'In the corner of the western tower
Hangs the banner of the golden flower
From times now long gone
Before man walked the Earth alone.'
Maglor paused, quite aware of the obvious truth, and he had known it three months ago when he first wrote this stanza. He had once been considered one of the greatest poets to have lived, people would not believe he was the author of the amateurish work lying before him. To add to this disgrace as the text went on it grew worse, perhaps it seemed impossible, but it really did. At first Maglor had assumed that the subject matter was responsible so he had forced himself to revert to another work to find that it did not matter what he was writing about, the words on the page were atrocious. Whether he was describing a banner, a battle or a bird upon a tree he ever found himself lapsing into cliché and forced rhymes.
Had his talent been ripped away from him? Surely he had already paid enough for the wrongs he had committed, was it not enough that he was forever separated from the rest of his kind. Maglor could see a great palace bathed in light and his brothers laughing while the wine was poured for them, the long lost Valinor. All that remained was Maglor's poetry, and not even an audience now, just the need to rouse himself out of his depression. This was how he expressed his grief in a world that had no interest in his sorrows and the Valar had taken his talent away, Maglor could not breathe at the thought. Was this the final damnation?
It had to be.
He gave up on his work and walked outside. In his small cabin, Maglor had been warm, but now fistfuls of rain caught him, drenching him in seconds. Soon he could barely see because of the water streaming down from his hair, but he did admire the lightning as it illuminated the darkened world and he found the moment to be fitting to his mood. Appropriately poetic, the Valar were mocking him once again.
He sneered, walking dawn a muddy track towards the human settlement for there was nowhere else to go apart from this little village where he occasionally went to buy things he could not make for himself. When he reached the settlement he was disheartened at what he saw, where once had been magnificent cities and noble kings, squander remained. These people lived in wooden huts and spoke a glottal tongue, which Maglor doubted would be able to convey ideals such as honour and verity, as there was no notion of these ideals in the minds of these people.
No one was out on the street when he came to the main road of the village or rather the only road. Rotting houses stood on either side and a religious monument rose at the road's end. Maglor could not help but to compare these people to the Atani, he had found first men to be uncivilized when he encountered them, yet they had risen to the heights he had never thought possible. He remembered his first sight of the Numenoreans and a chance meeting with Aragorn, who, of-course had been oblivious to Maglor's identity. Mortals have become kings of the world; men took what elves had first and now they abandoned all their previous achievements to live a step away from beasts. Worse, there was no way for them to return to the people they had been and the whole world was decaying along with them, Maglor witnessing its slow but inevitable fall. That was the tragedy of an undying soul stranded in this mortal world.
'Estel?' came a voice startling Maglor, he had been so lost in thought that he had not heard any footsteps.
He observed the child, a boy of no more than five inhuman years. Dirty faced and dank, not one of these people bothered to wash as frequently as they should. Maglor realized that the child was looking for something now that the rain reduced to a drizzle for these summer storms never last past an hour. He pulled his wet hair out of his face and tried to find the missing object though he was not sure what he was looking for. Minutes passed the search in vain as tears built in the child's eyes. Maglor sighed:
'Child, what have you lost? Shh, do not cry, we will find it.'
'Estel, my toy is lost,' replied the boy. 'I must've dropped him when trying to get away from the rain.'
'Where did you find that name?' Maglor muttered quite mystified, as he was certain that this name was long lost to the memory of men.
'I made it up.'
For the first time the boy looked at Maglor and the elf could not believe what he saw. He knew that hair for it lay upon Elros' head in an identical manner, the expression on the face belonged to young Aragorn and the grimy hand was reminiscent of the noble Lord Finwë save for the lines upon the skin that would appear with age. At times, in the fallen ages, Maglor had seen a feature or two of the olden times, but that meant nothing. Surely so many similarities were important though. If not, at least they stirred Maglor's memory. Names that he had barely thought about for centuries rose in his mind and conversations he would have never remembered otherwise returned, memories, from the golden days of Valinor to the final evening with his brother. But how could this be? The House of Noldor reflected in a human child, the idea was ridiculous. Unless, unless the child was a direct or almost direct descendant of Elessar. Maglor was dumbstruck at the idea for he had been quite sure that none had survived the centuries of bloody wars for succession.
