Chapter 7 - By Any Other Name
You can learn a lot about an elf by the names he has been given, and the name he chooses to be known by. Take Galadriel, for example. She is Artanis, the 'noble woman' to some, and Nerwen the 'man-maiden' to others, but she answers to neither. Galadriel she is, and has been for nearly three ages. So how did it come to pass that this great Princess of the Noldor forsook her father and mother-names for a Sindarin epessë?
I will tell you.
I have it on good authority that this name was given to her by her husband Celeborn when he first set eyes on her in Doriath. In romantic fashion, he compared her golden hair to a radiant garland that glistened as it framed her fair face, and so he called her Galadriel. There are, of course, many tales of greater import told of the life of Finarfin's mighty daughter, but none more informative than this – that she took Celeborn's hand and the name he gave her, and together they have remained ever since.
And so I wonder…
Would Artanis, Princess of the Noldor have married a mere Sinda Lord? Would Nerwen, tall and proud, have abandoned her kin and followed Celeborn across the mountains to distant lands? It is possible. Or perhaps the name 'Galadriel' marked a more profound change in the great Lady, and she ceased to be Artanis and Nerwen when she took her new name. Maybe the name itself was her way of leaving the past behind, and granted her the freedom to become the Lady of Light whom the peoples of Middle Earth feared and adored.
Valinor
Fourth Age
Eruanna had not been able to sleep. She lay on her bed all night, still dressed in the previous day's clothes, thinking and worrying. Her mother had come by earlier to say she had spoken to Erestor. She would not tell her daughter what was said; only that Erestor needed time and would surely come to see her shortly. Eruanna dreaded their next encounter, but wished it would come with speed all the same. She needed to know that her actions had not turned her father's heart away from her forever.
A knock on the door told her the time had come. "Come in," Eruanna called from where she lay curled up in bed. Erestor opened the door. He looked even worse then she felt. "Ada," Eruanna exclaimed, shifting herself to a seated position to face him.
Erestor moved slowly to Eruanna's bedside and sat himself on the edge. He could barely lift his eyes to look at her. After a somewhat uncomfortable silence, Erestor began: "I did not mean…," he said, but stopped, sighing. He needed deeper words than those to explain all he felt.
He tried a second time. "My anger was great after speaking with Elrond," he said. "I should have mastered myself before I confronted you about my concerns," he lifted his eyes to his daughter's. "I did not mean to frighten you, or your mother." It was a lame excuse, but the best he could do to explain his outburst.
Eruanna studied her father's face. He was still terribly upset, but his rage from the previous night was spent. All that remained was an inner turmoil, and a pain Eruanna could scarcely comprehend.
There was, however, one thing beyond hatred that linked Maglor and her father together in Eruanna's mind. It was the look both ellyn had given her when they called her judgment into question. "Maglor called me a fool for speaking with him," she said at last. "Do you agree with him?"
"I would like to believe we would never agree on anything," Erestor grumbled.
Eruanna could not help but smile at her father's remark. "But do you think I am a fool?" she pressed, curious to know Erestor's thoughts.
"I do not know what I think in this matter, I know only what I feel."
"Tell me," Eruanna said softly, her eyes pleading her case.
"I would never call you a fool, Eruanna, for I know you are not. I do think it was – naïve of you – to approach one so dangerous on your own and I can not comprehend why you would want to, why you do not believe me when I say …."
Eruanna reached out her hand and laid it on Erestor's, giving it a squeeze. "I do believe you, ada," she said. "I have not forgotten the lessons you taught me, or the stories I heard in the Hall of Fire."
"Then why speak with him?" Erestor asked in earnest.
Eruanna wanted to give her father an answer he would understand, but she was not sure that one existed. "Because believing is not enough … I need to understand." She looked into her father's eyes, seeking his understanding, and his forgiveness. "I am sorry I hurt you, ada," she said, gripping his hand tight. She wanted to say more, but could not find the words.
There was no need. Erestor spoke for her.
"But you are not sorry about Maglor," he said. There was no need to ask the question, he could see it in her eyes.
A wave of fear passed through Eruanna with those words. This was the moment she had feared from the moment Erestor walked through the door. "It would be a lie if I said I am sorry for that," she said, then asked: "Are you angry with me?"
