8. Prisoners in Paradise
Eönwë's voice startled me out of my reverie, as a chill of dread - completely unwanted but probably inevitable - zigzagged across my spine. I was really in fear, but - oddly enough - not for myself in the most direct sense. No, I was terrified to think that in case of the judgement going unfavourably - and ending up in something akin to summary execution - all the melodies that had coalesced in my mind during my unparalleled journey (but not yet delivered to pen and paper) would be lost forever. They were my cherished progeny now, as if I was a moribund arthropod throwing away what remained of its own existence to protect the precious sac containing the young. Only that creature would have been driven by instinct, and I was by a conscious desire.
That had to count for something, I thought as I exited the coach and took the first tentative steps towards the circle of destiny. Later, I've had very few concrete memories of my short trek there, though I was made fairly sure that Eönwë was following me at a comfortable distance.
To the eye, Máhanaxar was not instantly remarkable - not for the one who had seen the wonders of architecture both in Aman and on Earth like I have: all of them, except maybe the Mesoamerican temple cities at their height of glory (the distinct shortage of Transatlantic flights at the time being the unfortunate reason). But that was only until the simple carven thrones, fourteen in number, all lit up, bright sparks growing in luminosity until they were nigh impossible to look at, and after the immeasurably brief instant when I blinked, my eyes involuntarily shutting out the radiance, the seats were occupied by the shining figures. My heart fluttered in a mixture of terror, reverence, yearning and foreboding sense of the moment's importance, these senses rapidly alternating and taking each other's place at the forefront of my mind.
I had never beheld the Valar so close, if my memory served me right. On the day following the altercation between Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë, when my father was summoned into the same circle, my brothers and I stayed well away while waiting for him to testify, as if fearing that we might be dragged into it as well, though none of us had had any hand in that frankly ridiculous conflict. Ironic it was that now, millenia and ages later I, one in all of my kin, had to set foot inside the same ring.
I could not help glancing back at Eönwë one last time, but the herald of the Valar remained impassive, not making any visible moves to either force me to enter the circle, or to prevent me from fleeing should I decide to do so. The notion that I could have just escaped was, frankly, a laughable one, and this option was never even on my mind, although later I did allow myself to entertain a kind of morbid curiosity, thinking of what would have happened if I had run to the far reaches of Aman - like Melkor had in the troubled days before the final stage of the conflict that led to the destruction of the Trees and my father's ill-fated Oath and… all that followed.
The Valar looked similarly detached, with none of them making so much as a single motion. They were waiting for me to make a move, I realized, and they had no reason to rush me - what could minutes or hours matter to those who had witnessed the aeons of the world go by? While I was close enough to agelessness, their existence was on an altogether different level. There was nothing to be gained by delaying the inevitable anymore, I thought; with the final sigh, I started towards Máhanaxar... and in an instant, everything changed, as though the path threw itself under my feet and met me halfway. I plainly could not have found myself smack in the middle of the circle of Fate after just one step - but I have. In the following moment, a pearlescent rainbow band of energy sprung up from the flagstone, enveloping the circle like a forcefield from Earth's sci-fi stories, not only blocking vision of whatever stayed outside (and in that moment, I was really not sure if anything remained of the world), but completely isolating all of my senses.
It was me and them now, no one and nothing else. Even Eönwë was gone like he had never existed.
"Macalaurë Kanafinwë", a voice spoke from everywhere and nowhere at once, within my head and without, and I flinched, resisting the subconscious urge to drop to one knee - and that desire was not forced upon me from the outside with the intention of marking my inferiority or subservience to this power, but came from my own inner self. I was not sure which of the Valar was speaking, even though logic would have told me it should have been Manwë, as the first among them; however, it really felt like I was addressed by all of them at once, as though their will and speech was pooled together into one cohesive whole. Maybe they could do that, I thought later, when trying to analyze my experience which few, very few indeed of my kind have ever lived through; at that moment, though, I was almost completely subsumed by the feelings apposite for the moment, not processing the events in a conscious way.
Almost. But not quite.
