This story was a Christmas gift for the my dear friend Eryniel Alassë! :) It features a character from my work-in-progress "One Star in the Sky," though it's not necessary to read that story in order to understand this one.
Just in case, a word on Rhavloth Cullasseth, for those readers who haven't read the last few chapters of "One Star":
Cullasseth is my OC. She is a Sindarin elf native to Mithrim; she is a skilled archer and also has some knowledge of healing. She met the Fëanorians as a young woman when their rebellion brought them to Beleriand, and she and Fëanor shared a brief friendship before his death. She later became very close with Maglor and traveled with him as the wars went on. Because of what she saw when she treated Maedhros after his rescue, she feared torture, and so when the Dagor Bragollach came, she chose to die in battle rather than risk capture. She refused to surrender herself to Mandos' keeping and lingered as a wandering spirit until the end of the War of Wrath, watching over Maglor, though she could not interact with him in any way. She then came to Mandos, where she was later reborn with two tasks: to fight in the War of the Ring, and to bring Maglor home. At this point, she knows only that she must first take him to the White Towers, where he will stand before Eru Ilúvatar and his soul will be cleansed.
This will be posted in four installments, three episodes in each. I hope you all enjoy! :)
Maglor is cold, and that is all he knows for certain.
The wind is blowing in from the Gulf of Lhûn is not so terribly harsh, and nor is it so very chilling. No, it is the cold of time that has settled into Maglor's bones, the cold of ages spent wandering the coasts, eating little and sleeping less, wearing clothes that have long ago grown thin and ragged (if he squints down at his tunic, he can almost still make out the sigil of his father's house embroidered there). It is the cold of guilt, and of loneliness. He does not even have his music to comfort him, for his voice gave out some time ago, and his hands are too stiff with old burns to play.
He is not far from the White Towers, he knows. He knows also that the tallest of the three towers houses a palantír powerful enough to look upon Valinor itself, but he does not venture there. He knows that will only make him lonelier still.
It is the cold of death also that gnaws at him, he knows. His body is so weakened now that it will not sustain him much longer, and his spirit cries out for rest. Death is close. He remembers at time when he was much younger, and a wolf bit his leg on a hunt, leaving deep, ragged wounds. He lost a great deal of blood before they could get him to shelter, and Fëanor was nearly beside himself with fear. Maglor had felt it then, too, the chill of looming death snapping at his bones.
He has never longed so dearly for the feeling of Fëanor's arms around him. As much as Maglor has tried to be angry with his father for dragging him into such a mess, he can never manage it for long. He loves Fëanor too much.
Needs him too much.
Cullasseth is warm, and that is all she knows for certain.
The waters of the Gulf of Lhûn are not entirely comfortable this early in spring, nor are the winds that ripple across it, raising up little white-capped waves. No, it is the warmth of youth that runs in Cullasseth's veins, the warmth of a thousand years spent healing in Mandos healing and coming to terms with herself and the decisions she has made, recognizing her strengths and forgiving her weaknesses. It is the warmth of war, and of victory. Battle breaks some, she has heard, and to others it grants strength. She is among the latter. She loathes death and suffering, but she revels in fighting for a cause she believes in.
It is the warmth of love as well, she thinks – what sort of love, she is not yet sure, but she is fairly certain that is what she feels for Maglor. What else but love could have made her reject the Call of Mandos and risk her own immortal soul to stay by Maglor's side?
Guilt could have done it, she thinks – guilt for throwing herself in front of a dragon rather than doing the sensible thing and fleeing the Gap when the Dagor Bragollach came. But she does not dwell long on that. Guilt is a cold sentiment, and one that she will not tolerate for any length of time. Cullasseth has tried to be angry with herself for what she has done, but she sees no point in it. She has far more important things to do, and she cannot afford to waste her energy on anger.
Anger is costly and inefficient; determination is focused and sure.
