6. The Storm before the Calm
A person who had lived a life as long as mine, seeing untold atrocities along the way (while also perpetrating quite some of their own, like I had) is bound to become at least somewhat cynical, there's no getting away from it. As the narrow, speedy coast guard vessels slithered towards my yacht, which was still moving slowly towards the shore, I found an unlikely subject to consider: why would the Teleri need to patrol the waters, as if they were expecting black marketeers, pirates or infiltrators from a rival kingdom to show up? As always, I found my thought process drift away on an irrelevant tangent: surely they could not have expected to find someone trying to smuggle some of Middle-Earth's pipe weed into Aman?
Or to repeat Ar-Pharazôn's incursion, of course. That would have been unlikely in the extreme, seeing as how there were no strictly mundane means of reaching the Undying Lands anymore - unless, of course, some of the wilder ideas spoken about in science fiction would suddenly become reality. Surely the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower and the strike group 10 bearing down on Tol Eressëa would have been a worse piece of news than a bunch of petty felons ferrying non-excised cigarettes across the borders, like the ones I saw in Eastern Europe. The real question was what the locals could have done against any significant incursion by anyone, since the Great Armament could not have been stopped by any mundane means, or even the power of the Valar themselves.
As it was, however, interdicting one unarmed elf in a flimsy boat was wholly within the capabilities of the flotilla I was facing.
Of course, that was my unpredictable brain trying to distract me from the fact that I have, actually, fallen into a very real and present danger. Should the Teleri recognize me - and especially should there turn out to be someone with a personal bone to pick with Fëanorings among the crew - I could have very well been slated to walk the plank. A cowardly, shameful hope for the Valar's protection raised its head within my mind, but I quashed it as undignified. First, I needed to see what kind of hand I've been dealt.
The details I saw of the approaching boats confirmed my suspicion about the state of progress in the present time. Even though the vessels were obviously not civilian ones - a few lightly armed troopers on each kind of made that obvious - there were no cannons in sight. In a sense, it would have been a relief - after all, what kind of mariner would be happy about staring down a gun barrel? - if not for the fact that I knew firsthand how easily a "primitive" weapon might kill, especially at point blank range. Oh, and speaking of range - there were archers on the decks, too, and I had no desire to check for myself whether the particular kind of fiberglass the yacht was built of would stop arrows.
At first, the sailors were eyeing me with curiosity - not a surprising thing altogether, because, to the best of my knowledge, there had been no, ah, maritime traffic on the Straight Road for at least three hundred of Earth's years. Secondly, the appearance of my boat was unlike anything the locals were probably used to seeing. On the left-hand vessel, one of the crewmembers - evidently someone with authority, maybe even the captain - walked right to the bow and leaned forward, holding to a piece of cordage and looking at me intently.
"Good sailing, stranger. Please identify yourself", he spoke in a formal voice, using an odd-sounding version of Sindarin (then again, why would it not seem strange to someone who has not used this language in earnest for thousands of years), apparently choosing simpler words and sentences for the off chance that I did not know the tongue well enough.
Now, a moment of truth. I hesitated for a second, thinking of a way to avoid stating my identity, and finding none. Duplicity would not only be dangerous in itself - even if it was to become successful for the moment, when inevitably uncovered later it might make my situation that much worse. Nobody likes liars and manipulators; the simple, honest Sindar like them least of all.
"May the Powers bless your way, good sailors. I am the last voyager from the old Middle-Earth, returning to Aman by the bidding of the Valar. My name is..." that was where I hesitated and missed a beat - and my vis-à-vis must have sensed it, "Maglor, of the house of Finwë".
I had enough sense to avoid mentioning my patronymic - even though that ran against tradition - because I was pretty sure that the name of Fëanor would trigger them in an instant. As it was, unfortunately, my own was charged enough - and wholly recognizable - to have broadly the same effect.
It's... remarkable how one word may change the mood from… well, not festive, but at least relaxed to wary and hostile in an instant. The captain visibly frowned, and a murmur of anger ran through the ranks of sailors on both boats. "A Fëanorion..." "A Kinslayer..." "A fucking apostate..." were some of the things I heard.