'Sir, are you all right?' asked the boy.
'What is your name, boy?' said Maglor.
'Corin, my lord.'
No, of-course the name would not come from Sindarin or any perverted version of Adunaic, the world had moved on. Perhaps Maglor had been wrong in his assumption also. He had loved Elrond and Elros dearly, to have them back would have been better than anything else the Valar could have granted him. His heart had gotten better of him. Maglor should have noticed before, Corin's eyes were not grey as those of the Noldor and the Numenorean men laced with elven blood had been. Instead they were grey-blue, the colour the Teleri had always found beautiful and the mark of Haleth's people. Nevertheless, they were beautiful in their own right.
'Corin? Have you found your toy?' asked a woman from a nearby perch.
'No,' replied the boy, 'but I've found a friend.'
The woman's eyes flicked over to Maglor. He tried to smile and hoped he would not be considered hostile with his wet clothes and tangled hair.
'You're the hermit from the forest, aren't you? Perhaps you would like a break from your usual habit and spend the evening with us? I can already see that Corin likes you,' she said after a pause. 'My name is Sabirah.'
'Maglor. I would be glad to join your family as long as I am not intruding.'
'Certainly not.'
Maglor was curious to see the inside of a human home; he had not been in one for a long time. It turned out to be grimy and cramped; the family had seven children, Corin being the youngest and the oldest not yet old enough to marry. The husband had Corin's hair and the woman the same lips; however how all else came about remained a mystery to Maglor, as the other children appeared quite different to their youngest brother.
The dinner itself was meager; Maglor ate better food everyday yet the atmosphere at the table warmed his bitter heart. He had come from a home of seven children, once he had hoped to have many children himself, but the Oath prevented that dream from ever materializing. Everything was bittersweet in Maglor's mind; he struggled to tear himself from the dark memories and concentrate on the children's laughter.
'Thank-you for your hospitality, I have not had such a pleasant dinner in many years. Though, I do not think I have anything to offer you in return,' he said once the meal was done.
'Nothing is necessary, Maglor.'
'No, please, at the very least I would like to tell a story to the children before they climb into their beds.'
Maglor immediately wondered what had brought him to say such a thing, habit he supposed, since he had done this many times, yet hours earlier Maglor had been grieving over his lost talent. That did not matter though, the children were ready and there was no polite way he could proclaim that he had changed his mind.
Although Maglor often found that words came to him when he began singing without previous practice he did not have the confidence to trust in the music this night. Instead, he decided to sing something he had sang before. There was Noldolantë, but that was not a tale for children and that was the problem with most of his compositions over the ages. In the end he settled for a silly ballad he had written after watching Elladan and Elrohir on their first deer hunt.
He began, nervous of how the translation from Sindarin would sound and worried about his accent, but after a few lines, he smiled fully for the first time in centuries. The words flowed and the audience marveled at the antics of the two elven princes amidst a land of bridges shaped out of living wood stretching over countless, whispering streams and waterfalls. The tale took Maglor on the journey also, he had watched Middle-Earth for so long that he could not quite remember what it was like to be part of the world after so long outside it, he was as captivated as his audience.
When that tale was finished, the children asked for another and Maglor obliged though he regretted now that he did not have a harp in his hands. His burnt hands hurt after he used the instrument, but the harp had its part to play in the song. Maglor noticed that the adults too listened to him, laughing and cheering just as their children. He was glad. So that was the root of the matter, Maglor simply needed an audience, the Valar were not trying to torment him (he had done that enough himself) after all.
Unfortunately, the world they lived in rolled forward without any consideration for those who were having a good time, the evening ended to the disappointment of both the storyteller and the eager listeners. The children dispersed to get ready for bed except for Corin who Maglor noticed was sitting still where he sat all evening.
'Did you like the stories?' asked Maglor.
'Yes, can you come again tomorrow night and tell me some more?' replied Corin. 'But where did the elves go if they used to live here or did you just make them up?'
