Chapter 20 - Desire

The poet writes often of desire – of love and longing and loss. He finds beauty in misery, poetry in pain. That is his art. And yet he creates nothing. He is merely the instrument through which the agony of our experience is perfectly expressed.


Middle Earth
First Age 20
The Feast of Reuniting

The Pools of Ivrin were glorious. Their waters were cool and inviting in the heat of the day and they glistened and sparkled at night. Yes, the pools were glorious. The food – exceptional. The music and entertainments – memorable, to be sure. But for Maglor, nothing could compare to the sight of her face, to the sound of her laughter or her voice lifted in song. There was no fairer sight at Fingolfin's Feast than that of Lord Círdan's daughter.

Anira.

Even her name was beautiful. And it was all Maglor could do to keep from revealing his budding infatuation to all. He was cautious, for the most part. He never spoke with the lady alone and he schooled his face to betray no stray emotion when he saw her. Once, only once, since the Feast began had he allowed his eyes to betray him. It was on the fifth night of the Reunion when his gaze was drawn to the maiden as she danced to some ancient melody beneath the light of Ithil. And of all who might have been watching Maglor at that moment, it had been Caranthir who spied him, and followed his brother's gaze to the silver-haired maid.

"A Sinda, brother?" his voice dripped with scorn. "She is beneath you," he said, and walked away.

Maedhros, seated nearby, overheard him and caught Maglor's eye. His gaze shifted briefly to Círdan's daughter and his brow lifted in surprise. Maglor said nothing. What could he say? It was a commonly held belief that the elves of Middle-earth were less than those nurtured by the light of the Valar. Maglor, himself, had once believed this to be true. But it mattered little to his heart, of what people Anira was born. And so Maglor might have sought the lady out, he would have, in fact, if not for the presence of her brother.

Aearion.

The very sight of Lord Círdan's son was enough to make Maglor sick, for Aearion bore an uncanny resemblance to his cousin across the sea. Ionwë – whom Maglor had slain. The young lord would sit in Council, whispering now and then into his father's ear. And when his eyes fell on the Fëanorions, Maglor could swear he saw suspicion there. But Maedhros said he imagined things and Celegorm and Caranthir deemed him paranoid. Still, there was something, something that warned Maglor to stay away. And if what he felt in his heart when Aearion's eyes met his was nothing more than guilt – then guilt was more than enough to stay him.

Less than a week now remained until the reunion ended, and Maglor was more than relieved of it. He was tired of pretense, tired of treaties, of promises and lies. He was ready to go home, to forget the half-truths he and his kinsman had told the dark elves of Middle-earth. And most of all, he wanted to forget he had ever laid eyes on Círdan's daughter. Pity, then, that he should hear her calling out to him as he journeyed from the Council to his encampment.

"Prince Maglor!"

His gaze turned to the water and he spied her near a gathering of elves. She was a vision to behold, even dressed in a simple gown of blue satin. Though the dress and the lady were unadorned, she seemed to sparkle in the light. Her silver hair, caught by the wind danced about her face, and her soft features, delicate and fine, were perfect complements to her golden-brown eyes. Those eyes were wise, gentle and full of light. Maglor had never imagined such complexity when he and Anira first spoke. But whether the conversation turned to music or art, politics or war, her eyes shone with understanding. Yes, she was a dark elf, but what Maglor had come to learn over the years was that the elves born and raised in Middle-earth had seen so much more than the elves of Valinor.

Anira was seated on a stone bench near the shoreline – and she was not alone. An ellon sat beside her. He was handsome, with dark hair and somber eyes. His right hand rested casually on the small of her back. It was not an intimate gesture, but it caused in Maglor a sudden stab of jealously, so much so, that he had to suppress the urge to draw his sword and part the offending hand from its owner's arm.

Anira beckoned him again, and Maglor relented. He approached the pair, and greeted the lady with a smile. "Lady Anira," he said and bowed.

"Good day to you, Prince Maglor." She, too, greeted him formally, as was proper with a stranger nearby, though they had come to call each other by name during more casual encounters. "I wish to introduce you to an old friend of mine." She gestured to the ellon, who stood to greet Maglor. "This is Lord Daeron, the great loremaster and minstrel of Doriath."

