16. Road to Arcadia

And so, little fragments of my once shattered life were coming back together – with greater speed than I had ever hoped for when starting my voyage home, though, perhaps, not entirely seamlessly. But then again, who would have expected a crystal goblet smashed against a marble floor, then stomped upon with iron padded battle boots, to not only get pieced whole again, but somehow even hold wine passably well?

There was one big shard that was, somehow, steadfastly refusing to fall back into its designated place even as most of the others did, however.

Over the months of my first winter in Aman – though that winter was, of course, a far cry from those I've witnessed and lived through back in Middle-Earth, especially since for a few decades I've taken up residence in the Soviet Union of yore – and the following spring, I was tentatively re-establishing contact with those I once knew, through letters. Not all of it was going entirely well, of course – not that I did expect it to. My cousins on Ñolofinwë's side, for instance, were rather evidently disinclined to forge closer ties, especially Turukano – their replies were polite but very clearly rather cold and distant, and I did not press the issue, understanding them well. For them, I was a reminder of the long staunched, but not entirely healed scars of the past, and while I remembered the great camaraderie between Maitimo and Findekano – one that transcended even the familial animosity – obviously I was not Maitimo, whose fate has not changed even so many years later, and for his cousin, it might have been – I would have been – a bag of salt upon the old wounds. All that said, I even managed to get in touch with my paternal grandfather Finwë – and arranged a visit to his hermitage in Formenos for sometime in the coming months – but one of the dearest persons in all of Creation has been steadfastly eluding me.

Certainly my mother Nerdanel was never far from my thoughts, even though I did not seriously consider speeding up the proceedings by gatecrashing her house – already known to me from my voyages to Tirion. I have to admit that once I even spent a few painfully long minutes standing across the alley from it, staring at the shuttered doors and the Venetian blinds covering the windows – all the while alternating between fighting the desire to knock on the door, and hoping that she might sense my presence and come out. No, I told myself forcefully, I would do neither if she was not ready and willing; I knew from Telperinquar that my original message had been delivered, but the fact that there had been no answer for months meant that it was not yet the time for us to reconcile. And I understood – or believed myself able to understand – her quite well.

While I was often told that I had inherited my mother's more gentle demeanour – and it almost went without saying that she really was the mild one in contrast to my father's explosive ego – I really knew her better, and was aware of a few nuances not readily obvious to anyone outside the immediate family. While she did indeed appear as the calm and reasonable one, the power of her personality was so remarkable that in their marriage, she might have really been the stronger one. No woman would have been able to cope with Fëanáro's volatile and overbearing self – and at the same time enjoy their union and draw inspiration from it as she had, up until the later stages anyway – if she had not matched him. Only she was not prone to the same failures as he was. Pride was the inner kernel of her being like it was his, but where his pride crossed readily into unbridled vanity and sense of superiority – which were exploited so blatantly by Melkor's machinations – hers condensed into a quiet, but granite-hard sense of integrity and self-esteem… which was dealt a heavy, if not exactly shattering blow when Fëanáro did the number on her and started his unfortunate crusade, dragging all of us with him and leaving her out in the cold.

Now, for Nerdanel I must have been teetering on the blade's edge between being her only surviving son – and one of those who had walked out on her, voluntarily trampling all of her feelings (spousal, maternal and civic...) into dirt. We could not have hurt her more if we had been consciously trying to do it, I thought. And while mending fences with my wife proved difficult enough, thawing my mother would be an undertaking on a whole different level of "hard", because... by the virtue of being the only survivor out of the eight men in our unfortunate family, I was bound to carry the guilt for all of us, even though I knew her deep-set umbrage and hurt would run counter to her conscious nature.

So good luck picking apart this veritable minefield. Or a mindfield, if I were to bring a measure of light-hearted wordplay to the issue... that I still could not start working on in earnest.

