Disclaimer: Middle-earth and all associated with it belong to Tolkien.
Markirya
This is a lovely land, is it not? See, there is a forest with leaves of gold, an untarnished white city, a high hill in the midst of a lonely plain, a fallen tower. A river winding past a hidden valley, rolling plains that shimmer in the fierce shining sun.
He is a lovely Elf, is he not? Hair like molten gold and fire, a finely sculpted face and pale, pale skin. There are few among the Elves to rival him, and none among Men.
And is it not a lovely ship? Sleek and white, gleaming in the sweet sunlight. The last of the Eldar are leaving Middle-Earth, and with them goes the last of the ancient glory. The blood of Númenor is fading, and the magic is dying. The age of the Elves is gone, and the age of Men is beginning. The world of old is passing, and a new one is being born.
But this Elf, he leans with catlike, boneless grace against the railing of this ship. Other Elves speak and walk behind him, but the silence enveloping him is complete. The shimmering sea laps at the sides of the ship as he stares out, not over the sea but over the land he still loves. Lothlórien will never gain echo with song, nor will deserted Imladris. Eryn Lasgalen, too, is abandoned, its woodland palace empty.
A bittersweet feeling, sadness mingled with joy. He is leaving his home, leaving all he has ever known, but oh! To go into the West! He has at last given in to the desperate sea-longing.
There are no final farewells to be said; all his mortal friends are dead, and his immortal friends have already gone before him. Instead with a snap of snowy sails catching the wind, the ship glides slowly away from the shore.
The ship skims swiftly over the water. Soft silvery starlight paints pale shadows across the Elf's face. He is still standing by the railing, eyes the color of the sea below dark with sorrow. Their fathomless depths swirl with a turmoil of emotions, but there are no tears. A lifetime of training to hide his feelings, to appear cool and distant and unapproachable has seen to that. Instead he begins to sing, soft and low.
Man cenuva fánë cirya
métima hrestallo círa,
i faíri nécë
ringa súmaryassë
ve maiwi yaimië?
Man tiruva fána cirya,
wilwarin wilwa
ëar-celumessen
rámainen elvië
ëar falastala
winga hlápula
rámar sisílala,
cále fifírula?
His face is impassive, his eyes too, but his voice is sad and lost and so, so lonely. A breeze dances about him, playing with silken strands of golden hair. He draws himself up straight, fluid grace in every line of his body, refusing to shed tears.
The white ship sails on through seemingly endless seas, foam-tipped waves following in its wake. It has been days, perhaps even weeks since they have last seen land. The Elves on board do not feel the passing of time the same way a Man might; time passes both quickly and slowly for them. Quickly, because the rest of the world changes while they remain the same, and slowly because they do not count the days and years.
Fire, steel, and grief. The only three things that can kill an Elf immediately. They do not succumb easily, these Elves, but even they will eventually die of an endless fall, or of starvation.
And this Elf does not know it, but grief is slowly destroying him. His heart has been bound too fast to the land he has left behind for him to break its ties. He will gradually fade until he is completely gone.
To weep costs an Elf a piece of their soul. It is not something they do lightly. In millennia of existence, they may shed tears once or twice. And when they do, all of creation weeps with them. It makes these rare, rare tears potent and precious beyond measure, beyond mithril, beyond gold, beyond jewels. Such cold, hard things could never match the momentary, flawless fragility of a single shimmering tear. In it, light may play, casting tiny rainbows and golden radiance. Glowing, warmer by far than any diamond or gem. A treasure to be caught and held for as long as it lasts.
Perhaps much like the Elves themselves, bitter and sweet at once, that such beauty could come of such sadness. Who can say, now, now that the world has changed beyond recognizing?
The ship still sails ever on, a startling glitter of pristine white amid green-grey waves. But the sky is darkening, and clouds cover the sun. A storm is brewing, and a few drops of rain fall, increasing in intensity as the morning wears on. Lightning flashes jagged against the sky, thunder crashing loud enough to make the world tremble.
By this time the rain is beating down on the ship, winds tossing it this way and that. The Elves onboard are dry below deck, talking and singing.
Except for one. The lone Elf sits in a corner on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around them. He props his chin on his knees, not noticing the worried glances others throw him. His lovely eyes are lowered, almost closed—his eyes should never close. Elves sleep with their eyes open; they never close them unless they are wounded near to death.
He is losing his control over his emotions. They threaten to overwhelm him, to bury him under a sea of tumbling despair. Sensitive, pointed ears catch the sound of the thunder; he unfolds long, graceful limbs to stand. Stepping softly, silent as a car, he walks out onto the deck.
The Elf throws his head back, letting water stream over his face in torrents. The storm rages, and as it does the Elf is free to let loose the rein on his emotions. Crystalline tears mix and run with the rain as he screams more than sings.
Man hlaruva rávëa súrë
ve tauri lilassë,
ninqui carcar yarra
isilmë ilcalassë,
isilmë pícalassë,
isilmë lantalassë
ve loicolíma;
raumo nurrua,
undumë rúma?
Man cenuva lumbar ahosta
Menel acúna,
ruxal' ambannar,
ëar amortala,
undumë hácala
enwina lúmë
elenillor pella
talta-taltala
atalantië mindonnar?
No one is there and no one hears as he howls his heart out to an unfeeling sky. Even as tears run down his face, this lovely creature can be nothing but ethereal perfection. Beautiful in his despair, his hair soaked to a shade of gold so dark it is almost black, he closes his eyes and lets the wind and rain scour away all feeling. He does not open them as the sails above him rip and tear, nor does he heed as the ship shudders. The white timbers below him groan and begin to splinter and the mast cracks, but he does not move. It does not matter any more…
And as the Elf's wounded, broken body lies draped lifelessly across the jagged cruel black rocks, the flaming sky whispers to the bloody seas.
Man tiruva rácina cirya
ondolissë mornë
nu fanyar rúcina
anar púrëa tihta
axor ilcalannar
métim' auressë?
And the treacherous sea hisses back:
Man cenuva métim' andúnë?
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Markirya Man cenuva fánë cirya Man tiruva fána cirya, Man hlaruva rávea súrë Man cenuva lumbar ahosta Man tiruva rácina cirya |
Homeship Who shall see a white ship Who shall heed a white ship Who shall hear the wind roaring Who shall see the clouds gather, Who shall heed a broken ship |
A/N: "Markirya" is actually a real poem written in Quenya by Tolkien, and the (rather loose) translation is also by him. I read on Ardalambion.com, and immediately got the urge to write a story to go with it. Review?