Just like I had many things, I understood later that wholly subduing my will and striking me with their grandeur was not the Valar's intention, expressed or implied, at my trial. They needed me to both comprehend reality, and to respond to their queries and pronouncements in an articulate and voluntary manner. Still, I was very nearly overwhelmed for a spell... until both my will made a return (albeit a shaky and tentative one), and - completely out of the blue - a very different kind of cognition began coalescing in my mind. No sooner that it did, the overbearing radiance - which must have been a figment of my own imagination - dimmed a bit, and I was able to perceive my gracious hosts in a different way.
They said on Earth that when all you have is a hammer, everything around starts looking like nails. When you are a hammer, I thought, this perception must be inalienable, intrinsic to the beholder's own nature. And I was born a hammer... one that strikes the chords hidden deep inside a piano. To me, most everything and everyone was related to music, the tone, the melody; my brain must have been hardwired into synaesthesia of this kind, perceiving all of the world through this looking glass above aught else. And, oh, the Valar were a subject like nothing in the world.
In the brief moment after regaining my full will and awareness I spun my head around, gazing at the Lords and Ladies of Arda with a completely different eye than a second before, my earlier trepidation almost forgotten. They were... magnificient, though now in another way, defying immediate description. To me, each of them was, at once, both a complete piece of music, a grand symphony or an oratory of vast proportions, and at the same time, odd as it sounds, a distinct instrument in a universal orchestra, the conductor of which could only have been Eru Ilúvatar himself. Instead of... whatever people ought to feel when cast inside the Ring of Doom to be judged by the powers of this world, I felt the indescribable wonderment at having witnessed this miracle of creation... and, in the next instant, the burning desire to survive in order to have this sensation put to the sheet of music notation (and then, hopefully, to the string and breath of the actual instruments), even if whatever I could scribe and derive from this might never approach the true grandeur of the Valar.
I will not bore you with the complete description of whatever was born in my brain in that instant, especially with this vision being faint and fleeting, and wholly inadequate. But to my internal sight, Varda appeared as a guitar with strings of pure diamond starlight; Namo a bass violoncello with the tone as gray and mysterious as the depth of his halls; Yavanna took the shape of a set of Uilleann pipes with the drone sounds evocative of the hum of the awakening Earth in springtime; while Irmo sounded like a French horn with its velvety tones, and Nessa did like a fiddle played on rural wedding ceremonies, making the listener's feet move despite their will. Each had their own melody at once contrasting and complementary to each other, and my whole being spasmed in sweet longing, poignant as death, in an attempt to grasp, prolong and memorize this tapestry of otherworldly music.
It all must have taken a split second - though describing it later, as you might see, took me pages and pages of writing. Then, I realized that as my rapt attention was on the Valar, so was theirs on me; but worse still, they had addressed me and I have not returned the favour, which was rude any way you might slice it. If anything, I had to acknowledge simply being there and remaining coherent enough to understand my predicament.
"Esteemed Lords and Ladies of the Valar", I said aloud, bowing just enough to show my respect - which was an honest feeling on my part, not a grudging and disingenuous demonstration of simply deferring to the superior authority. Of course, the Powers did not need to hear me speak; I knew deep inside that they did not even have to ask me any kinds of questions, for they could read me like an open book, more so since I was in the nexus of their might, in the very crosshair of their forces. Yet tradition and courtesy demanded that both sides articulated their positions and opinions clearly, and so we continued. The ball, so to say, was now on the side of the Ainur. And they did not disappoint.
The voice that spoke now was subtly different to the previous one - but not subtly enough that I would have failed to register this change, since I had gotten a bit more familiar with the musical imprints of each of the Valar. For one thing, it sounded rather more female, although it still rang with a multitude of different echoes. It was as if the Powers were, again, speaking to me with a combined will, but one of them took the lead as both the mouthpiece and the one that formulated the thought - one which was processed, assessed and ultimately affirmed by the entire collective. Just thinking of this was fascinating enough in itself, and I had the moment to think that even if I was ultimately wrong, clueless to the true inner workings of the Ainur's common bond - if the mind of a lesser being, even one belonging to the ranks of the Firstborn, could ever come close to understanding the nature of Ilúvatar's ministers! - the theory at least sounded captivating enough to become a basis for a study, or a novel… or, of course, a song.