All of that, of course, went in parallel to a whole load of different events and deeds, big and small. While I was no longer writing music as prolifically – and frantically – as I had in the days of my homecoming and the immediate aftermath, the time had inevitably come to sort, process and arrange all of those tunes born out of the climactic change in my life. That, surprising as it might sound, was an endeavour no less monumental than the actual writing, so I was no less busy, creativity-wise. My guitars and the synthesizer knew little rest – also because Lindir was doing more and more work with me, using my instruments as well as his own, and quickly becoming my right hand, so to say, when it came to the sonic arts. We have become like Lennon and McCartney, I joked (and after learning the history of the British rock movement of the twentieth century, which was – in my opinion – one of the greatest phenomena in all of humankind's cultural history, he agreed with me wholeheartedly)... Only we did not have the same vibe of competition which ultimately broke up that combo, and there was no easy way to define which one of us was a John or a Paul on any given day. That did not mean we've never argued – not by a long shot! Indeed, sometimes we've walked out on each other in frustration; other times, we had to painstakingly construct songs almost note by note, so that both of our opinions could be taken into account, and compromises found... lest we really end up like the two most famous Beatles (even minus the Mark Chapman part...)

But every John and Paul need their Ringo and George to be complete... and this was actually where we surprisingly fell a little short. Calawen, unfortunately, was not musically inclined – though that never proved detrimental to our relationship, and she enjoyed my talent to the fullest of her ability as she had in the days of our happiness under the light of the Trees. Actually, during our memorable voyage off the coast of Eldamar, she asked me to sing for her following our initial period of silent contemplation. But after soothing her with olden tunes from the times of our youth and courtship, then a couple of romantic songs of Men, I chose to entertain her with a cappella renditions of Earth's sea shanties and punk rock tunes while steering the boat, and my wife was laughing like crazy all the way back to the harbour. Later, we found that her talents as an arbitrator would make her a band manager, so to say, by Eru's grace.

At that point, however, we were still not a complete band – and I really needed to have one in order to make my long standing dream a reality. You see, the idea that dawned on me at the moment of passage from Earth and into the Blessed Land was playing a real concert for my brethren, showcasing as much of my music as possible. While it was a fairly obvious thought, somehow it took on an almost religious significance in my mind, even though I was at times deriding myself for attempting to see divine will in just about anything related to my homecoming (then again, experiencing transit on the Straight Road and witnessing all the wonders of Aman many thousands of years after I had written all of that off as impossibility for me might do a trick on one's mind…) Even though we have co-opted a trio of "classical" players from New Imladris, none of them were obviously interested in learning the newfangled instruments to round out the band, although their talents on the harp, flute and violin all proved a great addition. At the very minimum, we needed the drums – and a man, or woman, to play them. I've made inroads towards satiating both of these necessities, but the resolution was not very quick to come, and -

"Cano, you have a message from Telperinquar that just came in!" I heard Calawen say out loud from the entryway as I was staying at her house in an older district on the slopes of Túna one afternoon. Actually I was really considering her invitation to move in, rather than continue using Elrond's hospitality, as I have not yet accumulated enough money and resources to create a homestead of my own – though, of course, I would have preferred to be my own man. Unfortunately, that was a little far-fetched at the moment. "Dispossessed until the end of time you shall be...", I remembered that and winced. Indeed all the old possessions of mine were long gone, and even with the valuables I had brought from Earth (thankfully I did not have to go through customs on the way in, I thought with bemusement), I was still quite a bit short of that goal. Besides, I really had to make up my mind and decide on the course of action...

Ah, but that message from dear Tyelpë could very well have been helpful in making one more step towards a more definite future.

My wife handed me a sealed white envelope, her expression strangely guarded. I opened it and read the short note inside, saying just "Dear Macalaurë, would you deign to visit my house tomorrow at noon?" I concentrated on my nephew's mental image and signalled my assent – indeed that was one of the (many) perks of being an Eldar of some pedigree, as while I was not capable of full ósanwë across significant distances like some of the people I knew, namely Elrond and Alatáriel, some basic communication was within my power. Even after going through the procedure of re-tuning myself to my nearest and dearest, Curufin's son included, I knew I would not be able to transfer an elaborate message with many details – and neither could Tyelpë, hence the need to send an errand man, probably a teenager looking for a little extra work, with a written message – but conveying a simple acknowledgment was eminently possible.

I told Calawen of the letter's contents. She nodded matter-of-factly, as if she already knew of it, and asked if she could come with me. I assented, seeing no reason to decide otherwise, and as we turned to go back to the living room where we had been lounging – talking quietly and examining some of the art books I brought back from Middle-Earth – I noticed another envelope, already opened, on the drawer, with her name on it written in the handwriting that looked vaguely familiar... yet I could not place it.

I did not ask her about it, though, as she would have told me if it had been important, or in any way connected to my humble person. In hindsight, it became apparent that this decision was for the best.

