ethiopia or Syria at the time… but in retrospect, he didn't think so. Valar-forsaken as this world might be, there were still some people in it that Arda's divine beings just couldn't leave alone, unfortunately.
…..
"We are grateful you could take up another patient. I understand your schedule is very busy."
"You could say that. Can you tell me a bit more of this patient? I understand that he has serious aphasia, but…"
Maglor left the sentence unfinished, and Dr Anita Beardsley smiled kindly at him.
"Ah, you haven't been given his file yet? I'll try to fill you in then. He's a piece of work, this boy!" She shook her head. "Severe brain damage after a car accident, and if the reports are to be believed, he shouldn't even be alive; the neurologists had estimated that he would never wake from his coma. It's a small miracle how self-reliant he is given the state of his brain; he needs no help with eating, washing, or any other basic chores, and non-verbal intelligence tests show that his IQ is normal and even slightly above average. Gross and fine motor skills are impeccable, pattern recognition and practical understanding of situations as well… as long as he doesn't open his mouth, you could mistake him for a healthy adolescent!"
Maglor nodded in understanding.
"But the aphasia…?"
"Yes, the aphasia. It's a sad case really, because he has recovered so well in virtually all other areas. He has a severe form of Wernicke's Aphasia; his speech is fluent but meaningless, he no longer knows how to write, and he doesn't understand language, neither spoken nor written. His previous therapists have noted that there seems to be some method in his babbling, but as he has shown himself entirely unwilling to work with them this hasn't been explored further. I think it's the most complete loss of communication skills in a further functional person that I've ever seen in my career."
"He is unwilling to cooperate in therapy?"
"Yes. He is extremely prone to temper tantrums and violent outbursts, and seems to find pleasure in exasperating his therapists and caregivers. We suspect that the brain damage also caused changes in his character, as he had no history of behavioural problems."
"And is any form of communication possible with him?"
"We work with picture-books mostly. He is very visually inclined, also loves to draw." The blonde doctor frowned. "I must admit that he is very talented, but his work is not exactly everybody's piece of cake. He has an unfortunate fascination for all things dead and decaying. I don't know if that's old or more recent, you never know with those artsy types."
"Oh. I see."
Dr Beardsley pulled a sour face.
"You sure will see! He plasters his room with his drawings… there is no escaping them! It's very unsettling, if I may say so. They are disturbingly realistic."
"I'm not easily unsettled."
The doctor didn't seem convinced, and Maglor couldn't exactly blame her. In his therapist's guise he didn't exactly look as if he had seen more wars than her history books made mention of… He decided to change the subject.
"And his family?"
"None. His mother had died already, and his father died in the car accident. There were no other living relatives. Fortunately, his father left him a very generous heritage, thanks to which he will be able to spend the rest of his days in this clinic. We are a very renowned institution for people with non-congenital brain dysfunctions; he receives excellent care here. Many people meet a less pleasant fate when they become incapacitated."
"I can imagine that."
By then, they had reached the boy's room.
"I'll leave you to it then. Meet me for a coffee in the staff room at the end of the hall when you're done! I'll make sure to have a copy of the file ready for you."
Anita Beardsley waved cheerfully at him and then hurried away. Maglor waited before she had entered the staff room to knock on the door. He received no answer, but came in anyway. The first thing he perceived when entering was the anger. The entire room was permeated by a sense of powerless, uncontrolled rage. Maglor ignored the morbid –but indeed skilfully drawn- pictures of mangled bodies that littered the room, and focussed on its occupant. Thomas Ashworth was a slender young man with messy dark brown hair, sharp cheekbones, and an angry glare. He sat on the bed with a sketchbook in his lap, and stared at Maglor with unabashed loathing. He had an intense gaze for a mortal; Maglor could easily imagine how that glare would unnerve less experienced people... For a while, they were both silent, eyeing each other as to determine what they could expect. And then, the boy opened his mouth.
"Istan quetë ya merin, az lá hanyuvatyen..."