For some reason, I was fairly sure that Varda herself was now addressing me.
"Macalaurë, your past deeds have caused both great calamities to the peoples of Middle-Earth, and great sadness to us. But that was long ago even in our reckoning, and no matter the conflicting views on those actions you and your kin had perpetrated, the millennial exile you had served has been enough of a punishment. We know your thoughts and stance on this matter, and we are made certain that your repentance is genuine. For this reason, we have allowed and facilitated your return to Aman", she said.
I remained silent for a while, not yet sure what to make of this. This was vastly better than what I had expected at the outset, but I knew better than to push my luck until my sentence would have been pronounced in full. So I nodded and put my hands to my heart, wordlessly expressing acknowledgement and gratitude; my hosts would have been easily able to read my attitude anyway.
A male voice, a rich baritone, spoke after that. It was more distinct, more overbearing and evidently more self-contained than those before it, and for that reason alone I was made sure that none other than Manwë was now addressing me, and conveying his own will.
"We will not be delaying this longer than necessary. While none of us thought that your history can go entirely unaddressed, we have come to the conclusion that it requires only the mildest of amercement - which would, to be fair, rather serve to placate those among the Elvendom that have not looked over your past transgressions as we had. For this reason, you will be disentitled, shorn of the right to claim the royal inheritance as a scion of the House of Finwë or bear ceremonial arms as is customary for the nobles of your original stature. For a year of Aman's time, you will serve probation under the custody of your well-regarded foster son, Elrond of Rivendell, and labor in the public works for the Ñoldor realm. The possessions you brought from Old Earth will be returned to your full ownership, however. If you prove to completely reintegrate into the society, you will thenceforth be considered a fully fledged citizen of Aman, with all the rights and duties inherent in this title. As well, when we are in need of your services, we will be calling on you. Is that clear to you, Macalaurë Kanafinwë, son of Fëanáro?"
I nodded stiffly and barely managed to mouth a "Yes". To say that I was shocked would not have been describing the tenth of it. Was that all? Not only I did not end in front of the metaphoric firing squad as I had fully expected when entering Máhanaxar - I was basically allowed to retain freedom as well as the property that mattered, and sent to dwell with the person I probably had the best relationship (and the soundest chance of getting along) in all of Aman. I hoped that the incredulity would not be showing on my face; futile, I knew, as my mind was practically radiating it and I had no chance to keep that from the spiritual jury.
I was given no chance to express my opinion on the issue, as with a thoughtful nod, Manwë let me know that I was being dismissed. Before my sight, all fourteen figures flared up on their thrones until they were painful to look at, retaining only their basic shapes akin to those of Elves or humans, and I was forced to shutter my eyes. When I opened them again, the Valar had vanished, the radiance completely gone, and also expired was the forcefield, for the lack of a better word, that had surrounded the Ring of Doom like a glowing, semi-translucent ribbon. I edged towards the exit on stiff, unbending legs, my mind in a haze and a swirl of disarrayed thoughts, and in the end I practically ran full tilt into Elrond, who was waiting just outside the circle. I have not seen him for millenia upon millenia, but his face was not the one I would ever forget.
"Maglor", he called out soothingly, snapping me out of my trance-like state. "It's over. Let me take you home".
I followed him to the carriage - his own this time, as the one that had brought me to the Ring of Doom has vanished without a trace, and so has Eönwë. As I started, just barely, to process the sentence of the Valar - as I was sure every word contained therein was meaningful and had deep implications for my future - one passage inevitably cropped up as the most pertinent, if not outright ominous. "When we are in need of your services, we will be calling on you". Just what kind of service could I, being who I was, possibly render to the Powers?
Note: the chapter name is from a song by Europe (from Prisoners in Paradise album, 1991)
