Kanafinwë Makalaurë, better known as Magolor, wandered and sang. He sang the sorrowful tale of the Noldolantë by the sea, in mourning for all he had lost. He sang for his father, Fëanor, fallen at Dor Daedeloth. He sang for his people, who had fallen by the thousand in their doomed war on Morgoth. He sang for his brothers, dead and ill remembered, doomed by their oath. Above all, he sang for the Silmaril, lost to the waves.
How long he had been singing, Maglor knew not. His clothes were of finest Noldorin make and would endure centuries as easily as minutes. He knew that he was gaunt and pale, but he ate when he could, fish or birds sometimes and seaweed always. Was the gauntness born of starvation, or prolonged malnutrition? He didn't know, anymore than he could be certain if his throat hurt from sobbing in grief or prolonged song.
His black hair was all snarled up in tangles, and it gave his dark eyes a feverish cast. His belt was gone, discarded along with the empty scabbard when it began to strike his legs with every step. His chainmail had followed soon after, too heavy to bear without the belt.
Maglor would have quite happily wandered until he died, or perhaps until some elf dragged him to the Havens. If he had been asked, he would have said that the last was impossible, but it would be a lie to say that Maglor had no friends among the Noldor.
But that is not how this story goes.
Maglor had walked across many different coasts, so he could be forgiven for not noticing when the ground beneath his feet turned from sand to snow. It could even be said that he should be expected to ignore the trees that started to sprout about him. It was quite unforgivable that he did not notice the magic in the air.
What he did notice was when the sea vanished.
Maglor's head whipped from side to side as he looked all about him, searching for the coast. As he did so he finally saw the tall trees that clustered about him, and noticed the heavy blanket of snow that lay on the ground.
"Where am I?" He asked, voice hoarse through cracked lips.
No answer came. Indeed, the air felt heavy in a way the tall elf could not name, as though weighed down by some evil intent. Even the trees, usually so welcoming of his kin, seemed cold and cruel. He could think of no forest like it, for Maglor had never visited Mirkwood.
Blearily, the second son of Fëanor tried to retrace his steps. He knew where he had begun, and he believed he knew the coasts of Arda well. Still, if one wishes to know how far they have travelled they must first know how long they were travelling, and Maglor did not.
Since he was no fool, the elf soon realises the futility of attempting to discern his location. He looked up to the sky, to the shining stars and the glowing moon, and realised something important.
"Where are you Ëarandil?" Maglor called. "Are you hiding from me mariner? Will you now deny me even a glimpse of the light of hope?"
The stars did not answer, though perhaps they might if they could hear. Sadly even the mighty voice of Maglor at its height could not cross the vast gulf between earth and sky.
The famous bard sinks to his knees in the snow, staring up at the sky. Despair threatens to overwhelm him, yet it never does. Perhaps it was the stubborn will of the sons of Fëanor, or perhaps it was the entrancing beauty of the stars, but as Maglor stares, grief and despair recede slowly. Not entirely, but enough for the elf to realise something else important.
'I do not know these stars.' He thought.
A great many people would assume at this point that they had crossed the hemisphere. Yet, Arda is flat, and there is no hemisphere to cross. It could not be a mistake, for no Eldar would ever misplace the stars. Still Maglor does not leap to any outlandish conclusions.
His racing thoughts latched on to a single idea. 'I need to move.'
He needed to speak to someone, anyone who could tell him where he was, how far he had travelled and most importantly where the sea was. Surely there must be some isolated hunter or woodcutter who might not recognise one of the most infamous kinslayers among the Noldor.
After a few moments of listening out, hoping to hear the sounds of someone nearby, Maglor is forced to choose a random direction. All else being equal, he decides to head west. He knows that travelling west will lead him to the sea eventually, so there is even a chance he will not need to speak to anyone.
Naturally, since he does not know where west is nor even what time of the night it is, he must spend several minutes staring at the moon until he has a grasp of which direction it is moving. It would have been a strange sight if someone had come across him, staring silently up at the sky. At least until the moon disappeared behind clouds, and snowflakes began drifting down.
