In a Time of Sorrow
Chapter Six
*watches everyone panic*
Odyssey: Nemis wrote a wonderful ficlet called 'The Cold' which you can find at nemis.net, and then the evil angst bunnies got working, and there was the fic.
Cookies and applause to Nemis for betaing this.
And to everyone, thanks for waiting. I know this chapter is short, but I've given you two chapters at once.
And, I will grovel for reviews. *grovels* Give a little joy to a poor starving writer?
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Through the grim pall of the night a stranger walked into Imladris. Bedraggled black hair hung limply in his face and his worn garments were soaked, yet he exuded a radiance, a sense of purpose which could not be denied. The guards who stood at his back knew not what to make of this traveller who would not show his face, and who commanded them to bring him to their lord with such natural authority.
Glorfindel descended the stairs silently, roused by the commotion. He scrubbed his hand across his face, wearied by grief and sleeplessness, before fixing his gaze on the wanderer who stood between the brightly mailed soldiers. The cloaked figure stood erect, his shoulders thrown back, yet the weight of the years seemed to lie as heavily upon him as on an ancient of Men.
Under the shadows of his hood, the stranger's eyes flared briefly in amazement at the sight of the golden-haired elf before they were once again veiled inscrutably.
"Tell them to leave," he said quietly, gesturing elegantly at the troops with one dirt-encrusted hand.
"Why should I?" demanded Glorfindel.
"It is better that we do this alone," the other responded enigmatically.
Seeing no harm in it as a sword hung by his side, the elf-lord dismissed the soldiers and waited impatiently.
"Well, will you speak with me now?"
As if he was unused to the action, the stranger lowered his hood.
Pale skin riven by lines of sadness glowed under Ithil's wan light. Grey eyes which had seen too much of blood and toil gazed beseechingly upon the lord.
"Kinslayer!" Glorfindel hissed, unsheathing his weapon with a fluid movement.
"Nay, nay!" Maglor held up his hands. "I do not deny who or what I am, but I come here to do no ill. I merely wish to heal the elf you know as Elrond."
"Why should I believe you? Why should I let a slayer of his own kinsmen see one who lies nigh unto death? Tell me, son of Fëanor, why I should not hound you out into the Wilderland with all the guard of Imladris on your heels?"
Glorfindel advanced until the point of his blade rested in the crook of Maglor's neck, pricking the sensitive skin, drawing a slender trail of blood.
"You do not have to believe me," the Noldo rasped. "But you will notice that I bear no weapon."
With deft hands Glorfindel searched him, alert not only for a concealed blade but also for vials of poison. Finding nothing, not even a knife such as one would use on meat; he stepped back, still regarding the other warily.
"I wish no harm to him," the son of Fëanor sighed. "I never did. I loved him like a son, although I did great wrong to him in the Sack of Sirion, and by virtue of that he was not mine to love."
"How did you know of his illness?" Glorfindel asked sharply, not allowing his guard to be shaken, his sword-point raised.
"I … I do not know," Maglor said in a hushed voice, and there was wonder in his face. For an instant, the golden-haired lord could see the elf he had once been, so very long ago. "But I believe that this is part of my penance for what I did. 'Tis my fate."
Against his judgement Glorfindel found himself leading Maglor into the house.
"Do him ill, and you will be dead before your hand has fallen," he warned.
~*~
Celebrían slept the sleep of the exhausted in a chair, her blue eyes staring vacantly into space as the two elves entered the room.
The golden-haired Eldar stood over the other as he clasped Elrond's hand to him.
He was surprised to see anguished tears start in those wearied eyes, and the marks of pain etched even deeper.
"Ai, ion-nîn," he croaked. "That it should come to this…"
The elf-lord let out a wracking cough, blood staining his pale lips deep red. As if the effort cost him the last of his strength, he opened his eyes.
"Mandos?" he questioned, and at his words the kinslayer's heart twisted, just as it had when he had let the young twins wander off into the wilderness. So many years had passed, yet, once again in his long life, he faced the seeping power of loss…
"Nay. 'Tis not Mandos. I am Maglor. Do you remember me?"
Elrond nodded, too exhausted and confused to speak, and Maglor could almost feel the irregular beat of the half-elf's pulse within himself and the warm, choking blood bubbling up from overtaxed lungs.
"My powers have gone too long unused, pen-nîn tithen, but let me put forth some fraction of the skill which once I had to your aid."