And Maglor was, for the first time in many ages, completely dumbstruck.
The music therapist was not what he had expected. Thomas had pictured some type of kindergarten-teacher-type, possibly blonde and in a flowery dress, and the individual in his room definitely didn't fit that picture. He was tall and handsome, with black hair reaching his shoulders and a face that wouldn't have looked bad in a fashion magazine. Most remarkable were his piercing eyes… Thomas wished the man wouldn't look at him like that, it sent shivers down his spine.
"I can say what I wish, and you won't understand me."
He had planned to say something inappropriate and foul, but as the afternoon drew near, he had lost the urge. His glee at the thought of another shocked and disgusted caretaker had been short-lived, and all he had been left with was the bitter realization that once again, he would have to face his inability to be understood. And so, instead of throwing things at the man's head and cursing at him, he simply stated that fact.
The reaction was… not what he had expected. The man stared at him as if he had just sprouted a second head, eyes wide in astonishment. Now people always gave him odd looks when he said something, but this must be the first time his garbled speech had truly perplexed someone like that… Thomas opened his mouth to make a comment on it, when something even more unexpected happened.
"How… how is this possible?"
For a moment, he thought it had been his imagination. Had he really understood what the man said? He had already discarded the possibility, when the visitor repeated his question, with more conviction this time.
"How is this possible? Where have you learned that tongue?" A frown marred the man's face. "Who are you truly?"
Thomas didn't know what to think. Was he dreaming? He had to be, this was just too weird to be real…
"I… I could ask you the same thing. Is this an actual language? I mean, no one understands it. They all think I'm speaking gibberish. Hell, I thought I spoke gibberish!"
"It's Quenya. More specifically, Old Quenya. It is one of the world's oldest tongues."
"That makes no sense. People don't learn a whole new language from scratch after being in a car accident. I'm hallucinating, no?"
That had to be it. He had finally cracked, and now he was imagining that people could understand him. It wasn't even so far-fetched; people became psychotic for less these days.
"You are not hallucinating."
"Right, that's like the voices in your head telling you you're not crazy."
The man was starting to look a little exasperated.
"Will you at least give me the chance to convince you?"
"Fine. Go ahead. Surprise me."
….
"All right. I guess I'll have to believe you. I could never make all that up."
Thomas' head was spinning with names, events and family ties. In an hour he had received the summary of a history full of bloody battles, unbreakable oaths, magic jewels and treacherous family members, and even he didn't believe that he was capable of inventing all that in a bout of psychosis. Also, the pointed ears of his therapist were rather undeniable.
"Good."
"So, what is the point of this?" Thomas gestured at himself. "Do your divine overlords have nothing better to do than playing with the language settings of random human beings?"
"I can't claim to know the minds of the Valar… but I believe you may have been given a mission."
"A mission?"
"It has happened before that a mortal was given a task from the Valar… Although I can't for the life of me imagine what they want with you. From what I've seen, they have all but abandoned this planet."
Thomas shook his head and cynically remarked,
"Who knows? Maybe they wanted a good laugh. I know I would have a good laugh if I could curse someone with a language no one understands."
The mysterious therapist, who had introduced himself as Maglor, raised an eyebrow.
"Really?"
He shrugged.
"No. But I would be satisfied to know that I'm not the only one whose life is fucked." He scowled at Maglor's unconvinced look. "Hell, you said yourself you don't know what these Valar people think, and you've known them personally! How am I supposed to make better sense of it?"
"True. Maybe we should wait it out. If you have truly been given a mission, it will be made clear to you later on."
"Right. Do I have to watch out for burning bushes?"
"Wrong religion."
A wry smile curled Thomas' lips.
"Whatever."
"In the meantime, I can try to re-teach you some of your old mother tongue. That is, if you are willing to cooperate. I have heard that your track record of failed therapies is impressive."
"As long as you have no picture books for toddlers with you, I'll be more than willing to cooperate."
Maglor smiled.
"In that case, we're good."