Maglor strode through the wood, a purpose in his steps that had long been absent. The oppressive air seemed to have lifted somewhat, which he assumed was due to growing used to its presence. He made good time, elven feet walked across the top of the snow, safe from all the concealed snares that would delay a human.
Time passed, more than an hour but not quite two, and the ground became rough, small hills rising and falling like gentle waves. Maglor came into a little valley and would have continued on, but he saw a glint of light out of the corner of his eye. Subconsciously Maglor's hand dropped to his side, seeking a blade that was not there.
It was the movement that reminded the elf prince what he had seen. A brief flash of light, from the moon reflecting off of steel, dulled steel of the kind orcs made their blades from.
Hesitation, once unthinkable to the mighty sons of Fëanor, gripped the elf. Had he stumbled into an ambush? Morgoth's foul creations wandered the world still, but few had been brave enough to accost him so far. Dare he go to face them, alone and unarmed?
Maglor swallowed the momentary fear. Such things were beyond him now, whatever happened would happen. Still, he did not plan to go unprepared. Songs of power did not come so swiftly to him as they had in the past, but with a few moments to call one to mind, he walked towards the light.
He found no ambush, but rather a cave. A cave that had once been rather well appointed, but now sat in ruins. A door that had once sat across its entrance, was caved in, the drifting snow in the air piling high inside. It had been the hinges that had caught the moonlight and his attention. With a sigh and a rueful shake of his head Maglor turned away.
It was then he noticed the tracks. A few hours old they came to the cave from another direction before departing somewhat eastward. Here Maglor had to make a decision. He could follow the tracks to people, and get the answers he sought, or continue west and hope to stumble across the sea.
He paced in thought, and was leaning towards the latter choice when he came to a halt by the trail. His foot sat next to one of the footprints in the snow. His booted foot dwarfed the small mark, perhaps twice the size or more. The bard's heart froze in terror, and he moved about the clearing, desperately searching for something to allay his suspicions.
He found nothing that did so, instead they confirmed them. The very largest of the prints was perhaps two thirds his own.
'Still,' he thought to himself, 'perhaps it is a small party of dwarves. I am certain I need not delay here any longer.'
Despite these words to himself, delay he did. He was hardly Celegorm's equal when it came to tracking, but he was not unskilled in the art. He guessed that the tracks were perhaps a few hours old. That would put the party's presence here sometime in the early evening or late afternoon.
'I have never known a dwarf who would turn aside the chance to spend the night in a cave, especially one so obviously habitable.' He argued with himself.
If they were not dwarves, then his fears were confirmed. That somewhere in these woods a group of children were wandering, perhaps lost and scared. There did not seem to be an adult accompanying them, and these woods felt far too cold and dark for it to be a safe place for children to roam.
The elf tried one last time to convince himself to leave. 'They are probably local children exploring, they have likely returned home since it was growing late.'
Perhaps they had come home only to find the door smashed in and their parents slain by orcs or worse. It would be a crime to walk away without at least making sure they were safe.
'I will just check, if they are safe then I can continue west with conscience unburdened.' Maglor compromised with himself as snow began to fall about him.
The elf prince ran through the wood, following the tracks. He set a pace that he could maintain for hours if necessary and kept low to see the trail. As before the snow aided him, granting him a flat plain to cross, as safe as a road. Yet so too, was the snow a foe, for the falling flakes had already begun to obscure the tracks.
Far sooner than he expected the trees began to thin and he beheld the single largest beaver dam he had ever seen. The lake behind it was frozen green, though that colour was swiftly disappearing beneath the rapidly mounting snow. Worse still, the tracks here diverged.
These tracks were newer, and the larger group now included two pairs of webbed feet. Beavers presumably, given the dam. Yet, a single trail, far fainter, almost invisible but for the keen eyes of the elves, went alone, back into the woods and away.