We rode to Tyelpë's house, which was not that far away, as the morning bustle of the city was starting to abate. I was still eyeing the streets with interest, remembering from someone's words that Tirion was home to a good five hundred thousand people (and the entirety of Aman to an astonishing ten million). While that would have been nothing to write home about on Earth – all of Elvendom might have fit into a moderately important city somewhere in China – it was still important to maintain the perspective. While the Eldar do not die of natural causes, at least not in Aman (my earlier curiosity about the causes of this phenomenon remained nothing but idle interest, for I had no means of cracking this riddle just yet), they are not very keen on procreating, either… especially of late, it seemed. I never got the precise time frame of – say – Telperinquar's reincarnation and marriage, but it was millennia even by Aman's reckoning... yet he and his wife only had one scion, and whether they would ever bring another into the world was unknown. I have not heard of many births in the wider House of Finwë, either – among its reincarnated members, anyway – although there were definitely some. But many of my relatives just remained childless for some reason or another – some definitely for remembrance of the ones lost, it seemed. Aegnor, Arafinwë's younger son, seemed especially tragic, as he never even agreed to be rehoused due to mourning his mortal beloved from the First Age, and being a Quendi myself I could understand him well.

And despite the fact that Aman was comparable in habitable area to all of Europe, its ten million inhabitants, give or take, were spread pretty evenly across the continent, leaving not a whole lot of empty area (except that taken up by the peaks of the Pelóri, that is); and even parts of Avathar and Oiomurë have begun to be settled long ago. The reason was, of course, that the Elves were not nearly as eager as Men to cohabit in cramped cities; Tirion was an anomaly as far as the Eldar were concerned, but its population figure was deceptive: while the number of its denizens was comparable to a provincial city in an average country of the Edain, it occupied as much area as the largest cities on Earth, sprawling horizontally around the old fortified core instead of edging upwards (or burrowing underground). And yet that growth was attained over thousands of years, not decades like I've seen in the cases of some settlements on Earth that have transformed from a cluster of villages to a metropolis within the memory of one living generation.

I shook myself from the mental digression as the carriage stopped at Telperinquar's house; on a visit like this it was more appropriate to travel this way instead of taking the scooters. Calawen accepted my hand with a smile as we exited, and that reminded me of our journey on the yacht – especially an interesting implication thereof that I would yet have to think about at great length. When singing Earth's songs for my wife, I found from her offhand comments that she was actually able to understand the lyrics somehow, despite very obviously not knowing, and most likely never having even heard before, any of the three languages I've sung in: that is, English, Italian or Russian. Barring the silly idea of her actually being a clandestine agent from Middle-Earth, the only possible alternate conclusion was that when singing, I was subconsciously using my power to convey the actual meaning to the listeners directly. In itself, that was no surprise at all – that was what the songs of command were about – but what really did get me agitated (and a little alarmed) was the notion that I could do this even when singing not a specially conceived hymn of power, or even an exalted classical aria, but something as mundane (and alien to this realm) as an old punk song written by some musician back in one of Endor's states. It appeared that even the more primitive rock music would become animated, so to say, when I was to sing or play it, and I was wondering how much of an effect it might have upon an audience significantly greater in number than one woman, or where the limits of this notion would lie.

"The power of rock and roll" was an old cliché, but it really looked like I could bring it to bear here, testing the limits of my brethren's tolerance if I was so inclined. The thought made me both intrigued and apprehensive, but I would expand on it some other time, I surmised.

Tyelpë was already waiting for us at the door. I could not miss the air of agitation wrapped around him like candy-striped paper – and it looked mixed with something I could not quite place. More interesting – and subtly puzzling, mostly due to its inexplicability – was the lightning fast exchange of glances between my wife and my nephew; I barely got the glimpse of it but was instantly made sure that something was afoot. However, I stopped myself from just asking, deciding to let the conversation unfold and then go from there.

"Macalaurë! My greetings to you and I am glad to inform you that I've succeeded in creating the instruments you asked me about", Telperinquar began, visibly elated, but then another sideways glance cast towards my wife – who was standing off to the side with a slight smile on her face but the expression otherwise neutral and unreadable – made me certain that there was something else to Silverfist's summons. However, the news of the drumkit I had commissioned during our first rendezvous was encouraging anyway. I smiled broadly, shaking his hand and nodding, before he continued speaking.

