Otorni Lúner (The Blues Brothers in Númenor)

A poem in ann-thennath

After writing this poem I read RobinRocks' "Soul Man" and its author's note, which mentions that "The Blues Brothers is a niche market" and speculates on how many reviews would be written on his poem. My poem may appeal to an even narrower "niche market", being a combination of two fictional universes which possibly have relatively few fans in common. Therefore, like RobinRocks, I am very curious as to how my poem will be received.

"Ann-thennath" is the poetic form of "Light as Leaf on Linden Tree", the poem about Beren and Lúthien chanted by Strider on Weathertop in The Fellowship of the Ring. Needless to say, I own neither the Blues Brothers nor the world created by J.R.R. Tolkien.

"How stories do repeat themselves!" – Sam Gamgee, Sauron Defeated (J.R.R. Tolkien), p. 125

In Númenor the land that drowned
Beneath the waters of the sea
There were two brothers who, renowned,
Amazed the people listening:
They kept the Elven-music free
When he who had been falsely crowned
Made laws to ban the melody
Of light and beauty glistening.

One brother was both tall and thin,
The other was both short and stout,
But when the music would begin
They moved together merrily.
They sang of joy to make you shout,
They sang of sorrow, hate and sin,
They sang of love and thirst and doubt:
They sang the blues, primarily.

A ray of sun upon the hill,
A floating feather, or a child
Whose dance has more delight than skill:
Thus was the dance of Andalun.
His brother played upon the wild
And piercing mouth-harp, sad and shrill;
And each had been an orphan child
Till Andalun met Eldalun.

Although they had no friends or kin,
They had the music and the words:
They pierced their fingers' tender skin
And swore an oath of brotherhood.
Though Pharazôn sent men with swords
To ban the tongues of Elven-kin,
They would not sing with Mannish words:
Thus was their law of brotherhood.

Upon a horse named Rochalun
(Name given in forbidden tongue)
They rode beneath the argent moon
Across the fields of Númenor.
They sang and danced and played among
The hidden Faithful; Rochalun
Would carry them where still were sung
The songs of Elves in Númenor.

The Golden King set price of gold
Upon the heads of Andalun
And Eldalun; for months untold
They journeyed fast and warily.
A horseman bold was Eldalun;
Untroubled by the king of gold,
He stole his silver serving spoon
And rode off singing merrily.

But soon the men of Pharazôn
Pressed hard upon the brothers' trail;
The two musicians stood alone
Against the evil humans' war.
They would not let the music fail;
Despite the power of Pharazôn
They rode upon a hidden trail
And reached the coast of Númenor.

"My brother, Rochalun must swim,"
The tall one said, "to reach the land
Where Elves are singing, far and dim,
Upon the shores of Middle-earth.
And maybe we shall find a band
To sing with there." "A horse can't swim
Across the ocean to the land
Of vast and distant Middle-earth!

"Oh, Eldalun, you've gone too far
This time, and it will not be long
Before the Island of the Star
Is far behind and lost to us.
But you are right: the Elven-song
Must still be played in lands afar,
And we must reach those beaches long,
No matter what the cost to us."

'Tis said he was a magic horse,
Fair Rochalun; he swam away,
And by the stars he steered his course
Across the ocean flowingly.
Tall Eldalun felt no dismay
Bestriding his beloved horse;
His brother sat behind; one day
He slipped and drowned, unknowingly.

But Eldalun looked not behind
Until the land of Lindon fair
Was visible; his voice combined
With that of mighty Rochalun
In shouts of joy. "We've gotten there,
The chase forever left behind!"
The horse's silver back was bare,
No Andalun on Rochalun.

Perhaps the sheer desire to sleep
Had made his grip become more loose,
So that he slipped into the deep
Without alerting Eldalun.
Perhaps to keep his body loose
He took a drink that was too deep,
And now no more would sing the blues
Beside his brother Eldalun.

Upon the margin of the land
The ancient minstrels walk and sing,
Tall Maglor with the withered hand
And he who made the Elven-runes;
But sadder far than anything
Is now the song upon the sand
Of he who can no longer sing
With Andalun the Elven-tunes.

In memory of John Belushi