For a moment Maglor debated, torn between following the large group down into the valley or the individual into the woods. Ultimately, it was a decision with only one clear answer. The bard ran after the lone set of tracks, faster now, as the snow began to fall more heavily.
The elf ran through the forest, leaping over obstacles and crashing through branches. The snow was falling thicker and thicker and, as it began to obscure objects in the distance, Maglor knew he was running out of time. All too soon the tracks would disappear and he would lose the child to the blizzard.
Thicker still the snow grew, now a blanket of white. Maglor had lost the trail now, following only the faintest imprints where a child might have fallen. Still he ran, desperate that all that had been done so far not be in vain. At last, after what must have been an hour's pursuit, the bard was forced to accept the truth. He had lost the trail; the snow had claimed the child.
Then, as though to taunt the elf, the snow stopped and the clouds parted. The moon revealed the valley he was in. A small river ran down towards another, larger river. A castle at the head of the valley caught his attention. It seemed to made almost solely of towers, though his keen eyes caught sight of a wall among them.
With his gaze upon the fortress, Maglor also noticed a small shape crossing the river on ice. It was indeed a child, though one dressed most strangely. The tunic had strange flaps about the neck that seemed most stiff, and for some reason instead of hose or pants, he wore a pair of short trousers that ended before the knee, and compensated with a pair of high socks that made it halfway up the thigh.
The boy looked like nobody Maglor would recognise, though his pale skin suggested someone from the north. Dark hair that would not have been out of place among the Edain was cut short, in a manner that rather reminded the elf of a bowel. Altogether, it made for a strange, though striking image.
The child was set upon the castle, and as Maglor watched, the door swung open to admit him. The elf slumped back against a tree and shook his head.
"Old fool." He said to himself, with a chuckle. "Clearly this was some noble child who met with his friends in the woods. All this running and fear for nothing at all."
It was late, and Maglor had been running for several hours now. Though he could have continued, now that there seemed to be no need to do so his exhaustion had caught up with him.
'A short rest.' The bard thought to himself. 'Perhaps I shall sleep till dawn, then continue west, or perhaps visit the castle and ask for directions.'
Hardly any time at all had passed when Maglor was startled by the sounds of wolves howling. Eyes he had closed snapped open, to witness a pack of wolves emerging from the fortress. No, not wolves, they were far too large.
"Wargs." Maglor hissed beneath his breath.
The pack loped across the valley, heading straight towards the elf prince. Thinking quickly, he searched for a tree to scale. Most of the nearest trees were old pines, nothing but trunk for more than twice his height. However, there was one tree with branches low enough to grab.
With a leap he grasped a branch. His arms protested; muscles that had not been used in far too long unprepared for the sudden demands placed upon them. Maglor overrode their protests, and slowly achingly he began to ascend.
The sounds of the wargs grew ever closer, but Maglor's ascent was too slow. He would not be high enough in the tree to escape their detection. He pushed himself up and up, as fast as he dared.
The wargs reached the tree as he settled on a branch that was bending worryingly. To the elf's surprise, the wargs did not stop, did not follow the hated smell of elf. They raced by as though on some other mission.
The bard sighed in relief, but he had no time to plan his next move, because the branch he was on creaked ominously, then snapped. Maglor flailed momentarily, heart in his mouth, when he fell onto another branch, one he was certain had not been there before.
Quickly realising what had happened, Maglor turned to the trunk and said, "You have my thanks for your assistance noble pine."
The elf swore he heard a faint sound of a feminine giggle as the branch bent, leaving him in easy reach of another. The descent, assisted by the tree, as much as a tree can assist in such matters, was far swifter than the ascent.
When his boots touched the ground, Maglor looked to see what the wargs might be doing. Unfortunately, they had already all but vanished into the forest. It was rather strange behaviour. Since he was taking stock of his surroundings he turned back to the castle, and saw a sleigh emerge from the gates.
The sleigh was pulled by reindeer with gilded horns, and driven by a rather fat dwarf in a bright red cap. Behind the dwarf sat a tall woman in furs. Her face was beautiful, but cold and cruel, and her face was the colour of snow, and her lips that of blood. Maglor did not need to get any closer to judge the woman to be trouble.