As Maglor began to sing, the Lord of Imladris slipped further and further from life, his eyes dulling, the fire within him fleeing.
The tension leeched from the minstrel's face, and a great power overtook him, sweeping through his veins. Arda Marred was lost to him, and he stood once more before Galathilion in Tirion, unmarred, unbroken, when the world was young.
There was nothing except red-flecked blackness before Elrond, but the sweet melody penetrated his fading consciousness, more beautiful than anything he had ever heard before. It carried hints, it almost seemed, of the Song of the Ainur which was before the world, and it comforted his failing soul.
It soared around him, soothing his aching lungs and steadying his erratic heart with its certain rhythm, as if the song was both within and without, life beyond life.
It rose and fell, entrapping him in its honeyed chords as he took a deep, ragged breath, his lacerated throat protesting.
It was unique, each note suffused with the strength of the Ages and wisdom born of great sorrow. He could not grasp it, could not comprehend the full force of its being, but it seemed to him in that moment that he was swept away from the labouring agony of his body, far, far out into the star-studded night. With trembling mind, he reached out to touch the brightest point of all, but it was beyond his reach, forever beyond his reach, and he was falling…
It was sublime, invoking all the beauty of Arda and all the splendour of Aman, the glory of days past and days yet to come.
A terrible yearning swept through him, and he saw with the last flicker of his dying sight, the minstrel, robed in majesty and cloaked in sorrow, and he understood. The song was the singer and the singer the song, one surging arc of being, of which this new sorrow was but a single chord.
It seemed to fill the room, engulfing the occupants, even uncertain Glorfindel who stood guard with his hand resting tensely on the pommel of his sword.
Celebrían awoke, stirred from her slumber by the glittering fall of notes, and simply stared at the bedraggled, travel-stained figure bending over her husband's limp form, too stunned to speak.
At last the song ended, and Maglor collapsed to the floor, drained, all his energy poured into the elf on the bed.
"Dear child," he muttered as he levered himself upright. "Dear child, sleep and be well again."
Elrond's eyes flickered open, the last wisp of starlight reflected in their muted depths. With an agony of effort, he stretched out one paper-thin hand to rest in benediction on the slumped head.
"Is it really you, mellon-nîn?"
"Aye, although I do not deserve that name. I … I… should not have done as I did. 'Twas a great crime against you. If I…"
"You do deserve the name of friend, for you were kind to us," the peredhel gasped, fighting for air. "No evil lingers between you and me. Thank you for trying … thank you for coming to see me one last time … thank you for your song, for I shall not hear its like again until I am released from the Halls of Awaiting."
"Nay, my beloved son, you will not die … you must not," Maglor urged him, his fingers twisting in the bed-covers.
"A song can heal the hurts of elves, but maybe not those of mortal Men … and I am neither one nor the other, as Maedhros reminded you. Thus, I cannot be saved."
"Great deeds yet await you. I beg you, do not die." One hand was lifted in beseeching denial, and, for the first time, its true horror was revealed.
Red on red, an endless network of half-healed scars, crossing and recrossing the scorched palm in a web of despair.
"The gem." Elrond reached out one trembling finger to brush against the blistered fingers which had once been so straight and strong. "It burnt you, and it does not heal…"
"Nor would I want it to." His foster-father bowed his head in grief. "'Tis set there in memory of the horrors I visited upon others, upon you."
"Aye, the horrors were great indeed, but your kindness to Elros and me was a brilliant star in the darkness of those days. Bear not needless pain for my sake. Now, at the bitter end of things, I find that I am glad you are here. Namarie."
And he slipped into oblivion.
Maglor cradled his head in his hands.
"Then I have failed at the last test. It is as Mandos prophesied: all the good I attempt turns to ill."
A gentle hand brushed his filthy hair.
"Do not judge yourself yet, kinsman," Celebrían said, swallowing down her own ruinous certainty that this was indeed the end. "For none among us can know what the morrow brings. Go now and rest while I await what must be."
As Maglor staggered from the room, barely able to hold himself upright in his exhaustion, she returned to her solemn vigil. Glorfindel went with him to guide this peculiar visitor to the guest chambers.
"Strange friends indeed may aid us in the hour of our greatest need."
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Translations:
ion-nîn – my son.
pen-nîn tithen – my little one.
mellon-nîn – my friend.
namarie – farewell.