The situation was surreal, and that was the least that could be said about it. Maglor had long pondered over what he would do if the Valar were to send him a message… but he hadn't expected it to come in the shape of a young, enraged mortal who spoke fluent Quenya. He didn't quite know what to think of it. Thomas was obviously a young mortal and not a reincarnated elf or a Maia in disguise… but some of his mannerisms, the way he lisped his s, moved his hands when speaking, or slightly cocked his head to the side when listening, sent jolts of recognition down Maglor's spine. In those moments, he didn't see Thomas but his own father, if only for a fraction of a second. He wondered if the Valar had done that on purpose… Knowing them, they probably had.
After a while he left Thomas with the promise to return the next day, and went to meet Anita Beardsley in the staff room.
"Ah, there you are! We almost feared you had run off! How did it go?"
"Surprisingly well."
"Well as in, he threw nothing at your head?"
"No, well as in the therapy went very well. I believe that with an intensive schedule, we could make great progress."
The doctor's eyes widened.
"You're serious? He actually cooperated?" When Maglor nodded, she shook her head in disbelief. "You, sir, are a miracle worker. We had all but given up on that boy. The last therapist said he was a devil's spawn and refused to ever see him again."
"Well, I think there is still hope for him."
"I hope you are right… but I think if you could convince him to stop throwing things at the nurses, that would be great progress already. We are used to a lot here, but I have to admit it gets a little tiring sometimes."
"I'll see what I can do."
He had almost forgotten what it was like to have a conversation, to understand and be understood. Never mind how ridiculous and borderline insane the conversation had been, simply the fact that someone had understood him was amazing. Thomas could still hardly believe it… But then, the whole situation was admittedly rather incredible. Discovering that he spoke a millennia old language and that his therapist was an immortal elf had been bizarre enough, but that whole mission-from-the-gods thing was even more out there. It was one thing to think that if there was a god, he must really hate you… but it was another to actually get that confirmed. Maglor had said that a mission from these Powers was a great honour, but Thomas was honestly sceptic. He had read enough myths to know that missions from gods usually had more to do with providing them amusement than with great honour…
He shook his head. That morning, he hadn't believed in any deity, and now he was suddenly forced to believe in not one but at least 14 of them, who had apparently messed up his life on purpose.
Because Gods have nothing better to do. Seriously. They could be solving the world hunger problem, or global warming, or war in the Middle East... but no. They mess with the life of one random guy. And what for? They're probably just bored out of their minds.
Thomas wondered what was worse; being brain-damaged and babbling nonsense, or being the chosen victim of a crowd of bored divine beings… If the Greek gods were anything to go by, things weren't looking too well for him.
…
The meeting with Maglor had been a key event, it turned out. That night, Thomas dreamed.
He was standing in a large hall of dark marble. There were no windows, and despite the largeness of the place, he felt as if the walls were closing in on him. The air was thick and heavy, like a fog.
"Hello? Anybody here?"
His voice echoed through the marble, but he received no answer. He knew it was a dream, which was odd, because he had never had a lucid dream before, and certainly not of so ominous and unsettling a place. Thomas aimlessly walked around a little. The hall was followed by more, similar halls, and all of them were equally plain and eerie.
Maybe this is like that station in The Matrix, and I'm just walking back into the same room over and over again…
"Thomas."
The voice had sounded right behind him. With a start he turned, and found himself faced with a tall man -God? Creature? Being?- with a stern, ageless face. Long black tresses and billowing black robes seemed to waft around the appeared figure like smoke, and Thomas found himself regarded with the blackest eyes he had ever seen. It felt as if they stared right into his soul; Maglor's eyes had given him the creeps, but this really took the cake. If this weren't a dream, he would have taken a run for it…
"There is not much time to explain."
Even in his awe at the majestic –and really kind of scary- being, Thomas felt annoyance at that. He would have thought that gods had all the time in the world to explain things… but then, he supposed the amusement from giving tasks to mortals partially came from watching them try to figure out what to do. Undeterred by Thomas' chagrined expression, the being continued,
"The dead and the living are not on the same plane of existence, and they do not remain in the same physical place either. However, not all those who have died depart from the world as they should. Unseen, they remain among the living."