There was one other figure, small and shivering. He alone wore no furs, and even at this distance seemed miserable. It was the boy he had seen entering the castle, the one he had tracked here. It seemed his theory about the boy being a child of a noble was wildly inaccurate.
Despair and apathy began to creep back into his heart. Even if he was wrong, and the boy was in true danger, what could he do? Even he could not outrun a sleigh on the snow.
What was the point? He had run here in haste, only to feel a fool for chasing after someone who was never in danger. Now it became apparent that the boy might be in danger, but he was unable to do anything to help. Had he died by the sea? Did he now wander in Mandos' halls, seeking absolution that would never come?
The sleigh made its way across the valley while Maglor stared. Every second it moved it seemed to grow further away, though it was travelling perpendicular to the elf. Despair swamped him, threatening to drown him for the second time in two hours.
Across the valley, far too far for human eyes to make out anything in detail, the boy's eyes met the elf's. Surely it was sheer coincidence, the boy's eyes drawn by the contrast of a red cloak against white snow. But to Maglor it felt like more.
'Please, someone, anyone help me.' The boy's eyes seemed to beg.
Maglor did not notice when his feet began to move, did not think of the impossibility of the task before him. Perhaps it was the image of young Elrond and Elros superimposed over the boy, perhaps it was a desperate desire for redemption, perhaps it was a Fëanorian stubborn refusal to accept when something is impossible.
Whatever the cause, Maglor began his pursuit of the sleigh.
For hours through the darkness he ran. He lost sight of the Sleigh quickly, but the tracks it left were wide and obvious, and the snow no longer fell. In truth, at around midnight, there was a shift in the air. Something unquantifiable about the atmosphere had changed. Only a creature in tune with the world around them on a level beyond the physical, such as an elf, would notice it.
Spring was here.
Through the night Maglor ran, heedless of hunger and exhaustion, stopping only to scoop snow into his hands to make water. He knew that every second the sleigh drew ahead of him, and he dared not hesitate. He did not know what he was hoping would happen, rationally he knew this was a futile gesture. Yet still he ran, too stubborn or desperate to give up now.
Dawn brought with it the sound of jingling bells. Blearily Maglor looked up from the trail, had he caught up?
A sledge pulled up in front of him, drawn by brown reindeer, but it had only a single occupant. The man had a long white beard, thick and full, and dark eyes that glittered with good humour. His coat was red and lined with white fur.
The man peered at the elf from his sleigh, frowning. He reached into the huge sack by his side and pulled out a scroll. Taking a pair of spectacles from his inside pocket, he held them up to his face, glancing from the scroll to Maglor.
"Kanafinwë Makalaurë, did I say that right? I don't get your kind, well ever usually. Still here you are, and I will do my duty." He said, in the warm yet stern way a disappointed grandfather might address an unruly child. "You have been a naughty boy."
"Who are you that you might cast judgement upon me?" Maglor asked, a faint ember of pride stirred to life. "I do not know you, and it is not within the domain of men to weigh upon matters of elven justice."
"Who am I?" The man asked incredulously. "Why, I am Father Christmas! I bring cheer and gifts to all the good boys and girls of the world. It is my duty, and my delight, to bring a sprinkle of warmth to the darkest season! To carry with me the spirit of generosity to all who dwell within Narnia, and beyond."
"I am no child, and as you have rightfully pointed out am hardly a 'good boy'." Maglor said. "So we have nothing to say to each other. Farewell, I must make haste."
"As much as children are dearest to me, I bring gifts for all, not merely the young. As for you, well you have been a naughty boy, but I bring gifts for you none the less." Father Christmas reached into his bag and pulled out a strange black rock. "Coal for the naughty, because misdeeds must be punished, but not even the wicked deserve to freeze."
The large man grabbed Maglor's right hand, and pressed the black lump into his hand. Almost immediately, the elf tried to flinch away, the scar on his hand having never truly healed. Yet the expected pain never came, and Father Christmas held his hand so that he could not drop the 'coal'.