"I know him. He and his cutthroats were among those who killed me in Alqualondë", a Teleri sailor snarled out loud, raising an impromptu club which probably used to be a winch head. He looked ready to jump the distance remaining between the two ships drifting towards each other, and smash my skull in with his crude weapon. Or at least to try.
Not altogether surprising, again.
The wooden side of the Telerin boat finally collided with my own vessel. A string of decrepit car tyres attached there just for this case absorbed the impact, but it made me realize that I had nowhere to run. They could have boarded me in seconds.
"And my brother fell defending our waveriders from them", another patrolman chimed in, apparently willing to join in the fight, though lacking a visible weapon to do so. A muscular girl with short, almost severely cut hair started - without speaking anything - to gather a thick rope, evidently preparing to snare me with it so that her crewmates might have an easier time getting their fists and clubs intimately acquainted with my face. I practically felt pinpricks on my skin as the archers nocked their weapons and turned in my direction - not yet drawing the bowstrings quite enough for shooting, but that never really took all that much time, in my experience.
Would conflict and strife really be following me everywhere I might go, until the End, I thought bitterly?
"Stay your hand", the captain said - but I, having become the master of melody and voice ages ago, felt him waver from the tone of his speech. He was hesitant in the most unfortunate way possible, actually encouraging his unruly subordinates with his blatant indecisiveness and making them realize that in the worst case, he'd claim circumstances beyond his control when interrogated after the deed, and be done with it.
Voice... melody... no, trying to enchant the sailors with songs to calm them down would not work, I thought. For one thing, there were too many of them, and the effect would not be immediate - and, worse still, not uniform. Those less affected would simply see this as an attempt to influence the crews with sorcery, and rouse the others, or go at me directly. Or both. No music would save me this time, even though it did a few times in the past.
I sighed deeply and glanced skywards for a second to calm myself. I was the only one to look in that direction, and therefore no one but me saw a huge bird - plainly too big to be a seagull, or even the largest albatross. It was soaring rather far above the scene, but visibly descending, and the circles of its trajectory were getting smaller.
So, Manwë has sent one of his eagles to observe the stand-off. For what purpose, I wondered, forcing myself to return my gaze to the boats around me. It was just as well that I did.
There! I dodged the heavy piece of wood flung at me by the irate Teler. It ricocheted from a handrail and fell into the water, mercifully not hitting the plexiglas window - I'd have no way to replace it anymore (seriously, Macalaurë, they're about to crack your skull and you care about the boat's exteriors?) I had the time to wonder what their exact intentions were - surely killing me would not have achieved very much, if only to let them get even? I realized with a hint of fear that it might have been their precise idea. Certainly there would be some kind of judicial reprisal for them, but what do those who had already died once stand to lose?.. Now, if even their own captain appeared not entirely convinced that his lads - and a lass - should have been kept in line...
Then, the lighting changed in an instant, almost intangibly at first sight, but profoundly so to any other sense. Between me, still semi-safe behind the edge of the cockpit's shade, and the side of the boat from Eressëa now looming ominously over my own little ship, a tall shape, clad in a full suit of armor, appeared seemingly out of thin air. The yacht dove noticeably under the suddenly appearing weight, then recovered.
I have recognized this figure, of course, even though it only had been eleven thousand years in the reckoning of Middle-Earth since I last saw him. To say that I was not shocked would have been untrue, even though since seeing the eagle I have been contemplating (and coveting, there's no denying it) a "divine intervention" - so to say - to defuse the situation from which I was seeing no easy exit. However, my own shock was nothing compared to that of the Teleri sailors who froze like children in a street game - some in quite hilarious positions - thrown into stark relief by the subtle, yet omnipresent, light cast by...
"Lord Eönwë!.." unsurprisingly, I was the first of the actors in this frankly uninspiring stage play who managed to find the voice to speak.