Cullasseth could not be called beautiful by elven standards – pretty, yes, but not beautiful. Yet to Maglor, starved to the point of death for companionship and affection, she is the most wondrous creature he has ever laid eyes on. Her light brown curls are wind-tossed and turning red in the late evening sunlight, her slender muscles hardened and her hands calloused by war. She could be a fire goddess, Maglor thinks, or a goddess of the earth, arisen from some subterranean abyss to return spring to the land.
He should be stunned to see her, he knows, for the last he knew of her was that she had been lost in the Dagor Bragollach. Yet he finds that he cannot summon any such emotion up from the depths. He has not been able to for a very long time. In the wake of Maedhros' death, which left him with a grief far too terrible to bear, he decided that the only way he could carry on was to feel nothing at all. And so he let the wind and the water numb him, numb him to the core, and now he is cold. Frozen, even.
It would indeed take a fire goddess to reach his heart now.
"How have you come here?" Maglor asks her by way of greeting. He has long ago ceased to be taken aback by how feeble and hoarse his voice sounds.
To her credit, Cullasseth's gentle smile does not waver, though Maglor can see from her eyes that she is hurting. "The Lord of Mandos released me from his keeping and told me where I might find you," she says. "This is quite a lovely beach, isn't it? I have always wanted to see this place, and the White Towers, and the haven of Mithlond, but the war on Sauron kept me far from here."
The Gulf of Lhûn is indeed a fair place, a place of rolling green hills and white sands and waters that are set aflame at sunset. It manages to be at once gentle and wild, just like Cullasseth herself. Maglor understands why she likes it.
"I hate the sea," he says.
Cullasseth blinks. The hurt in her eyes deepens, but her countenance remains serene. "Why so?"
"It mocks me," Maglor says bitterly. "It sings to me unceasingly, reminding me that I myself can do so no longer. It reminds me always of what I have lost, of how far I have fallen. And when the sun sets, it turns red, and it shows me Alqualondë and Losgar, and then the night falls and I see Eärendil's star, and my father –"
"Your father?"
Maglor knows that Cullasseth loved Fëanor once, that she was as much his friend as she was his surrogate daughter. He knows that she desperately wants to hear that Fëanor has been reborn, but Maglor has no news of the sort. On the contrary, he knows that his father must still be dead, because he haunts Maglor's dreams some nights, a ghostly figure wreathed in flame, denouncing him for losing all six of his brothers and casting away the Silmaril as if it were worthless.
He does not entirely believe these dreams to be anything more than figments of his tormented soul, but nonetheless, he thinks it best not to tell Cullasseth of them.
"What of your father?" Cullasseth asks again.
"My father is dead. I am reminded constantly of that when the sun turns the water to fire, of how I was too late to save him," Maglor says. It is only half a lie.
"I hardly think he blames you for that," says Cullasseth gently, and she means it.
"Even if you are right, I suspect my brothers would be less charitable on that count. I failed all of them. I let them slip away from me, one by one."
Cullasseth sits down cross-legged on the white sand, and there is a light in her eyes, the same light of absolute resolution that Maglor remembers from when she tended to Maedhros in the aftermath of his rescue from Angband, when she swore again and again, I will not lose you as I lost your father. You will live.
"What if I told you that several of your brothers have been reborn, and now await your return in Valinor? What if I told you that your mother awaits you as well, that she has an army now, an army that fights in your name and your father's and in the name of all the Noldor who fell? They bear you no grudge, you know. They never have. They want nothing more than for you to come home to them."
Maglor does not want to go home. He does not think he could bear to face all of those he has wronged in his father's name, much less the friends and comrades he led to death in the wars. Eru, all those horsemen, his poor loyal horsemen who burned to ashes in the Bragollach… How could he face them, if they have been reborn, he who sealed their fate when he called for a retreat but called too late?
Maglor says none of this. Instead, he says,
"I cannot go home, Rhavloth Cullasseth. All paths are closed to me."
