Chapter 29 – Noldolantë
Here, upon this very shore, we fell. Here, again, together, we must rise.
Valinor
Fourth Age
Eruanna was pulled along by Marilla, Irimë trailing a few steps behind. Both ellith were overjoyed when at long last Eruanna agreed to join them at the midsummer festival. Eruanna quickly discovered that she had been missing a truly extraordinary event. Tens of thousands of elves from all over Valinor gathered near the shores of Alqualondë each year for the five days leading up to midsummer's night. Each day had been filled with so much joy and distraction that Eruanna was surprised to discover the final night was already upon them. On that last and longest night of the year the people would gather at the great stage and from that one spot the multitude would listen to the bards compete.
Marilla had told her many years before how miraculous the valley was – one could hear the singers and music clearly from the stage all the way up the mountainside. It seemed incredible to Eruanna that such a thing was possible, but then, she knew the Valar were capable of impossible things.
Eruanna and her companions did not have to sit on the slopes of the mountain. Elrond's house had a spot closer to the stage and they had been invited by Lord Elrond to join him. It was her father Eruanna spotted first, sitting next to Elrond. For a moment she thought they looked silly, seated as they were on a blanket with legs folded and crossed like children, but neither ellon appeared to mind. When the three ellith drew nearer Celebrían was the first to spot them. She greeted them with a smile and a wave.
"Over here. We saved you a blanket."
They wove their way through the milling crowd to Celebrían's side. Elrond greeted them with a nod and Erestor rose to kiss his daughter on the cheek. He had not asked Eruanna why she chose to join them this year; though she thought her nervousness as midsummer's night drew nearer was hint enough. He took her arm graciously from Marilla and along with Irimë led her to their seats.
Eruanna settled herself down on the blanket Celebrían offered. The hill was surprising soft beneath her and the breeze off the water cool. She looked over at the stage and wondered briefly how anyone could hear the singers over such a great tumult of voices. She glanced back over her shoulder to see the slopes of the mountain filling with elves, their numbers overwhelming. She must have trembled at the sight for her father squeezed her hand tighter. She turned her attention to him and found his eyes studying her.
"We are a multitude, aren't we?"
"Yes," she replied, looking back again upon the mountainside.
Erestor squeezed her hand again. "I am glad you are here."
Eruanna forced a smile, the anxiety growing in her heart threatening to overwhelm her. By contrast, her father's face was serene, peaceful, a peace she knew he had sought for a very long time.
"I had to come," she said.
Erestor put his arm around his daughter, drawing her close, "Because you fear for him."
Eruanna took the comfort he offered, resting her head against his chest. "Yes."
"He faced me," Erestor reminded her, "and I was armed."
Eruanna closed her eyes at the memory but she could still hear the crowd growing ever louder behind them. "That was the easy part."
Erestor gave her shoulder a squeeze. "You are probably right."
A chime rang from the center stage, calling for silence and silent the gathering fell. Those who had been standing took their seats and awaited the presenter to speak. When the bell's echo finally faded Elemmírë stepped upon the stage followed by no fewer than ten bards each carrying with them their favored instrument. Murmurs of surprise and confusion passed through the crowd. Eruanna, unsure of what was wrong, looked to her mother for answers.
Irimë leaned in and whispered. "Only two compete each summer, the rest judge. They should not all be on stage tonight."
"Friends!" Elemmire's voice once again brought the crowd to silence. "It has long been a tradition of the summer festival to hold a bard's contest. For thousands of years, we gathered here have regaled you with tales of love and noble deeds, of victory and loss. You have listened with open hearts and minds and permitted us entry to the deepest places of your souls where joy and sorrow live. You have granted us permission to share with you the story of ourselves, of our people, and we thank you. We thank you from the depths of our hearts for allowing us to bring forth your laughter and tears, and to share them with you each year."
Here Lindir stepped forward. "Tonight we have a song for you, an epic tale, one which you might have lived a moment in time or heard a measure or two echoed by others seated beside you. It is a tale of love and pride, hope and despair, courage and cowardice, too. It is a tale we all must hear if we are to know ourselves wholly again, as we did upon the shores of Cuiviénen when the world was new."