Erestor searched his heart for the answer to Eruanna's question. It came to him clearly, a simple truth that fought its way out from beneath confused thoughts and emotions. He was angry. He was angry that Maglor lived and breathed, angry that the Valar welcomed him back with open arms, and above all, angry at his own weakness – at the fear and hatred that lived inside him still, refusing to fade away. He could not banish this fury, he had tried. But in the past, at least, the rage was kept at bay by the knowledge that vengeance was impossible, a pointless fantasy that would never come to pass. Now, the source of his nightmares was within his grasp, his dreams of revenge could be realized – or so it would seem. In reality Erestor remained as powerless now as ever he was, bound by the laws of the Valar and the Eldar to live in the same halls as that butcher and do nothing.
Yes, he was angry, very angry, but at Eruanna?
He could not say her actions did not hurt him, but as the hours passed and his mind cleared Erestor found that he was angrier with himself than with Eruanna. He loved her so much – that was why her actions caused him so much pain. When Elrond told him what he had witnessed, Erestor did not stop to consider the truths Irimë stated so simply.
He could not expect Eruanna to understand the depths of his pain, nor did he want her to.
Erestor knew the question Eruanna truly wished to ask. He had seen the same hope and fear in her eyes long ago, when she first asked him if he loved her. "You have been my spirit child, Eruanna, Ilúvatar's gift to me, truly. I may have been angered by your actions but I will always love you."
Erestor watched Eruanna's tension lift with his words. He took her hand in his. "You are not a child, Eruanna, nor are you bound by my will. I can not order you to stay away from Maglor, though I might wish I could. I only ask that you respect my feelings in this matter. There are things," he stopped, not wanting to go down that road just now. "He might well be a changed ellon, Eruanna, but I can tell you from experience that the past is never gone, no matter how many ages pass. He has hurt the innocent before…," he trailed off.
"And you do not want anything bad to happen to me," Eruanna finished for him. She understood her father's fear was fueled by his love for her.
"Yes," Erestor said.
Without warning Eruanna flung her arms around Erestor's torso, hugging him tightly. "I love you, ada."
Erestor returned the gesture, holding her tight. He tried not to think of Maglor when he held her. He knew the argument was not truly laid to rest and the Fëanorion would certainly come between them again. He only hoped he could delay the inevitable long enough to regain control over his own pained emotions.
There was one blessing in all this that offered him the time he needed to meditate on these unexpected events that began with the return of Maglor.
"So, your mother tells me you would like to visit Alqualondë?"
A mournful song drifted on the breeze and those who heard it lifted their eyes to a small balcony. A lone figure could be seen looking out upon the garden from above. One brave soul followed the sound to its source. Into the palace he went and up the private stair and down the hall to the silent rooms where once dwelled the House of Fëanor. It was a path he had trod so many times before, and despite the passing of ages, he remembered every step. He found himself at the door and was about to knock when he thought better of it. Maglor was not likely to answer. He had been hiding from the people of Aman for more than a year. He would have to gather his courage and take the first step. He opened the door…
Maglor's voice greeted him, drifting in from the balcony. The sound was both familiar and strange all at once. It was Maglor's voice, yes, but it contained a sadness never heard under the Trees. Elemmírë followed the melody to its maker – an ellon with wild, unkempt hair and wrinkled clothes. He appeared less like a Prince and more like a field hand after a hard day's labor.
"You still have the most beautiful voice in Arda," Elemmírë said with a smile.
Maglor did not look to the doorway. There was no need. He had heard the slow footsteps approaching and knew the sound of that voice well, despite the passage of time. "What do you want?"
"It is good to see you, too," Elemmírë replied.
Maglor's gaze shifted briefly to his unexpected guest. "Is it?" he asked. There was distrust in his question, suspicion.
"Of course," Elemmírë answered carefully. "It has been lonely in Aman without you."
Maglor laughed – a short, mirthless bark, and returned his attention to the garden below. "I doubt you lacked for an audience in my absence," he replied coldly.
Elemmírë's spirit deflated somewhat. It was not the response he had hoped for. "An audience – no – but true friends are not so easy to come by, Makalaurë, nor are worthy rivals. There was no one to challenge me when you were gone."
"Maglor."
The word was spoken bitterly and Elemmírë did not understand. "Excuse me?" he asked.
"I do not use my Quenyan name anymore," Maglor said.