"Like… ghosts?"
The being solemnly nodded.
"Yes, in a way. Children can see them to a certain age, but they are only very rarely aware of this ability. Some adults are sensitive as well… but they cannot truly see them. Their perception is like the sight of one under water, deformed and unclear."
That was all very interesting –okay, mostly just plain weird- but why did he need to know this? How did this relate to his Quenya problem?
"Err… okay… but what does that have to do with me? I mean, not to be rude, but… it's all kind of confusing."
Thomas wasn't sure, but he thought the being's face gained a hint of sadness.
"You exist on the line between the living and the dead, Thomas Ashworth, and as such you can see and interact with both."
Wow. Now that was unexpected. Thomas wondered how many other surprises like that awaited him.
"And what is the point of that?"
"The spirits of the dead must pass to their designated places. It is the way of things. The un-housed ones should not be among the living. Their presence causes disturbances."
Thomas was starting to get a clue.
"And you want me to convince them to go to the afterlife, or whatever, because I can talk to them?"
"You have understood."
"Well, in that case I don't understand why I have this whole mythical language thing going on. Or do all ghosts speak this Quenya or something?"
This was a dream, so he could be as rude to divine beings as he wanted. And really, he was entitled to a bit of explanation.
"Usually, un-housed spirits understand any language."
"Then why…?"
"The dead understand all tongues, because after their passing they are in connection with a different plane of being, where language and communication are no longer connected as such. The longer they remain among the living however, the more this connection fades."
"And…?"
The dark being was undisturbed by Thomas' impatience.
"Together with the connection, they lose their ability to understand all languages, and also to find their way to what you call the afterlife. There are some who have been lost for so long that they would not recognize any language but the oldest. Those spirits especially need to return as soon as possible."
"And how am I supposed to find them?"
The creature didn't answer his question, and instead made a dismissive gesture.
"We are out of time. Things will be clear when you wake."
The eerie marble halls started to fade and dissolved into thick black vapour, and Thomas suddenly felt the ground disappear under his feet. As he fell down, the being's rumbling voice echoed around him.
"We will meet again, Thomas Ashworth."
Right when he thought he was going to hit the ground, he woke with a start in his own bed…
…
Fluent in a mythical language? Check. Suddenly paranormally gifted? Check. Burdened with glorious purpose? Check. Utterly pissed? Double check. Thomas stood in front of his bathroom mirror, and tried to determine if he might be crazy. Too bad insanity didn't show like a rash, it would be so much easier to diagnose… He wondered what Maglor would have to say about it all. A bit of practical advice would be nice…
Suddenly, an idea sparked in Thomas' head. He could draw the mystery being and the surroundings from his dream, and then perhaps the elf could tell him more about it when he arrived. It would at least give him something to do besides worrying and being on the lookout for ghosts... Thomas wondered how they would look. Would he even notice the difference with living people? Maybe they looked exactly the same, and just went about their business like normal people, only invisible to everyone else. That would be awkward…
"He's in a terrible mood today."
"Oh?"
"Yes, he keeps trying to draw something, but he can't seem to manage, with all expected consequences. He's been ripping paper and throwing things around all day." Anita Beardsley raised her eyebrows at Maglor. "Are you certain you don't want to postpone the therapy until he has calmed down a bit?"
"My presence might be calming to him."
The blonde's incredulous look clearly said that he didn't know what he was getting into.
"Well, it's your call! Don't tell me I didn't warn you when he throws a plant pot at your head though!"
"Don't worry, Dr Beardsley. I have a hard head."
She chuckled.
"A hardhat might be safer… " They had again reached the door of room 27. "I have an appointment now, so you're on your own."
"I'm sure I will manage."
"Well, good luck!"
"Thank you."