"Maglor Fëanorion", the divine herald spoke impassively - and I noticed that he deliberately used the Sindarin rendition of my name so that my... adversaries would understand it clearly. Indeed, he proceeded to speak in the same Sindarin that I remembered as the latest version of it still spoken in Middle-Earth - which was not doing much for keeping it up-to-date, as it was still thousands of years past the expiration date, and the coast guards were clearly finding it not entirely straightforward to follow. That Eönwë was on my side of the linguistic divide was a reason for a "moderate" degree of hope.
"Esteemed captains and sailors of the Tol Eressëa. This newcomer and all his possessions are henceforth remanded into the custody of the Valar. By the decree of Lord Manwë, he and his vessel are to be expedited to Valinor, intact, where he is to stand in judgement by the Valar. Are there any questions? If not, we shall be on our way. Maglor son of Fëanor is no longer your concern. May your day be blessed", Eönwë intoned stoically, not removing his gaze from the hapless Teleri sailors.
The last sentence was clearly meant to cut short any possibility of continuing the altercation on the part of the mariners. The captain who talked to me, having realized as much, visibly blanched and just nodded, evidently unable to speak coherently. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the sailor who tried to attack me sink to the deck, as if his legs gave out, and I could not help feeling a stab of vindictive glee inside. I only hoped that the sentiment did not reach my face, and that I have remained outwardly dignified enough through the whole ordeal. I knew it was petty enough, but I believed - though I would only articulate the thought now - that I had to immediately make a suitable impression once I would arrive in Aman, as from then on, I had to start a new, and final, life. My stay on Middle-Earth, while many times as long as all of my years in Valinor before that... clusterfuck, pardon my Vanyarin, of the expedition to retrieve the Silmarils, was ultimately transitory, even though I would rarely acknowledge that to myself. Now, however... I had to tread lightly and make every word count, because there was no other shore I would be able to flee to should something go awry once again.
"Steer forward, Kanafinwë", my erstwhile passenger said calmly (now in the period-accurate Quenya that I considered my native tongue) as he was heading to the cockpit like he was actually the owner of the boat, giving no further heed to the other vessels. I pried the boathook from its designated lodgement on the mast and pushed our yacht away from the patrol boat's wooden side (using my boot for the same purpose, I thought, might have looked as a deliberate show of disrespect, and I decided to remain outwardly civil - after all, these mariners would be remaining my neighbors for the foreseeable future). Since the sails were folded, and we were still too close to the coast guards to maneuver safely with them unfurled, I decided to start the engine to get clear of the Telerin waveriders (none too deep in my mind was a veiled desire to have them jump at the sight and sound of a motor boat - something they have, in all likelihood, never witnessed).
Eönwë did not even flinch when I gunned the diesel (what the natives thought, unfortunately, remained a mystery to me), but I had a feeling that he was eyeing the appliances adorning every inch of surface - my yacht, after all, was not a big one, intended mostly for a single occupant, and free space was precious - with interest. The navigation computer was offline because there was no use for it now, with no satnav and no maps (if anyone knows where to get good sailing charts for the waters around Valinor, please send me an eagle mail...) But the good old gyro-compass was, well, good as ever, cheerfully spinning in the binnacle - it was not for nothing that I made sure to outfit my yacht with decent old-fashioned navigation instruments, in addition to all the electronic stuff, once I knew I would be travelling to the Undying Lands. Hilariously enough, the other electronic devices were in full order, and as I steered cautiously away from the patrol ships and past Tol Eressëa - towards the shore of Aman still far too distant and obscured by haze to be discerned clearly - I had an absurd thought that I should have made a couple of photos of the Telerin boats, once we were safely out of range. With Eönwë now on board, I thought they would have hardly tried to shoot at us, or even toss potatoes our way.
A couple of cables away, I realized that a favourable, eastern wind has risen. I hastily turned off the engine and unfurled the sail - after all, I had no idea when I might need the yacht to move under its own power again, and even though I had filled the tanks to the brim (and packed a few extra jerrycans of diesel, just in case), I still had to conserve fuel as best I could. Eönwë - who, as I realized from the get go, was there as much to prevent me from doing anything rash as to keep me safe - was looking on with an inscrutable expression, and I was somehow made certain that trying to question him would have been futile. Then one thing struck me, and soured my mood like a mushroom cloud.