Cullasseth is smiling again, shaking her head gently and wrapping her small hands around his. He can feel her callouses against his skin. They remind him of his father's hands, and his mother's. They are hands that have done hard work, to be sure, and there is strength in them that is comforting even through the ice around Maglor's heart.
"One path remains open still," she tells him. "I am that path. I am your way home."
She says nothing more, but stands before him in silence and allows the implications of this to sink in. Maglor can only think how strange and proper it is that they should be standing here, she all aflame and he frozen to the core, just as Fëanor once stood before Fingolfin on a different, faraway beach and dared him to follow.
The two situations, though they are entirely different in some ways, are quite similar in others.
888
"What power have you to bring me home, Rhavloth Cullasseth?"
"None, really. I am merely the messenger, sent to convince you to undertake the journey."
"My condolences to you, then."
The sun has gone down into the sea, lending its light to the water. Night has fallen, and the two are sitting on opposite sides of a driftwood fire, roasting some meat Cullasseth had packed away with her. She watches the sparks rise into the dark sky and smiles, thinking of fireflies. Maglor watches as well and then looks away, thinking of the burning chasm that took Maedhros.
This has become a familiar routine over the past few weeks.
"Have you forgotten how it used to be?" Cullasseth asks gently. "There was a time when I could convince you of anything simply by looking into your eyes."
"I remember. Had you said the word, I would have made a charge on Angband and laid down my life at Morgoth's doors."
Maglor remembers, but there is no emotion associated with it anymore. He remembers that he once loved Rhavloth Cullasseth so dearly that a glimpse of her smile could make the deepest winter's chill melt from his bones. That passion is gone. Everything is. Now his memories seem silly, ill-fitting, as though they belong to someone else.
Well, the good memories seem that way. The bad ones still suit him perfectly.
"Things have changed since then, Cullasseth," he says.
Cullasseth pokes at the fire with a stick. The flames crackle sharply, and a piece of driftwood snaps, giving voice to the biting frustration she feels. No, Maglor is not the man she once knew. She suspected it would be so long before she came to the Gulf of Lhûn, and she accepted it. Even so, she still was not prepared for the reality. Certainly, she has no defense for the feelings that lance through her heart every time Maglor looks at her with those cold, lifeless eyes. The light of Aman is long gone from them. The fire that Fëanor bequeathed to him is gone, too.
But Cullasseth is well-accustomed to not giving up. She has been in many battles in her time. As the leader of the Godspeed Unit and a high-ranking member of the Vanguard, there were several occasions on which Cullasseth found herself standing upon the line between victory and defeat. Many times, she has looked despair squarely in the face and put an arrow through its heart. She led the eagles in the Battle of the Morannon, lending what aid she could and praying all the while that Frodo would reach Oroduin in time. She rode with the Rohirrim down the Pelennor Fields and did her best to raise morale when the Mûmakil appeared to turn the tide. She ran through Lake-town as Smaug rained fire from above, young Bain at her side, and ensured that the black arrow reached Bard before all was lost.
She remembers trying to explain to Bain that fire does not frighten her, because she had a friend long ago who was fire incarnate, who opened the gates of her imagination and dared her to do the impossible. She remembers not attempting to explain that she died by dragon-fire, and in that moment of destruction, she was created anew. Cullasseth herself was only beginning to see that at the time.
No, ever since the Dagor Bragollach, when she knowingly, willingly forfeited her life, Cullasseth has not counted "give up" among the many strategies in her arsenal. She does not intend to start now. She is Maglor's last hope now, just as she was Bard's last hope in Lake-town. It is a role she is very comfortable in. All her life she has lived on the edge of danger, and she has come to recognize that she never feels more alive than when she is inches from death.