He entered the room to find Thomas on the bed, exasperatedly tearing sheets of paper from his sketchbook.
"Wrong, wrong, it's all WRONG!"
He looked –and sounded- a frightening lot like Fëanor in one of his "inspired" bouts of fury, Maglor noted. Carefully he asked,
"What is wrong?"
The boy looked up with a wild and tormented look in his eyes.
"This! Everything! I see it like it's right in front of me, but I CAN'T DRAW IT! It's like my pen refuses to capture his face! GAH!"
Maglor looked at the crumpled drawings littering the floor. Black eyes, and lots of hair, bits and pieces of faces but never a complete likeness… he was starting to understand what had happened.
"You dreamed of Lord Námo, the Vala of the Dead."
That seemed to draw Thomas from his frustration.
"What?"
Maglor gestured at the drawings.
"Trying to catch his likeness in any medium is a futile endeavour. Lord Námo is as solid and yet immaterial as his halls. No matter how clear the memory, it cannot be reproduced."
Thomas seemed to take that information in strife, and his rage disappeared, as was it never there. He suddenly grinned.
"Neat trick. Criminals would love to know how to do that... No robot photos, no mug shots, no camera footage... they'd be untraceable!"
Maglor suddenly had a mental image of police agents trying to take a mug shot of Námo. He suppressed a slightly blasphemous chuckle.
"I don't think Lord Námo has ever considered taking advantage of this quality in such a manner… But tell me, what do you know now?"
"Apparently I see dead people."
"What?"
"For some reason I can see the souls of the dead who refused to go to the afterlife after they died. And I have to convince them to go to the afterlife anyway."
"That's your task?"
Thomas nodded.
"He also mentioned something about extremely old souls who only speak Quenya and have been lost for a long time. I specifically have to find those, for some reason."
Maglor's heart clenched, as he instantly, instinctively knew whose souls it concerned. He had hoped that they would have found peace, but he had doubted it, given the doom they had called over themselves, the violent ways they had died, and the general stubbornness of their fëar. And now…
"Did he say anything else?"
The boy disrespectfully rolled his eyes.
"No. He was totally vague. I really wonder why this Lord Námo person didn't make you his chosen therapist-for-the-dead. I mean; you already are a therapist, and you already speak Quenya, and you have thousands of years of experience, while I… what the hell am I supposed to say to those souls that will make them reconsider the afterlife?"
"He will have had his reasons."
Maglor knew well enough what those reasons were, but he wasn't ready to share it. There hung a silence between them. At long last, Thomas asked.
"So, what do we do now?"
"We start looking for ghosts."
If the Valar could lead him to Thomas, they could also lead them to the right places, the right fëar. They would just need to have faith, and patience. Lots of patience.
(Author's Apologies)
I'm finally writing again! And guess what… I'm trying to write something serious this time! It might still turn to humor, but I don't think so. This is my first attempt at writing something that isn't total crack, so feedback would be incredibly appreciated.
First of all; I'm not a Quenya expert, and I doubt I will ever be. The Quenya used in this will be very limited. Basically all Thomas says here is "do you understand me" and "fuck off, be gone from my sight".
Wernicke's Aphasia is an actual condition in which someone speaks fluently but only meaningless nonsense. Writing ability is also gone. This condition comes with heavy brain damage most of the time, which makes it hard to determine exactly how much the patient is still capable of understanding. I'm not a doctor, but I did research the condition, and I think that someone who suddenly speaks an unidentifiable language after receiving massive brain damage could really be diagnosed with it.
Thomas is very angry and frustrated. The issue of his last living family member dying in the car crash wasn't addressed here because Thomas hasn't addressed it himself yet either. His world was so thoroughly shaken by the loss of his communication abilities that he didn't even think to mourn his father.
I'm not sure how well I did sketching the character of Thomas, I'd really like some feedback on how that worked out.
PLEASE REVIEW? As I mentioned, this is my first serious non-humor story, and I would really like to know what you think of it. Harshness is allowed as long as it's formulated politely ;)