"Are we heading to..." I began. Please, don't let it be the Swanharbour, not ever again, I thought. If it was, I might just as well jump overboard right now - like Amroth of song - and swim back... to the Telerin patrol boat, begging them to take me in and volunteering to scrub their latrine for the next Age-
"No, not to Alqualondë", Eönwë frowned. Whether he was reading my thoughts or simply put 2 and 2 together, I was not sure; it must have been clear as day to him, anyway. "There is a small Ñoldorin harbour at the mouth of the Calaciriya, built during the preparations for the War of Wrath in order to land the troops and supplies without making a detour north. Oh, and it served as a disembarkation point for the returning Ñoldor, too... one that could be used without ruffling the feathers needlessly".
It made sense. And it meant that the Valar have not been oblivious to the political undercurrents among the Elvendom as they once had been. Of course, the revolt of Fëanáro and all the... consequences thereof... would've been pretty hard to miss. That reminded me of one issue I absolutely had to ask my passenger (or warden) about, though.
"Lord Eönwë... I understand full well that you will not speak of what awaits me, and so I do not even intend to ask", I began, and the Maia nodded in affirmation. "However, I implore you to tell me about the present situation in Valinor. What am I to find there?"
Eru, I've started to speak in long-winded courteous language no sooner than I was thrust into the company of one of the Powers. Then again, talking in good Quenya again, after millenia, was probably conducive to the change in speech patterns.
"I see, you need to know what kind of playing field you are arriving in. The three peoples of the Eldar are still much the same as they were, although there is a good deal of commingling - mostly through marriage. Arafinwë is still the king of your nation, although both Finwë and Ñolofinwë had been returned to life. Your grandfather returned to Formenos, stating that he had no designs for the crown, and is now styled Lord of Formenos, the King Emeritus. Ñolofinwë also said he had no desire either to rule, or to upend the established order, so he became an explorer, retaining just a small area of land in Valinor as his nominal domain, where his wife and his most loyal followers are dwelling. He..." then, I felt Manwë's herald hesitate for the first time, and looked at him incredulously. "He dedicated himself to the purpose of finding and repatriating the bodies of all those who died crossing Oiomurë and Helcaraxë - at least on this side of the divide - and honoring their souls as well".
An icy chill gripped me at these words amid the warm sunny day and the safety of my trusty boat's cockpit. That was one more crime that I had a direct hand in - by not preventing the burning of the ships and all the casualties among the forces led by Fingolfin. That act had never sat well with me, and while deep inside I knew that I would not have been able to prevent it - not against my father, the majority of my brothers (with only Maitimo really trying to forestall the deed that would doom the second host to untold misery and loss of life, and me being half-hearted about the whole thing) and their nobles - the thought that I should have died at Losgar defending the waveriders against my crazed kinspeople instead of sleepwalking on and blundering into committing atrocity after atrocity has always been in the back of my mind.
Just as well that Eönwë reminded me of this. If, after all these years, Ñolofinwë or one of his family - like Elenwë, who died a gruesome death under the Grinding Ice, or indeed her husband Turukáno, my cousin, whose earthly fate was, on balance, scarcely better - would decide to put an axe through my skull, I would not fault them in the slightest.
And since my travelling companion said nothing about my brothers, I could only assume that they were all still residing in Mandos; that my father was, and would forever remain, there went without saying. I anticipated nothing less - in fact, I was fully expecting to join them very soon through some action of the Valar, since I had proven too tough for Middle-Earth with all of its ever-worsening horrors to chew.
As we sailed past the Lonely Island, skirting it from southwest - no longer waylaid, or indeed noticed, by any of its inhabitants - I noted to myself that this part of my... homecoming... was the only one so far that left no musical impression in my mind. None that I would care to remember and furnish into song, anyway.