"Prince Maglor." Daeron bowed and Maglor returned the gesture.

Maglor's irritation at the ellon eased some and was replaced quickly by interest. "Your name is known to me, Lord Daeron," said Maglor, "as is your lay of the First Battle. Your people speak very highly of you."

"And the Noldor of you," Daeron replied.

Anira appeared pleased by the introduction. "That is why I wanted to introduce you," said to Maglor. "After all, a festival is not a festival without a bard's contest."

"A contest?" Maglor's voice betrayed both his surprise and lack of enthusiasm. It had been a long time since he performed in public, years in fact. The horrors of Alqualondë, of his father's death and Maedhros' imprisonment had quashed any love he once had for song. His passion for the harp, too, had all but abandoned him. He sang now only for his brothers, old songs of home. He sang at their request, but he found no joy in it.

"I have not performed in many years," he said, "since before our people sailed, and I have had little time or inspiration for composition."

Daeron merely smiled. "I am certain we can find a topic to inspire you." His eyes flitted briefly to Anira's face before returning to rest on Maglor. "Beauty, perhaps? Or desire?"

Maglor felt as though the air had been forced from his lungs. It was an all too accurate insight and from an ellon he had only just met. How did he…? "We will have to discuss the matter further," Maglor said, straining to keep the anger from his voice. "If you will walk with me?"

Daeron nodded and both ellyn bowed to Anira. They wished her a good day. She did the same before joining a group of ellith chatting near the shore.

Maglor turned and walked in the opposite direction and Daeron followed swiftly on his heels. He had to jog a bit to catch up, such was Maglor's pace. They walked on together and Maglor, for a time, said nothing, but tried to collect his thoughts. It could have been coincidence, what Daeron said, just a simple suggestion. It could have been…

"I did not mean to upset you, my lord," said Daeron, interrupting Maglor's thoughts.

Maglor halted in his tracks so suddenly that Daeron was two steps ahead of him before he stopped. When he turned to face Maglor there was nothing but sincerity in his eyes, and something else that looked close to understanding.

"Why would you think you upset me?" Maglor asked, curious to know the ellon's thoughts and if he would dare to speak them.

There was a moment's pause before Daeron replied, "Because I know what it is like to desire an elleth, who is, shall we say, out of reach."

Maglor's expression must have betrayed his dismay, for the bard quickly added.

"You have not given yourself away. Not yet. I have merely suffered long enough with the same malady to recognize the symptoms in another."

"I see," Maglor replied, warily. He could only imagine what this insightful ellon had been telling Anira about him. He wanted to know what Daeron had told her, but found he had no need to ask.

"She has no idea," Daeron said, as if he had read Maglor's thoughts. "And I have said nothing."

Maglor could not say why he believed Daeron so easily, but he was oddly reassured by his words, though not by those that followed.

"Aearion has noticed," said Daeron, "and he is not pleased."

"And why is that?" Maglor made his best attempt not to sound too concerned with the answer.

Daeron shook his head. "I have no idea, to be honest. He is an ellon of few words. But when he does speak … well … I should warn you now – what Aearion says, he means."

"I will bear that in mind," said Maglor and they continued walking along the lakeshore.

"That would be wise," Daeron replied.

The pair walked on in silence for a short time – Maglor contemplating Daeron, and Daeron contemplating the scenery.

The silence was broken this time by Maglor. "I was not exaggerating earlier," Maglor said after a time. "It has been sixty years since my last composition."

Daeron did not appear as surprised by this confession as Maglor expected. "I could not sing for a hundred and forty years after my mother was slain by orcs," Daeron told him. "Then one day I found the words to express all that had happened. It flowed out from me and was transformed into poetry. After that, I could sing again."

"I fear my grief might take longer to put into words," said Maglor.

"Perhaps," said Daeron. He turned to Maglor then, with a light in his eye. "Would you deign, then, to compose a song with me?"

A smile curled Maglor's lips, but it was balanced by a flash of pain in his eyes. "I had a friend in Valinor. Elemmírë, was his name. He was hailed as the greatest bard of the Vanyar. We composed many songs together. We were rivals, too, of course … as well as friends."

Daeron smiled at Maglor's description. "I should like to meet him some day."

