19. Odd Fellows Rest
Sixteen days is definitely not that much. Actually, it is nothing at all – especially when compared to the mountain of things we still had to get done. Billing, first if not foremost – while we were not bound by the rules of Earth's showbiz, of course, I still felt the need to get these issues sorted out. Then, we still hadn't exactly worked out all the arrangements, and I was still on the fence about the general tone we had to pursue. So far, the reactions to my playing in the traditional heavy metal sound were... ambiguous, so to say. Telperinquar was openly enthusiastic (and he'd better be, since he chose to craft the drum kit for us and play it!), and so were some of Elrond's circle, like Glorfindel or Elrond's sons. Elrond himself was obviously less enamoured with the idea, although he acknowledged the merits and kept an open mind (the last thing we twain could afford was being less than entirely honest with each other, even if that meant saying things that might offend one of us!) Others, like Erestor, were visibly appalled, even though no one really chose to deny the first opportunity to hear us play at rehearsals or the little "trial" shows before the chosen few. By far not everyone would return, of course.
Surely we would not be going off the deep end and opting for a death metal sound, I laughed mentally, or the telltale drone metal of bands like Sunn O))) wherein some of the musicians tuned their instruments so low that they had trouble being recorded with basic cameras and microphones! In the end, after many discussions with my fellow players, we decided on the "middle ground": harder and edgier than Deep Purple on average, a bit lighter and airier than Iron Maiden. That also meant we didn't have to transpose the already written (and rehearsed) tunes around very much, and also that we could stick to one guitar (mine) while Lindir would play bass. He was ambivalent about which instrument to choose, although we agreed on the idea that if a willing player of either instrument would be found, the minstrel himself would opt for the other.
So, it was the six of us for now: myself, Tyelpë, Lindir, and the three players of classical Elvish instruments. The Sindar flautist called Aewelír – a shy, wary looking woman with a youthful appearance but impeccable melodic sense despite, in her own words, never training formally. Maicanë, her Ñoldorin friend – let's call it that way – who was her polar opposite outwardly, a bold presence wherever she went, and a harpist of quite some skill. And Gildor Inglorion, once a member of Findarato's household, then lingering long in Middle-Earth and becoming peripherally involved even in the War of the Ring – and now our "session lute player", so to say. Having these three on-board would somewhat make up for the lack of a second guitarist or someone to play the synthesizer, at least for the time being. Whether they would remain with me – and would Lindir and Telperinquar – was a question... best left for later, of course.
With the day of the concert looming ever closer, we had to forsake pretty much every other occupation. We even moved the whole enterprise to Tirion so we could be closer to the venue – taking a couple of runs between New Imladris and the Ñoldor capital to ferry all the gear – and took residence in Tyelpë's house, as it was both spacious and secluded enough for the noise of our rehearsals to never disturb the neighbours. Surely, someone from outside might hear it as we were not exactly making a secret of our presence, and I was already thinking of how many people would be interested in the concert. How many would even come, and how would they be made aware of it? I asked my wife this question one evening as the deadline was already looming.
"If you'd taken some time out and away from rehearsing, you would've known – there are posters all over the city. Remember, we have the printing press here... and besides, the word of mouth spreads fast", she chuckled. "In the time since your arrival – it's been what, a year and a half now? – you've mostly lived in isolation, and you don't know how much interest your person has been attracting of late. You've actually become the focus of everyone's attention, and all the talk in the society is about you. You're just not getting wind of it because you're either holed up in New Imladris, or only really conversing with myself, Telperinquar or Nerdanel when out in Tirion".
Right. With no Internet and no television, I really did feel like I was living in a bubble, but that was only partly caused by a conscious desire to avoid attention – which, as Lindir had hinted once, was indeed there, just not readily apparent because of my kin's nature being very different from that of the Edain. Back on Earth, I would've probably been facing the prospect of the police force chasing nosy reporters from miles around my home, or having to beat back drones with a slingshot. I smirked at the silly thought and wasted no time retelling it to Calawen, giving both of us a good laugh.
Still, that fact shouldered me with additional responsibility, I mused. Not just getting it all to run smoothly – and playing perfectly – but the idea of meeting so many people at once was profoundly alarming.
"Any idea of the... projected attendance?" I asked, my heart already sinking in anticipation of the answer.
"Thousands, if the amount of inquiries I've been having is any indication. Thousands from every nation of the Eldar. The theatre will be jam packed, I can tell", she said with a smirk – that faded into seriousness probably at seeing my face starting to show more and more signs of incredulity and alarm. She sighed and took my hand, then shook it in an attempt to reassure me.
"And yes... I have to be honest – it looks like you will have to be facing more of those you used to be – you are – familiar with than ever since the Years of the Trees. For one thing, Arafinwë and his family will be there", my wife told me.
Well, what else would I have expected but facing pretty much everyone of importance in the Ñoldor realm – and beyond? That just came kind of bundled with my insane idea, although I might not have really been able to predict the amount of attention. I shuddered at the thought of facing, most likely, pretty much each of my relatives – the Remainers, the Returning... and the Reborn. Millennia would be catching up to me in just a few days, and I brought it all upon myself.