Now, if she could only find some way to lend Maglor the life that blazes forth unchecked within her… What can she say? She has been trying for a fortnight now, and she has yet to come up with a solution. She has told him again and again that his brothers long to see him, that his mother has forgiven him everything. She has striven to convince him that he is not evil, that the Marrer was at work in his life, and that the Noldor who fell in the wars will be reborn all the stronger for their losses. She has evoked all the pleasant memories of home and family that she can think of, but none of it seems to get through. Maglor remembers, yes, but he does not feel. He has built an impenetrable wall around his heart, and no sentiment can reach him.
Finally, a last, desperate thought strikes her. It is selfish, it is childish, and chances are good that it will never work, but she has to say something. Certainly she cannot simply break down and weep, no matter how she might want to. One does not weep in the midst of battle, not even when a dragon is glaring at you, open-mouthed, and you can do naught but watch the fire rise up his throat.
Not even when one feels as though one is looking into the Void itself.
"Aye, things have changed," Cullasseth agrees, "but somewhere in your heart, you still care for me, do you not?"
Maglor considers this. Cullasseth's presence evokes none of the joy and longing that it once did, and yet…and yet, there is something there. He cannot say exactly what it is, but it seems that when she is with him, the sea wind seems less harsh. The nights seem a touch shorter, the air a little warmer, and the sunsets a bit more bearable. Yes, if Maglor thinks about it, Cullasseth does have some sort of positive effect on him, however small it might be.
But why? Is it because, deep within the recesses of his heart, a bed of embers still smolders with emotion? Is it because the tales speak truly when they say that when two Firstborn fall in love, the love never fades? Maglor does not know, so he does not answer.
Cullasseth is persistent. "All right, then. Would you still protect me if I was in danger?"
That question is easier. It does not delve into any of the deep emotions that Maglor is no longer certain he possesses. Yes, he would protect her. Cullasseth does mean something to him, he knows, though he cannot feel it any longer. Were she in danger, his instincts, in place of his emotions, would tell him to defend her.
"I would," Maglor tells her.
Cullasseth draws in a steadying breath, braces herself to fail once again and start all over. "Then would you protect me now?"
Maglor blinks. This is not at all what he expected to hear, and he does not know quite what to make of it. "Are you in need of it?" he asks.
Cullasseth nods, eyes wide and dark. She leans forward, the fire throwing strange shadows over her face. She seems entirely earnest. "You see, the Lord of Mandos was not altogether pleased with my refusal of his Call for so many years," she says carefully. "It was he who set me the task of bringing you home. If I can do that, I will have atoned for my sin, and my soul will be saved, but if not, I… Well, I do not like to think what might become of me."
This is entirely true. A bit dramatic, Cullasseth thinks, but entirely true. And it has an unexpected effect on Maglor.
A thought bursts into his mind, sudden and sharp and angry. Lord Námo! You have taken my father and my brothers, and now you force Cullasseth to do your will in order to redeem herself! I do believe you enjoy punishing the Fëanorians and all who ally with them!
For a moment, Maglor is warm.
And then the anger passes, and he is left wondering where on earth it came from. He has not felt anger in ages. He has not felt anything in ages. Why now? What ties once bound him to Cullasseth, strong enough to stir in his frozen heart this tiny flame? For the first time in what seems an eternity, he wishes to unlock his heart, if only to remember how this extraordinary maiden once made him feel.
"What must I do?" he asks. His voice betrays none of his thoughts.
"You must go with me to the White Towers," Cullasseth says. Her voice betrays none of her thoughts either, but within her, she is relieved enough to faint. "At the tower of Elostirion, your soul will undergo a trial the nature of which I do not claim to comprehend, and if you succeed, you will be healed and made clean and sent on to Valinor."
Maglor's initial reaction is to say no, for in his mind, trial is synonymous with punishment. He hardly needs the aid of the Valar on that count; he is doing a fine job of it on his own. But then, Cullasseth has a fierce streak of loyalty, he knows, and she yields to no code of ethics but her own. And she cares deeply for him, Maglor knows. She has apparently defied Lord Námo once already; if instinct told her that there was anything harmful awaiting Maglor at the White Towers, she would have refused to take him there. Cullasseth has no room for malice in her heart. She would never abandon Maglor to some terrible fate to save her own soul.