"Keep it." He said seriously. "For you never know when a gift, even an unwanted one, may prove useful. Now I must be off! Christmas is here at last, and I have many more presents to deliver!"
The man turned away, reaching for the reins, starting Maglor from his reverie. A mad, desperate plan suddenly seized upon the bard, and he reached out with his left hand and snatched them away from the man.
As Father Christmas turned a disapproving gaze upon him, Maglor spoke. "You said that children are dear to you. Well right now there is one in dire need of aid. He has been taken by a servant of the enemy, but she rides on a sleigh. I cannot catch them on foot, but you could."
The human's gaze grew pitying. "I know the boy you speak of, as I know all children. I would aid you if I could, but it is not within me to challenge the Witch. Even if I had the power, war and violence is not in my nature. I can do nothing to aid him."
"Then take me with you." Maglor begged. "I but need to catch up, then I will save him alone if I must! Please, he needs you."
Father Christmas was silent for what felt like hours, though in truth was a handful of seconds. Maglor desperately sought for words to convince him, but he was no Maedhros, nor a Curufin, with neither silver tongue nor honeyed words. All he could do was wait.
The bearded man heaved a sigh. "I cannot interfere with that which is beyond my purview."
Maglor slumped in despair, when the human continued. "That said, young Edmund does need his gift for the season. I cannot approach the Witch, but I suppose I could deputise you in this matter. Climb aboard, there is little time."
"Thank you! Oh, thank you!" Maglor exclaimed, leaping up onto the sleigh.
Father Christmas cracked his whip, and the reindeer leapt forward. Faster than any mortal creature, they flew, back the way they had come. Maglor made a seat atop the bulging bag as best he could.
As the sled raced through a forest slowly blooming back to life, Maglor stared at his hand. It was covered in a fine black dust from the black rock that he had placed between his legs. His first thought was that he had been miraculously healed, yet the Silmaril's scar was still there. Yet the hand did not pain him, its range of motion unimpeded. The bard has no better explanation for this than he does for the strange disappearance of the sea.
Father Christmas leaves Maglor to his thoughts as they ride. Perhaps if Maglor had paid more attention, he would have realised they travelled too great a distance in too short a time. As things turned out, the elf missed the strange magic of the being that called itself Fatehr Christmas.
The reindeer halt as Maglor begins to hear voices in the distance.
"Here we are. I can go no further, lest the Witch notice me." Father Christmas says.
"You have my thanks." Maglor repeats, swinging down from the sleigh.
"One moment!" the red clothed man calls. "You forgot something."
Turning Maglor sees the man is holding out two lumps of 'coal'.
"One is yours, which you almost left behind." Father Christmas chastises him. "The other is Edmund's. Ensure he gets it, but do what you will with yours."
"Then I shall leave it here." Maglor says. "For I see no use in a rock."
"There are a great many uses for a rock that I can think of." Father Christmas chuckles. "But I would recommend using coal to start a fire. It burns rather well, and I believe Edmund is lacking a coat."
Maglor's eyes widen, but he turns his attention to the 'rocks'. Sure enough, deep within them he can faintly sense the fire that slumbers within. He reaches out and takes the coal from the man.
"Again I must offer my thanks." He says, then the voices spike sharply. "It seems I must go."
"Farewell Kanafinwë! I will see you next year!" Father Christmas calls out as Maglor runs towards the voices. "I have never made a present for an elf and I would rather like to!"
Maglor ignores the humans words and quickly comes across a small clearing in the wood. A group of animals are sitting around a tree stump with good food and garlands of holly about. The Witch, for that is what he assumes the tall woman must be, is towering over them, dark power concentrating in the wand she grasps in her hand.
Once more acting more on instinct than any deliberation. Maglor grabs one of the lumps of coal and, in the precious seconds he has, throws it at the wand.