Once again, my mind drifted off to a tangential thought – it must have been its preferred method of self-preservation, preventing overloading and saving me from becoming literally sick with worry. Reincarnation was a great mystery to me, even though I've heard some people speak of it rather matter-of-factly. In a way, it made my conscience less painful, since even after all our crimes against the fellow Eldar – and remember, there were not only Sindar but also Ñoldor among those we assaulted in the Havens of Sirion, if that distinction ever mattered at all! – the victims would still remain alive, so in a sense, our crime was made lighter than if we had completely destroyed them with no chance of ever walking the earth again. I remembered that in the First Age, I did slay humans, too, although most of those were really the ones that kind of deserved their fate – Easterlings in the (clandestine) service of Moringotto, ones that swore allegiance to me and my brothers, only to turn on us in the middle of Nírnaeth Arnoediad. I personally hacked that little toad Uldor, son of Ulfang, to death, and – for a change – never once regretted doing that. I also killed quite a few of his tribesmen then, going into a rare genuine bloodlust born out of the feeling of great betrayal (not that any of this would stop us from being defeated so soundly...) Later, I killed to defend myself, time and again, and fought in human wars – the last of which was World War II, which I came through as a humble Lieutenant, then a Captain, in the Red Army. That, however, was so much different.
How does one look in the face of one he has killed, even epochs ago? I remembered the fury of a Teleri mariner who had claimed to have been murdered during our attack on Alqualondë, even though that altercation was a cursory one, and I got bailed out in a rather cheating way by the higher powers. But what would I do if Dior was in the audience? It was not my hand that struck him down, or his family – to my knowledge, he and Tyelkormo wounded each other mortally, and both expired from their injuries before anyone could help them – but no matter how I wished it, I could not deny being at Menegroth and fighting in earnest, killing many people of Doriath who only wished to protect themselves and their royal family from unprovoked assault by marauders that we were. Meeting those from Ñolofinwë's host whom we abandoned in cold blood to starve, freeze and die in the icy wastes of Araman would be scarcely better. What would I say to them now, and what would they say to me? Just thinking of this made me so restless that it took a considerable amount of coaxing – from both myself and Calawen, who sensed a change in my mood and pried the answer from me – to get my sorry self back in line... and in gear for the next rehearsal.
Then, the very process of reincarnation – or rehousing as it was more commonly known as – really did capture my fancy, though for a different reason. I knew of it in theory even before the Darkening – mostly from the stories of my grandmother Míriel Þerindë – but it really became rather academic for a variety of different reasons once we've started on our ruinous path. We simply knew that it would be the halls of Mandos for us until the End of Days should we happen to bite the dust – and so it transpired for every one of us except myself. Like I had already said before, I could not deny entertaining some kind of morbid curiosity about it, but still kept soldiering on, partly out of fear and partly out of a stubborn determination to see out as much as I could of this life. Weathering out everything and returning home suddenly brought the issue back into the spotlight, as I secretly hoped I would somehow be able to facilitate the return of at least some of those in my family who were still disembodied. However, there was no apparent way of doing anything about that, as only Telperinquar has been able to return. One day, I gathered my courage and asked him about his experience. Maybe I should not have.
"Honestly, I do not recall much of it. I remembered my death during the final siege of Ost-in-Edhil, then being summoned by Mandos, like I guess all of us are... but when you are a spirit, the perception is so different. Time does not seem to really exist, for one thing – I only understood how long I had really spent in the Halls of Waiting much later, after I'd been rehoused and could ask which year it was, and what Age to begin with. There was a moment of clarity when – as I understand it now – Lord Námo asked me whether I wanted to return, and I agreed. Then... It was blackness again, and I woke up as I am now. It took me a lot of time – real time now – to remember everything, and even to fully control this body again. Mother and Nerdanel helped me along – as I understand, someone from the family is always called to assist those reborn to get their functions and memories back", he explained, becoming ever sadder with each sentence.
I mentally kicked myself for causing him this kind of distress, but decided that there was one more question I absolutely had to ask.
"Have you seen..."
I stumbled, if only because "seeing" is a ridiculous verb when talking about the ethereal senses of a houseless spirit. Tyelpë realised, however, what I was trying to ask – and to whom I was referring – and waved his hand, acknowledging his understanding.
"Yes, I have felt them. We conversed – and it was not with a voice, again – and they should know of my fate as I know of theirs. But it's, again, so nebulous and... it's just defying description", he sighed. And no, he had no clue about how his new body was created, or how his soul was re-anchored to it, he added hastily. That was the part that perplexed him, too, and for a good reason – no one (except the Valar, or maybe even just the Fëanturi among them) seemed to know the definite answer.
I felt like a bastard for making him relive these experiences that could not have been pleasant – and for reminding him circumstantially of how the fruits of his labour in Eregion were all turned to ashes – so I drew him close and embraced him tightly, trying to convey my compassion, and apology, as best I could. He, however, chuckled defiantly and extricated himself from my armlock, gently but insistently, evidently displeased about his perceived show of weakness.
"In a sense, there was still a good thing to come out of this for me – apart from the fact that I was getting a new lease on life, I mean. It was how I met Ninglor, who would be my wife – again, after Eregion, that is. I was recovering in the gardens of Lórien, and she was looking after her brother who was going through the same process", he laughed, even if his mirth was still looking a tiny bit forced. "Actually, I considered writing a song about this, but I'm just not skilled enough to do this alone. Will you help me?" he inquired then. As if he ever needed to ask.
Write the song about this we did. Elven Doom Metal was never this good before.
Note: the chapter name is from a song by Crowbar (from the Odd Fellows Rest album, 1998)
Author's Remark: the characters Aewelír and Maicanë are by Zdenka of SWG fame, and their story is called "Song of Lake Linaewen". I decided to insert their cameo as a sign of appreciation.