Yet…is that not precisely what she did when she threw herself in front of that dragon during the Bragollach?
When she left him?
Maglor tells her all this, and he can see that it wounds her deeply. Cullasseth does not deny his accusations, but when she tells him how many years she spent watching over him as a houseless spirit, defying the Lord of Mandos and gambling her immortal soul, it changes everything. It changes everything to know the reason behind Cullasseth's refusal of the Call, to know why she has been tasked with earning her redemption.
Something begins to prickle deep within Maglor's heart, and he is astonished to recognize it as guilt. For even guilt, once such a close companion to him, has now become a stranger.
He gives Cullasseth no word, but that night Maglor dreams of the sunset, and of his father. Fëanor's ghostly figure burns as always, but more softly now, and he has no scathing words of condemnation for his secondborn this time. Indeed, he speaks no word at all, but rather beckons Maglor to bow his head and kisses his brow in what is unmistakably a benediction. His touch is gentle, so achingly gentle, and filled with an infinite love. Maglor has the distinct impression that this Fëanor is the true one, and that the bitter Fëanor he dreamed of far too often was but a trick of his tortured mind.
He wakes with the beginnings of tears in his eyes, the lingering warmth of Fëanor's touch on his skin, and the answer he knows he must give Cullasseth in his mind.
888
Deciding upon a difficult answer to a difficult question does not make it any easier to give that answer.
It is a much harder answer to give than Cullasseth understands. She is a capricious spirit, and it is not in her nature to dwell on things, good or ill. She wastes no energy on grudges or guilt. She forgives, forgets, and carries on living life, drinking in as much of it as she possibly can. Nothing stays with her long, nothing but loyalty and love.
The Fëanorians are different. To them, things are forever, for good or for ill. Bonds between them transcend distance and time and death. Memories are engraved upon their hearts, and it seems as though the sorrowful ones etch themselves ever deeper than the joyful ones. Fëanorians are slow to forgive and slower to forget. It is not easy for them to let things go. Sometimes they never do.
Cullasseth does not understand this. She does not understand why Maglor still carries guilt for lives that were lost more than two Ages ago, many of which have since been restored. She does not put much stock in guilt. It was Nerdanel Istarnië herself who taught her that it does no good to dwell upon one's losses: none but the Allfather can save the dead; better to consider how one may save the living. And if anyone upon Arda understood loss, it was Nerdanel Istarnië.
There is something else Maglor fears as well, Cullasseth knows: he fears his brothers' wrath. He cast away the jewel they fought and died for, the jewel their father died for. This is his greatest shame, the one thing above all others that keeps him from returning home. He can face the rest in time, Cullasseth thinks, but he cannot face this. This cuts too deep, too close to his heart.
So she waits. She gives Maglor the quiet and the time he needs to gather his courage and confront his failings, as his Fëanorian nature tells him he must.
In the meantime, Maglor thinks, and he dreams.
He dreams of his mother, sometimes, and of his brothers. Nerdanel comes to him clad in a leather jerkin, a sword at her waist and Fëanor's ancient, soot-blackened helm under her arm, her red hair braided back with a tiny Fëanorian star at the end. She was always beautiful to Maglor's eyes, but now there was a strength about her and a light in her eyes. She was a twist of steel and flame, an avenging angel. Suddenly, it was not at all difficult to see her as Cullasseth's commanding officer.
They meet in the middle of a golden forest, Nerdanel at the fore and Maglor's six brothers behind her. How many of them have been reborn, Maglor cannot say, but they all look well, clad in beautiful robes of crimson and gold, red and yellow thread braided into their hair. Huan lolls at Celegorm's feet, tail wagging gently. None of them seem inclined to hurl bitter words of accusation. Even Maedhros tells him he is silly for staying away for so long, that if things had been different and Maedhros had been left alone at the end, he too would have been inclined to throw the Silmaril as far away as possible.
