By a Lonely Beach
Disclaimer: I do not own anything that you may recognize.
Author's note: Hi. I've been dead. Okay, seriously, it has been a long time. I'm glad to be back, and hopefully this time, manage to stick around. So, the Silmarillion won in the game of Eenie-meenie-miny-moe that I played to choose the fandom to write about first and here we are... a Halloween-Special. Enjoy!
Prompts: Cryptid, Potions, Fog, Celebrate
They say of a wraith who roams the beaches, singing endlessly. They say that those who have dared to go look for the source of the unearthly voice have died, or at best, gone mad. But, a quality of men is their innate desire to discover the unknown, and they have not stopped trying. Every few decades, there is one particularly brave or foolhardy person who disregards the tales and goes to look for the wraith.
He always appears in the early morning, before the sun rises, a shadow in the rolling fog. In the winter evenings too. Not in the afternoon, or when the sun is up. Never in the afternoon. They say that the sun hurts him, as revenge for the crimes he has committed. All that is clear and good loathe him.
Maglor remembers little of his time here. Every evening, when the sun has set and the sea-mist envelopes the land, he sets out with his old harp: battered with age, yet the designs are pretty and the tunes ring true. He sings and he sings, for hours; sometimes under the stars, sometimes under a waxing moon, and sometimes under a full moon. His hands bleed, and his head droops out of tiredness, but he does not stop. As the sun comes out, he retreats to his cave and sings there.
He used to sing the Noldolantë. He sing it now too. It is greatest work, his longest work, his famed work. It is what he is known for, the one that used to highlight him as the greatest of minstrels of Arda. It is one that no one could ever play, excepting him. It perfectly sums his tears, his sorrow, the blood shed.
The men speak of a wraith who roams the shores, lamenting his deeds. They speak of his crimes, though they do not know what he had done. Sometimes, someone comes to look for him, to get to the bottom of the mystery as they call him. His music drives them mad. It is just beyond the brains of the men of the third age to understand the sorrows of the First, some of which happened before their ancestors ever woke.
Some say that he doesn't exist, and these are just the wailings of the wind and the sea, mourning for the years that have passed.
They speak of a witch that lives in a cave by the shores. She brews wicked potions as she hides from the light of the sun, and when evening falls, she roams and entrances all those who are willing to listen with her beautiful song. She is dark-haired, they say, and pale-faced. She is terrible, yet sorrowful; old, yet young. The Eldar who hear these tales think her a myth conjured by the men who live near Lindon.
There is one day in the year when the singing is unceasing through day and night. The people listen, and make tales as they do. Surely she greets and celebrates the coming of spirits and demons into the world on this day, they whisper. They name the day as Samhain, lighting a dozen candles on the thresholds of their houses to ward the witch and her companions away.
There is one day that Maglor sings all through: His begetting day. Maedhros's death date. The anniversary of the First Kinslaying. There were many sorrows that happened on this day. It deserved to be remembered, to be given something special.
He did not celebrate. Not like one would commemorate a begetting day. But on that day, his songs grew a little happier as he wove a tale of simpler times before the sun and moon when blessed treelight flooded the lands of Valinor.
The ages passed. The men built many kingdoms. The earth shook many times: three times, maybe four times. Middle Earth broke into many parts. Maglor paid no attention. It was nothing to him. Everything changed around him. The only things that were constant were the sea and the sky. And the stars.
Men came. Invaders. A younger Maglor would have aided them secretly using Song, and maybe his blade. But he, who was older and wiser, would not. He had had enough of wars. The Shadow was gone, Morgoth locked behind bars forever until the Breaking of the World. He need not think of anything else but his regrets.
It was a few more centuries until he faded. On his death bed, though, one last mortal came to visit him. His hair was fair, and his eyes were of knowledge. "Hail," Maglor rasped to him.
"Hail," the mortal's eyes were keen yet kind. "You are the wraith then, that they speak of?"
"I have had many names and many titles. It depends on what you wish to call me."
"I will call you then as Cana Cludhmor," the man bowed. "The inventor of the harp."
"And I you as Fionn Mac Cumhaill," Maglor said, in the language of the men of the land.
Maglor passed to the man, now named as Fionn, the tales of the Noldor, of the war. Of the elves. And he went back to his home, and passed down then the legends of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the fair-folk of Ireland.
The halls of Mandos were dreary, yet Maedhros' hair was bright still. His body was whole and unscarred like it had not been since his imprisonment on Thangorodrim. He smiled, and it was a memory of times long ago: in Valinor under the Trees.
"Happy Begetting Day, brother," he laughed, leading him to the rest of his brothers: red-cheeked Caranthir, gloomy yet sharp Curufin, fair-haired and often cruel Celegorm, the identical twins... and Maedhros most of all, the one who had been with him since the beginning until he could not anymore.
Maglor smiled. "Let's celebrate," Maedhros laughed.
Suddenly, all the names and titles were stripped away, and he was simply Maglor.
Happy Halloween, guys! This is the first of four, all of which will be posted today, even if it takes me until midnight. But for now, I'm going to go trick-and-treating. Bye!
