September 30, 3021 of the Fourth Age of Middle Earth

It is told that neither the earth nor the grass or stone above it ever forgets if elves once dwelt near. Long is the memory of sun and moon, Anor and Isil, longer still is that of the trees of Yavanna and of the stars of Varda, queen of the Valar, and, yet, stronger than all other does the soil sing of joy when the Firstborn are near. The voice of each individual flower, shrub, and pebble adds only light to the tapestry that is Eä - the Music glistens in the shimmering moonlight; conducting the light proudly is Ëarendil's star, Gil-Estel, the Evening Star.

Yet, it is that which now shines so brightly, a beacon of everlasting hope for all of the Secondborn - this truest to the descendants of Westernesse, men of the North - that haunts the very hill which now juts desolately out of the Belegaer, the great Western Sea. Himring. Once the great mountain fortress of the former High King of the Ñoldor, infamous amongst the beings of Arda, both fair and foul. Maedhros, he was; his hair burned red as his fëa blazed with infinite passion and he stood tall in the face of the evil Gorthaur, or Sauron as he now names himself. A cruel jest of the Valar, he would consider it, a Silmaril hanging just beyond reach - his oath not yet fulfilled.

The grass on Tol Himling, however, did not sing. Neither did the fallen stones of once-great gateways of the keep nor did the earth into which the foundations of Arda's greatest defense against the darkness of Morgoth laid. For centuries, they had stood, singing, joined by the might of the seven great sons of Fëanor and the host of the Ñoldor, but darkness had come and had never left. The gossamer threads of golden melodies were still cut, unfinished, and there was, instead, chaos. Discord and dissonance. Yet, faintly, behind the cruel blackness of Morgoth's everlasting influence on Beleriand, there played a lament: slow, soft, and almost unmoving, but, yet, it wept for the Arda that could have been, for the golden age of the great Elven kings, and for the unblemished Music. Tol Himling had slept undisturbed since the dawn of the Second Age, and, now, it had a visitor.

An elf stood, unmoving, his garments old and travelworn, torn beyond repair or recognition. At his belt, a sheath lay, unburdened as it was, and over his back, a harp was strung alongside a small and crude leather travel bag. His left hand was burned, black as depths of Thangorodrim, matching the color of his tangled and ravaged hair, which once streamed so gallantly under the crown of the Ñoldor. He looked upwards slowly and, suddenly, collapsed to a knee; his other hand, undamaged, he clenched in the soil, which still cried out to him in sorrow, and he choked back a cruel and masochistic laugh. He shakily stood upright again and stumbled forward several paces to the remnants of the second wall of Himring, arm still clenching the mourning grass and earth, now outstretched towards the blackened stones of the keep. Then he spoke, his voice rasped by two Ages of singing, unchanging and unending.

"Himring! Home, I named you once! Do you recall me? Your prince!"

His voice, soft and, yet, resonant, echoed throughout the desolation. The lament slowed but did not change. The elf pushed himself off the ruins, scowled, and then scoffed lightly.

"Of course not. It is as though I have not sung here for centuries, livening the spirits of the great hosts of Ñoldor elves, chanting into being courage and wisdom, or calling forth the might and unyielding power from this earth before. Cowards. The greatest Firstborn bard stands before you and yet you fall silent!"

Then, gazing back towards the sky and flinching away from Ëarendil's Silmaril, he cried out with all the strength left in his voice, a small croaking Song of Power, embedded deep with his fëa but, alas, he could summon no characteristic beauty into his singing:

Hear me, o' Valar, in the West!

Alone, I recall. The greatnesse,

Splendor, of Firstborn; it now rests.

No more, I shall say; not in oath!

Yet see, what wrought you. Now, for growth,

There lacks. A deep dark, he has sow'th.

Hear me, o' Valar, held so great!

Pain is! Ends never! Do not hate,

You claim - now show me! Abdicate.

My grief; it claims on. I still see

Maedhros, king, brother, here and free,

Yet know, a ghost, faint, he must be.

Hear me, o' Valar, in the West!

Alone, I recall. The greatnesse,

Splendor, of Firstborn; it now rests.

His head bowed now in exhaustion, the elf slowly pulled the harp off his back, wincing as it skinned his blackened hand, and held the instrument between his knees, leaning it slowly back onto his strong shoulder. Once, in this very dwelling, a gilded harp of shining gold had awaited him in his chambers every evening, built by the great smiths of Tirion upon Túna in Valinor, long since shut to the Ñoldor; now, his pale and cracking wooden harp had held the tear of the Noldolantë for centuries and would do today as well.