The accuracy of the elves is not limited to their archery, and the coal strikes the wand, shattering into black powder. The wand is pushed off target, and rather than its intended target, the spell hits a bush, which promptly turns to stone.
"Run!" Maglor bellows with all the might of his voice, and the animals scatter at once.
"Who dares!" The Witch snarls, turning to face her assailant.
The battle cry of the Noldor rings out as Maglor's charge carries him across the clearing to crash into the Witch, sending both of them into the snow. Maglor recovers first, moving to pin the Witch. This proves to be a mistake.
With strength that belies her frame, the Witch seized Maglor by the throat, and threw him aside with a bodily heave. She twists and springs to her feet with unnatural agility, bringing her wand to bear on the elf.
The bard extends his hand, an invisible shield intended to withstand a Balrog's flames wraps around him as the Witch's spell discharges. The shield shatters on impact of the spell, leaving Maglor feeling dizzy and weak.
"Impossible!" The Witch shrieks.
Her disbelief gives Maglor an opportunity, a tiny one. Blearily, he raises the only weapon he still possesses. He raises the second lump of coal to throw, only to have an idea. A whisper of will, and elven arts unknown to men and the lump of coal leaves his hand not as a rock, but as a burning mass.
The burning coal lands in the Witch's fur collar, where it promptly starts to ignite her clothes. Surprised and enraged the Witch stumbles backwards, desperately grasping at the burning coal. Maglor hauls himself to his feet and scans the clearing.
The boy, Edmund presumably, is huddling by a tree, menaced by the fat dwarf. Maglor races towards them, catching the dwarf's attention. A bully at heart, the Witch's lackey quickly decides he has no interest in fighting an enraged prince of the Noldor, and promptly cowers away.
Maglor drags Edmund up by the collar and drags him around the tree just in time to avoid another spell of the Witch's.
"You think this changes anything! It does not!" She shrieks. "I am the rightful Queen of Narnia! I am immortal! You are nothing! Nothing I say!"
Maglor is now deep in the mindset of a warrior prince, and has already concocted a second plan. It is, admittedly, a desperate plan that relies on a number of assumptions, but it is a plan.
"Edmund, I am going to distract the Witch." He instructs the boy. "While I do that, I need you to get to the sleigh. I will be right behind you, so just run."
"What… I don't…" Edmund begins.
"There is no time." Maglor cuts him off. "When I step to the left, you go right and run for the sleigh, nod if you understand."
Edmund nods, and Maglor steps to the left.
Burn marks scar the Witch's beautiful face. Her heavy furs are discarded, smouldering still in the melting snow. He arms were now bare, and as white as her face. Her glare was venomous enough to kill.
The Witch's eyes lit up in glee when she saw Maglor in the open, and she turned her wand towards him once more. Maglor took a deep breath, and called upon the light of Aman. He knew it was a gamble, it had been some time since he dwelt in the Blessed Realm, and he had done much to darken his soul. He was also assuming that the Witch is as steeped in darkness as Morgoth's greatest servants, but he had no choice, it was the only weapon he had left.
It was no physical light that filled the glade, but rather a shift in perspective. The Witch, once so tall and mighty, seemed now to be a wretched thing, stretched and pale with disease. Maglor too was cast in a harsher light, the thinness of his face highlighted in the ethereal brightness.
The witch recoiled momentarily, blinking as though dazzled. Edmund dashed across the glade making for the sleigh, Maglor close behind him. The Witch soon recovered, and the elf redoubled his speed, desperately hoping for a miracle.
One that he received, for the Witch did not turn her attention immediately upon her escaping prisoner or attacker, but to the forest around her.
"No!" She cried. "You cannot be here! Begone! I will not be fooled!"
The time she spent seeking the 'true' source of the light was all that Maglor needed to pull Edmund atop her sleigh.
"Flee, swift as you dare!" He cried to the reindeer.
None within Narnia would have expected the deer to obey. Not without a whip and certainly not in defiance of their mistress, but the elves have always had a way with animals. The sleigh shot away into the forest with the Witch's scream of rage following them.