For Back to Middle-Earth Month, which is a Bingo came hosted by the Silmarillion Writer's Guild. I'll be posting as much as I have time for in the same story, with different chapters.

Day 1: i18 - Maglor the Mighty; rope-making

He watched them at the docks, hauling up their rope nets, trapped with fish. He saw the blisters on their hands, watched as their muscles strained and sweat poured from their brows. Then he watched as the fish flopped limply on the wooden docks, desperately trying to return to their watery home.

All in all, Maglor thought, the Telerin fishermen of Alqualonde were to be admired.

A sea breeze wafted towards him, bringing with it the first ships of many. A beautiful swan glided into the bay, cutting through the water with deadly precision, white sails raised to catch the gentle wind on the clear, cloudless day. Maglor watched the fishermen pull at the ropes, tightening them here, loosening them there, and wondered how they knew. When and where, why and how?

Could he try?

Maglor chuckled at the idea. They must have known from the first moment of birth. They must have been born for a life on water. He was a Noldo, born for the hammer and the anvil.

But could he? Was it possible? Would someone like him be able to hold his own against the breath of Arda?

Yes, Maglor decided, absently. Of course he could do it.

"Is it hard?" he asked one of the sailors on the docks. The Teler looked at him in bemusement.

"I beg your pardon, Macalaurë?"

The fisherman knew his name, but Maglor wasn't surprised. Everyone knew his name.

"Pulling the sails. Is it hard?"

The Teler's mouth split into a wicked grin. "Want to try?" he asked. Teasingly. A challenge.

Maglor was ready.

"Yes."

~i18~

The sea hit the bow of the ship, then splashed up all over him. Maglor could feel his clothes sticking to him, his intricately-braided hair coming loose. He could taste the salt of the water, could still feel the refreshing splash. A reprieve. But only momentary.

He pulled at the rope as hard as he could, already feeling blisters forming. It was easy to grasp—to feel the circular shape in his palm—and equally easy to pull. But hard to hold, as he was finding out. The rope slipped from his fingers, strained against his weight, groaned as the boat rose to the crest of a wave and dropped to the trough. The water didn't help.

Just three hours of holding it was enough for his hands to throb, for his muscles to scream, for his weight to be dragged forward by the strength of the wind. He loved holding it, but it was too much.

At the end of the hours, Maglor stepped off onto the docks, swaying from tiredness and from the boat's natural motion. He turned to the Telerin fisherman and grinned.

"That was fun," he said, then showed him his hands. "But I wouldn't want to go again."

The Teler laughed. "Most Noldor cannot even handle one hour," he replied. "Some are horrified by the idea of floating on water. Have you Telerin blood in you, Macalaurë?"

Maglor shook his head, and laughed. "I like the rope," he explained. "And the boat. Just not the pulling."

"What about smaller ropes, then? What about strings?"

~i18~

Years later, sitting at his harp, Maglor felt the smoothness of the strings against the tips of his long, elegant fingers. His blisters had long healed, but the memory had remained.

How different, he mused, music and sailing seemed to be. And yet how similar. The same ropes, the same tug and pull, the call of adventure. And the flowing sound of music was like a beautiful swan, cutting through the waves, forming a story of its own.

Yes, he thought absently, smiling. He could do it.