Maglor nodded, but could say no more on the topic of Elemmírë. "Well then, what shall we sing of?"


They sang of beauty and desire, of longing and laughter and tears. No ellon or elleth's name was ever mentioned. Their names lived in the hearts of those who listened. And the applause that rose from the crowd when their song ended was its own reward.

By the time Maglor and Daeron climbed off the stage the greater part of the assembly had begun to disperse. A small crowd remained, having gathered to praise them. Maglor accepted their kindness with quiet dignity and relief. He had worried so, prior to their performance, that he was not up to the task. But working with Daeron had kindled the old flame, the fire that had gone out in his heart. He allowed himself to hope, for the very first time, that Middle-earth indeed held the promise of the new life that he and his kin had hoped for.

He excused himself from the lords and ladies that had gathered and retreated to the stage corner to polish and store the elegant harp Daeron had lent him. His labors were nearly done when a familiar voice interrupted him.

"I never thought to hear a voice to rival Daeron's," Anira said.

Maglor bowed his head in acknowledgement of her praise. "Thank you," he said.

"And your song, it was…" Her voice trailed off and a rosey color spread across her cheeks. She had been sitting near to the stage during his performance and Maglor's eyes had caught hers more than once. And though her name was never mentioned in his song, she had understood him.

"Inspired," Maglor finished for her.

She smiled and like the stars her eyes sparkled with light. "I was planning on joining friends down by the falls," she said to him. "There will be dancing tonight. Would you care to join us?"

Maglor's heart beat furiously. No invitation in all his days was ever more welcome than this. "I…"

But a shout interrupted him. "Anira!" a voice called out.

Anira turned at the sound of her brother approaching. "Yes?"

Aearion took his sister's arm, "Father is looking for you," he said, and jerked his chin in the direction of their camp.

"Oh," Anira said, her voice betraying disappointment. She turned back to Maglor. "Good evening, Prince Maglor. Perhaps we will see each other later tonight?"

"Perhaps," Maglor replied and he did his best to ignore the look Aearion gave him when he said this.

Anira seemed to sense that something was amiss, but she said nothing. She merely smiled at Maglor and kissed her brother's cheek before she went. But Aearion stood rooted to the spot, his eyes never leaving Maglor. It seemed the 'ellon of few words' was ready to share some.

"Lord Aearion," Maglor prompted, "was there something you wished to say to me?"

Aearion's expression hardened measurably and the cold glare he shot Maglor was enough to chill his bones. "The Noldor say they have come to help us, to free Middle-earth from Morgoth's wrath." He stepped forward, nearer to Maglor and spoke quietly so that none would overhear what next he said. "Yet you bring no word from our kin, or any message from the Valar themselves. And when I look into your eyes, and the eyes of your brothers, I see guilt and fear."

There was a pause, a long silence that seemed to stretch to eternity. In that time every look of suspicion Maglor had seen on Aearion's face flashed before his eyes.

"Do you know what I say, Fëanorion?" Aearion stepped closer still to Maglor, until they stood toe to toe. His face was mere inches away when he snarled, "I say you and your kinsmen stink of lies."

Aearion gave no ground, daring Maglor to deny it. And when the prince failed to answer his accusation, he withdrew one slow step at a time, turned, and walked away. He paused only once near the treeline and Maglor heard him say, "Stay away from my sister," before he disappeared into the night.

Maglor turned in the opposite direction and walked slowly into the woods, no care for where he was going. He stumbled several paces into the dark, lonely forest before resting his head against the pillar of a tree. He closed his eyes, but Aearion's face flashed before him, morphing swiftly into the face of another. Ionwë's face and Aearion's both accused him of treachery. For the first time in fifty years, the Noldor's crimes were laid bare. Aearion had seen it, seen it in his eyes, Maglor knew he had. But the elves he and his kinsmen had left dead on the shores of Valinor were not the cause of the tears that flooded Maglor's eyes. His tears were for Anira, the lovely, brilliant maiden with the silver hair. The elleth he could never face again without hearing her brother's claim – and remembering the truth of it. Maglor could not stop the tears from falling, nor the wave of nausea that brought him to his knees. And from where he sat alone in the dark he could hear the musicians playing. He could hear the laughter of the dancers. He could hear the people sing.