Note: the chapter name is from a song by Anathema (from Weather Systems album, 2012)
Author's remarks:
1. This is a double (if not triple) sized chapter. I had entertained the idea of splitting it in two, likely at Eönwë's arrival, but in the end decided to keep it whole as it covers a contiguous stretch of Maglor's journey. It's all written itself in one go, anyway. :) Not all of the subsequent chapters will be that long.
2. I'm using the Quenya names of Ñoldor characters even though they were mostly known under the Sindarin renditions thereof. Sindarin was the lingua franca in Beleriand, of course, but since we're no longer there, there's no good reason to refer to them thus (unless a Sindar character does it, that is) - thanks to Elena for pointing that out. I let the better known versions slip a couple of times, though (and will continue to do so), in order to give some measure of familiarity to those who have not been reading as much fanfiction where the action is taking place in Valinor, anyway. :) Just in case: Ñolofinwë = Fingolfin, Turukáno = Turgon, Arafinwë = Finarfin. Elenwë has no Sindarin version for her name anyway because, well, she was killed before getting to Beleriand, poor lass. :(
3. Now, I believe I owe all of you folks who had posted reviews for the previous chapters. There are more responses than for all of my previous stories combined, so I need to honor that, don't I?
Toraach, thank you! It's been "just" eleven thousand years in Middle-Earth's reckoning, and from what I gathered recently, Valinorean years are much slower (around 12 for every 50 in Middle-Earth, so the time flow is roughly ¼ the speed - it probably became this way once the Undying Lands were separated from Arda completely, after the fall of Númenor. That still does not mean Maglor's wife (and mother, too) have had it easy. One of the chapters down the line, currently slated to be number 9 - more than halfway written as of Feb. 5th - will explore the issue of families split and the whole of Ñoldor society being wrecked by the departure of what, ¾ or more of all men and a good portion of women? Then again, Maglor, being Maglor, will not only find the way of addressing his wife and mother, but create a song in the bargain.
Oh yes, and he does carry a bit of technical information with him, and it will come into play in an unusual way come the last chapter (which is also written, and has been for a while - I know I suck at writing in sequence, as the final parts are all done and it's the in between stuff that is so far missing). Celebrimbor/Telperinquar will inevitably play a role, although it might be an unexpected one, again.
DroidePlane, thank you, and there will be familiar faces making their appearance, including some pretty obscure ones (though I might've spoiled some of them by showing them in the character list originally; I removed them later because technically they haven't appeared yet, and FFN's limit of specifying just 4 characters per story is a bit counterintuitive anyway.
EarthDragon, thank you for the kind words. As stated in chapter 3, he will have to do with solar power and thus battery-charged amps like the street musicians over here do (the sight of them performing all across St. Pete's might be a part of what inspired me to write this, although the overdose of Silmarillion fanfiction was probably more of an immediate reason. :) Celebrimbor will inevitably be featured; as to what other people will show up, I can just say "wait and see". :)
Etta, thank you! I might be guilty of partially writing Maglor the way I would write my own speech and character, or at least how I perceive myself. As for the parts that aren't "mine", I'm trying to show him as a jaded yet still not completely cynical individual, he's "seen the world and got the shirt" (which is an unmarked quote from a song by a well known heavy metal performer, bonus points to anyone who finds who I'm referring to, haha! :)) Maglor is also inevitably influenced by living among Men for so long.
Witchfingers, thank you and actually the Maglor homecoming stories are a pretty common thing in the Silmarillion-based fanfiction, I have stated outright that I've been influenced by one. I've read different ones running a wide gamut of emotional coloring and a variety of subsequent events, and I'll be inevitably repeating some of the concepts, especially from the SWG story I've referred to, but my take on the similar events Maglor will be going through is going to be very different. I've chosen to give each chapter a title borrowed from a song both because I love music (not only heavy/doom/death metal or New Age, that is) so much, but also because Maglor is a person of music, that's the lens he perceives everything through.
As you can see from this chapter, he does find a way to Aman, even though he's not quite made landfall just yet. Come next chapter, he will.