He listened once more to the slow lament of the earth, the weeping cries of the stones where he once sat as prince, and the soft suffering of the darkened grass growing now where the dragonfire of the mighty Glaurung once scorched the fortress of Himring during the Dagor Bragollach, Battle of the Sudden Flame. And now, thrice, he bid them listen, and sang the greatest of the songs of sorrow that Arda had yet heard, the Noldolantë; nature wept and Vingilótë, host of the star of Ëarendil, hid, for the pain it wrought was great and it now heard Tol Himling cry back to its former prince.

Makalaurë!

The elf now smiled, thinly and sharply, showing more teeth than the halls of Tirion would have ever accepted, and, harp slid onto his back, he pressed forth, singing gently. Finrod, noble Elven King of Nargothrond, had stood evenly matched against the cruelty of Sauron in music and Lúthien the Fair called down the dark lord's Tol-in-Gaurhoth in great song. Makalaurë, though half-Maia he was not, did not need to face impending doom and draw on the tapestry of Eru in its presence - create, he could, not just destroy, and he called forth the old stones of Himring.

"Build!" He cried out, "Recall the great walls! Where, once, we stood, holding at bay the greatest Enemy for centuries. Build!"

The stones, growing more plentiful with every step Makalaurë took towards the peak of the hill, begin to simmer with excitement and a golden-orange glow swept over the fields of blackened earth and grass. Their lament began to change; with each new peak, the melody sauntered and laughed, bubbling joyfully, and the cut golden gossamer strands slowly reached forth towards the great bard. The darkness fought back viciously, crying out with dissonant chords and dark motifs, but too strong was the force of good; the will of Eru persevered and pushed the ancient darkness back, and it shriveled, hissing in pain, towards the very center of Tol Himling, where King Maedhros had once sat on his throne of defiance.

And there, once more, would resistance stand. For the collected darkness lingering still on the hill joined forces and a great serpent of darkness grew from song, its fangs dripping dissonance, its eyes bewitching, and it lunged at the former Prince of the Ñoldor. Into his innermost memories he delved, and, forth, he summoned in song the tallest and fairest elf Arda had seen in nearly three Ages; raven-black was his hair but his fëa burned with a fire hotter than the cruelest flames of the mighty dragon-lord Glaurung. In his right hand, a sword lay, outwardly flourished, and along the hilt were embedded three gleaming gems of pure white; on his head lay a crown of twirling silver and gold, in the center of which lay a star with eight rays in a burning merigold.

Makalaurë still was singing. The serpent, mid-lunge, was met by twirling blade, and where steel met skin, a large flaming gash appeared in the darkness. Seven times did the two meet and seven slashes did the elf of song lay on the being of darkness, and yet, the eight, both struck together. The elven sword buried itself deep into the serpent, Silmarils burning the evil flesh, but the darkness bit deep into the elf's chest, and, as Makalaurë's song drew to a close, both the serpent and the great elf faded away slowly; the Music of the hill returned to its slow lament without a thread of the golden song of the great elven bard.

"Atar!" Makalaurë cried, "Fëanor, father, return to me!"

But, his song ended, the figure had faded back into the tapestry of Eä. The bard clenched his right fist, and then, sweat dripping from his brow and legs shaking under him, knelt again. He let out a short and rough breath. There would be no more singing today; the grass had fallen silent, the ruined stones, now less blackened than before, were still in mourning, and the earth lay dead beneath his feet. Himring would not rise from the ashes and Fëanor would not return from the Halls of Mandos - not even the Silmarils were within grasp as he had sung them and Vingilótë sailed back into view, beyond reach, Silmaril on its brow now shining the light of hope once again on the men of the West - and throwing Makalaurë into despair.

"Enough, Valar!" he cried, "No trace of the line of Fëanor will remain on this world as you so decree - I shall leave!"

And with a final glance at the ruins of his home, Makalaurë fled, away from Tol Himling, to forever wander the shores of Arda, until unmade, it was, and Makalaurë disappeared forever into the very fabric of the Music, in which he had always found so much joy.

Makalaurë, former High King of the Ñoldor and Prince of the House of Feanor on Tol Himling