Now Daeron took center stage. "We will never again be the innocent children who woke upon those shores. That time for our people has long passed. It is time now for us to know who we are, and to do so, we must know how we reached this place. We shall perform for you this lay tonight as brothers – children of the Vanyar and Noldor and Teleri, we shall each play a part in the telling, but the song we perform was composed by another over the course of many ages, a lay he has come to call Noldolantë. We ask him to join us tonight, upon this stage, so that we may all relive this long journey with him, and decide together the beat and measure of the final verse."
Daeron's eyes flickered to the dais' edge and out from the shadows a hooded elf appeared, his harp partially hidden beneath long robes. The other bards seated themselves in a half circle around an empty chair as the newcomer took the favored position. He laid his harp at his feet and when he lifted his hands to draw back the hood a collective gasp passed through the crowd. They had known it was him, Maglor Fëanorion, whom many now gazed upon again for the first time since the trees went dim. Silence followed – the deepest, most profound silence possible at such a gathering of elves. All that moved through the valley was the wind blowing through the hair and clothes of those assembled. They waited – some in anticipation and others in dread – but not one dared to walk away.
Maglor took a deep breath before lifting the harp to his lap. It had been his custom of old to speak to the crowd, to catch the eyes of those seated closest to him, but he dared not, else his courage abandon him. He turned to Elemmírë and the other musicians. Each one in turn nodded their readiness, but Elemmírë added a smile and a wink. Had Maglor not been so close to the edge of terror he might have laughed, instead he lifted his hand and began the lay as it was written – with a C chord.
The lay was not, perhaps, what the audience was expecting. It began with Fëanor, yes, but viewed through a child's eyes, Maglor's eyes as he had loved and feared him. A child who suffered with the knowledge that he would never be the son his father wanted. He sung of his father's jealousies of his uncles, of the growing paranoid fear, of the blades he forged and how they sang to Maglor. He sung of winning his father's love and of the moment when that skill was put to terrible use.
Here the Telerin bard joined Maglor in song, sharing the tale of the battle at Alqualondë. He sung of the children caught by stray arrows and clumsily wielded swords, of bodies washed upon the shoreline, of blood seeping into the white sands of Aman, of the cries of the dying and of their loved ones left behind.
Maglor sung of crossing the sea, of betrayal. He sung of his father's death and the promise Maglor made. He sung of Maedhros' madness and of great battles against Morgoth, their foe.
Daeron sung for the Sindar. He sung of their hope at the coming of the Noldor. He sung of Lúthien and Beren and their Silmaril, the joining of elves and men. He sung of Dior.
Maglor, too, sung of the Sindar. He sung of how the Noldor betrayed them once and once more. He sung of the jewels, of his brothers' deaths and the obsession that drove them. He sung of hope and despair and of madness most of all.
He sung of death at Doriath and Sirion, of the frozen bodies of Dior's sons. He sung of Elwing's eyes as she fell from the tower. He sung of Elrond and Elros and of Anira as well. He sung of them long, of how much he loved them and how desperately he needed their love. He sung of how he hurt them, of how he hurt them all – every elf that crossed his path for five hundred years.
He sung of the Silmaril burning his flesh, the hand of evil marked. He sung of it burning still. He sung of Maedhros flinging himself into a fiery pit and of his own journey to the sea. He sung of watching the Silmaril sink into the water's depths, wondering if he could do the same. He sung of his own cowardice, of his refusal to die or to face the Valar's wrath. He sung of years, endless years of wandering the world alone, ashamed for all he had done.
He sung of sailing, of home again, of those who tried so hard and so long to help him find his path. He sung of Fingolfin and Finarfin, Elemmírë and Mahtan. He sung of Eruanna, whom he called his salvation – a gift from god.
He sung of the many lives woven into the lay, how he sought them out and asked permission to share their part of the tale. He sung of pain, the pain of countless others needing to be healed. He asked their forgiveness – for his father's arrogance, for his brothers' cruelties, for his people's mistakes, for his own innumerable failings. He asked their forgiveness, with no expectations, and with the promise that he would spend the rest of his days working to heal the damage he had done.
There his song ended and with the final cord the wind and the waves were all that were heard. Maglor lifted his eyes to the crowd for the first time. His gaze passed over the faces of the elves seated closest to him. He did not recognize their faces, but he could not mistake their tears.