'Of-course not, elves are real and all the stories are things I have witnessed myself.'
'Then I want to know all about them and the rest of it. I wish I could know all there is to know, then my brothers and sisters couldn't call me stupid anymore.'
'If you truly wish to learn, I will teach you,' said Maglor.
He blinked; here again came a strange feeling induced by a preposition of a child wanting to learn the past. Humans by their nature strove forward lest death catch them and rarely took a moment to reflect on the past. No doubt in a week Corin would grow bored of Maglor's words, but while the opportunity was there, he would indulge himself.
Yet there was more to it, Maglor had to take another look at the boy and this time the eyes caught his attention. They gleamed bright in the light of the dying fire while all else was nearly consumed by darkness, too bright for an ordinary mortal. Maglor rubbed his forehead wondering if he was seeing right.
Many years had passed and Maglor found some happiness at last for Corin did not grow tired of hearing Maglor speak. He learned all that there was to know about the Elder Days and those that followed, by adulthood the grandeur of the Numenor clear about him. Corin was the reason for countless changes in his village and for a hundred years under Corin's leadership his people had prospered. However, nothings last in the human world and though Corin had lived a short time by the measure of Elros' descendants he outlived his generation by decades, it was time for a final parting.
'Here lies Corin Envinyatar Telcontar
Speaker of truth, bearer of prosperity, beloved by all.
Lie in peace to the world's end,' read the tombstone.
He and Maglor had taught the people writing so the inscription was in classical Sindarin, the tongue Maglor had taught them since he was hesitant to teach them Quenya and his memory of Adunaic was hazy.
The town of Tirion lay behind the crowd; Corin's village had grown into his people's capital under his leadership. Now that he had passed beyond the confines of his world, every citizen was at the memorial with the descendants of Corin's five children at the front of the gathered. Maglor glanced at them; they would have to carry on from where Corin had left them.
Maglor looked down at his hands grasping onto his harp, partially because he could not stand the sight of the fresh grave and partly because his hands were swollen from continually playing his harp while he sat beside Corin's bedside for the last week. His friend's life had not had a peaceful end; it was a burning sickness that took him. Corin had been afraid to leave his people because of a lack of a proper successor. His descendants did not share his spirit to a full degree nor could he find anyone else who would be appropriate, Maglor too realized that this age of enlightenment would not last for long. Within a few generations, most of their current knowledge would be lost once more, but Maglor had also noticed that once Corin began his work his sparked innovation and ambition in many others.
They were the ones who worked out how to built the first stone buildings for Maglor had known nothing about construction and they adapted Tengwar to fit their own tongue. These were the people blessed by Iluvatar's gift, who strove higher than what their present conditions had given them; they would not stop even if they reached the firmament. Now that there had been a spark the fire would not be utterly extinguished, Corin's legacy would pass on in the minds of human idealists. Maglor was sure of it.
The crowd dispersed and eventually the family left too, Maglor alone remained standing before the grave. He had said his farewell already, a few minutes before Corin died; only the silence remained. It frightened him, this great emptiness as Maglor had lost a son and a friend, he could not bear contemplating facing more solitude like previous but nor did he want to stay in this Tirion that Corin had built. Maglor wanted to be with his family, real or adopted, not their graves.
Night fell and Maglor felt himself weary, he had not eaten or rested for many days. He say down before Corin then as sleep lulled him Maglor let his body spread on the ground, his harp steady in his hand.
To be a poet is to see a world as no other, Maglor had found beauty in the carnage of Alqualondë, he had marveled at the hidden splendor of the burning mounds in the aftermath of Nirnaeth Arnoediad and he had lost that power for ages to regain it only now. In the blue-gray eyes of mortal child.
'I do not think I have will to continue now that you are lost to me, my child of hope,' Maglor sighed and closed his eyes remembering all that he had seen in his life.
In the morning, Elessar, the oldest of Corin's great-grandchildren came to lay fresh flowers on the grave and he saw a harp lying in a bed of strange flowers that had not been seen east of the Great Sea for many ages. He picked up the harp and after digging a small crevice in the earth next to Corin's grave and placed the instrument in then covered it with dirt.