"Of course," Elemmírë replied. "My apologies." A long, uncomfortable silence fell between them. Elemmírë searched for something to say. His eyes fell on a seat carved into the low wall. "May I sit?" he asked, gesturing to the place near to Maglor. It felt strange to ask this ellon for permission. There had been a time when he would have plopped himself on the other's bed without a second thought.
Elemmírë received no answer, only more silence. He sat anyway.
"Why have you come?" Maglor asked once more. He sounded beyond tired – a level of weariness Elemmírë had never known.
Elemmírë frowned absently. Did his companion not know? "I wanted to see my childhood friend," he said.
"He no longer exists," Maglor replied.
For the first time, anger rose within Elemmírë. He had travelled so far, waited so very long, only for Makalaurë to brush him aside as if he were nothing. "Really," he snapped, "then who was the ellon I heard singing not a moment ago?" He allowed his anger freedom with those words. They seemed to sting the other ellon, for the Prince cringed at his reproof.
Maglor stood quite still, breathed deeply, willing himself to stand firm. Who was the ellon Elemmírë heard singing? Maglor did not know, but of one thing he was certain. "He is not Makalaurë."
Elemmírë did not believe him. "Part of him remains," he said with conviction.
"How would you know?" Maglor snapped. He could not contain his rage. What did this foolish Vanya know of him, of the ellon he had become?
"Because you are still as contrary as ever," was Elemmírë's exasperated reply. "And your voice remains as beautiful and captivating as any glittering stone your father possessed." The last words were for him, not Maglor, though he spoke them aloud. Elemmírë had always envied his friend's gift, for though he was the greatest bard of the Vanya, no voice in Arda could compare to this Noldo Prince.
The comment had an unexpected effect on its subject. Maglor's eyes laughed and a smile formed on his lips, an amused expression he wore so often in his youth. "You always did have a way with words," he said.
"Thank you," Elemmírë replied, grinning wide.
The smile upon Maglor's face faded. His thoughts returned to Elemmírë's words, Elemmírë's voice, speaking a name he had left behind with the peace of a long forgotten life. "I can not be Makalaurë again, not after...," he stopped abruptly. He had not meant to speak that thought aloud and turned fearful eyes on his companion.
"What?" Elemmírë asked.
Maglor could not meet his old friend's eyes when next he spoke. "I have done terrible things, Elemmírë," he said. "You can not imagine."
"I heard," the ellon replied.
His response angered Maglor. It was the tone of it and his choice of words. He heard. He heard? "I am sure you did," Maglor sneered, "but you do not believe." It was obvious, was it not? Elemmírë stood there, speaking with him as though they were still friends, as though he expected Makalaurë to return from the darkness unchanged or perhaps hoping to find a mistake had been made, and there had been no darkness at all.
Elemmírë could almost feel the anger pouring off of Maglor, but he did not know how to assuage it. He was right, truth be told. Elemmírë had spent millennia trying to reconcile his memories of Makalaurë with the tales that came to him after the flight of the Noldor. "I have spoken to those who dwell in Alqualondë," Elemmírë said. "I have seen the dead reborn, but I … I find it hard to believe you did what they say."
It was laughable – that Elemmírë could stand there and say that to him with a straight face. He wanted to be rid of the fool and forget there was ever a time when he could call such an innocent creature friend. "Believe," Maglor said, his eyes cold, deadly.
Elemmírë withdrew a step on instinct. That one word was like a knife to his soul. Maglor turned from the shocked expression on his companion's face and headed for the door.
"Mak…Maglor," Elemmírë called, desperate now. He did not want their reunion end in anger. Indeed, he would have preferred not to have come at all.
Despite the overwhelming desire to flee, Maglor's legs refused to obey. The sound of his Sindarin name on his old friend's lips was enough to stay him.
Elemmírë was relieved when Maglor stopped to listen. "I will be in Tirion for a time, visiting kin," he continued hastily before the ellon changed his mind. "Will you speak with me again?"
"Why?" Maglor asked.
Was that curiosity in his voice? Elemmírë could not be sure. If it were Makalaurë standing before him, he would have known. He could always read Maka's thoughts, but this ellon – this Maglor – was a mystery to him. Elemmírë still held out hope that somewhere beneath the pain and anger Maglor wore like a shield, the friend he remembered remained.
"So that I may know the ellon who wears my friend's face," he answered.
Maglor offered no response. He merely stepped through the door and vanished without a backwards glance.
A/N: Thanks to WendWriter for helping with the trouble spots.