And Nerdanel leans on her sword and says, "You know, he who fears to ride into battle is no coward. The coward is he who lets his fear keep him from riding at all. The only time when we may be brave is when we are afraid, dearest one. Remember that."
Occasionally, Maglor dreams of his soldiers. One of his captains appears before him in the golden wood, a young elleth who died of smoke inhalation in the Dagor Bragollach. He remembers holding her hand as she died, and he remembers thinking that her Quenya name, Aranyë, was one of the most beautiful he had ever heard. She salutes him cheerfully, as was her way in life, and thanks Maglor for letting her fight with him, for preparing her to enlist in the Vanguard and carry on serving her people.
Mostly, Maglor dreams of his father. They do not meet in the golden wood, but on the shore of the Gulf of Lhûn, with the sun setting the water ablaze behind them. Fëanor is dressed simply enough, in a traveling cloak and sturdy leather boots, his ebony hair streaming out behind him like a pennant. This is the Fëanor of Maglor's childhood, the Fëanor who was always ready to sweep his sons away on some wild adventure and always prepared to bring them safely home again.
Fëanor smiles gently and takes Maglor's arm, leading him away down the beach. Maglor stands stiffly at his side, never trusting that Fëanor will not turn on him at any moment with vicious words of condemnation.
"Why so ill at ease, child?" he asks Maglor one evening.
"Do you not wish to curse me?" Maglor returns.
"And why would I curse you?" Fëanor's countenance is far more serene than it ever was in life, more relaxed. Suddenly, he reminds Maglor of Cullasseth in the way his benevolent smile never falters.
"Because I cast away the Silmaril."
Fëanor eyes him critically for a moment, and Maglor has the distinct impression that his penetrating grey eyes are staring right into his son's soul.
"Perhaps, somewhere deep in your heart, that was your way of casting away the person you were, the person the wars created. Perhaps some part of you intended it to give you freedom, and a new start. Perhaps your mind twisted it from an act of release into an act of shame."
"Then you…you do not blame me?"
"Of course not. What, after all, did the Silmaril mean to you but sin and death? If at one time you saw it as your last link to me, that had long faded, unless I am very much mistaken. Why should you have kept it? Why should you not have broken your chains, so to speak?"
"Because of the Oath, Atar. Upholding the Oath was the last thing you ever asked of me; how could I renounce your dying wish?"
"Oh, you upheld the Oath a thousand times over in your life, Káno. You did more than I could ever ask of you. With your own blood and tears, you bought the right to renounce your vow and all it stood for."
"You mean to say you forgive me?"
Fëanor draws Maglor's head gently down, as he does every night, and kisses his brow. "There is nothing I need forgive, child. You have proven your love and loyalty to me beyond any doubt. You need bring me no jewels."
Maglor does not pull away, but keeps his face buried in the folds of Fëanor's cloak, breathing in the smells of smoke and evergreen.
"Then what must I do?" he asks, his chest suddenly, inexplicably tight.
"You know. At least, you know the beginning. You must tell Cullasseth that you will go to the White Towers."
"But I…I fear the Allfather."
Fëanor cants his head and lays a hand alongside Maglor's cheek, eyes glittering strangely. "Did you ever fear me?"
"Only once. At Losgar."
"Then why on earth should you fear the Allfather, who loves you with a perfect and unconditional love such as you cannot imagine, and who would never bring you to harm?"
Fëanor releases Maglor, and the little embers licking up and down his limbs grow brighter and brighter until the Spirit of Fire fades into the sunset.
The next morning, Maglor takes his father's counsel to heart, and gives Cullasseth his answer.
References
The Vanguard - my own invention. A small, skilled host established and commanded by Nerdanel, wife of Fëanor, composed largely of elven women and a few mortal women.
The Godspeed Unit - also a product of my imagination. A band of Vanguard soldiers who ride eagles into battle - the Vanguard's air force, so to speak.