"I've also taken the liberty to try it out myself, following the patterns you left for me, and... unless there is someone more eager to do it... I would be honoured to learn the trade and play for you... with you, if you find me good enough", he said, obviously proud of himself and apprehensive in equal measure.

I was almost beginning to think that the matter of the drums was going to be the primary topic of our conversation, after all, but then in my peripheral vision, I saw Calawen nod, barely noticeably – to Tyelpë, not to me. Seriously, what was all that innuendo? What were they conspiring about?..

"Is that all you wanted to talk about?" I asked bluntly, already subtly afraid to hear the answer.

"Well... there's no good trying to hide anything from you", he shook his head contritely. "Sorry for not saying it up front – and of course, the drums are not the only matter that I wanted to discuss with you – but there is indeed a certain special guest waiting for you. Surely, I would have invited you today even if this had not happened, but..."

Oh, so that was probably what the second letter was about, and why my wife was involved. I very nearly opened my mouth to ask who that special someone was, but then decided not to jump the gun. I was about to learn it anyway – would I really expect them to tease me about it, then call everything off? – so what difference would a few minutes make! It was not that there were too many (realistic) options, anyway, as I began working the Ockham's razor swiftly along the list of possibilities. Well...

"Come to my laboratory", Telperinquar said, and we followed him into the depth of the house, to a room I've never been in during any of my previous visits. Maybe it was because the lab was Silverfist's sanctum sanctorum, so he was reluctant to invite others, even me, without a very good reason. Apparently this reason has appeared on that day, I thought, almost sure already who I was going to be meeting. Let's see how good of a mind reader, or a seer, you are now, Macalaurë, I wondered. And felt agitation swell inside me uncontrollably with every step of the way – which, thankfully, was brief enough that I did not manage to work myself into a complete frenzy.

At the end of our short walk my nephew ushered us into into the room adjacent to the gateway into his smithing facilities – I noticed that the door was thick and padded with metal, obviously to contain something up to and including an explosion, a sound precaution for the premises where my dear Tyelpë was probably experimenting with new and strange things, including those that could blow up spectacularly. I had a brief moment for my sight to take in a few tables laden with pieces of metals and stone, weird devices – including what could only be a makeshift dynamo, a testament to the proprietor's nascent interest in electricity spurred on by my tales – before a tall woman who had been standing off to the side studying a manuscript turned towards the newcomers, and I was able to see her face well in the light of Fëanáro's Lamps adorning the walls.

She was statuesque and, dare I say, matronly, which was a little uncharacteristic for one of the Eldar, with a head of auburn hair strongly on the red side and piercing grey eyes... the same colour as mine, I knew.

Well, Macalaurë, score one for guessing something right for once, I thought, before being swept into a pair of workmanlikely strong, yet artistically graceful bare arms of my mother, Nerdanel.

Note: the chapter name is from a song by Panthera Krause (2020)

Author's Remarks:

1. I've been deliberately leaving the name of Maglor's and Telperinquar's wives unstated for a while. While Maglor's spouse is canon (but Telperinquar's is not), she is never named nor described in any way, and I'm not any good at inventing Elvish names - as I had already said, the folks at SWG helped me out. Likewise her profession is my conjecture as I guess someone suffering such injustice would choose a trade connected to the law in response.

2. I should have said that when releasing chapter 15, but I was in too much of a hurry to submit it before deadline on the 23rd – given all the events we have on our sorry Earth of late, I'm kinda glad for Maglor that he was able to zoom away instead of witnessing all of that crap. :-)

3. The end(ing) is nigh, as the song goes – I can promise that. Maybe a couple of chapters (one, certainly, but given my propensity for endlessly dragging on my stories way beyond the initially envisioned sizes and constraints, I can't promise to be concise... indeed, why start now, when I am at 234K symbols / 41.5K words...) Then it will be the concert that Maglor has been conceiving (well, it's been hinted at so many times already) – most of it has already been written right when I started the story, but a few things will be revised slightly, and a few more Chekhov's guns fired.

4. I've noticed that I'm mixing British and American spellings throughout the story; I'm mostly using British in all of my writing but I've only set Google's spell checker to stick to it more than halfway into writing this one, so it's only been enforcing it lately. Since I'm neither British nor American, it's no big deal to me (minus my usual OCD...) but sorry for the possible confusion.