Disclaimer: See previous chapter
Disclaimer: See previous chapter
Note: Many thanks to all those who reviewed. I always appreciate it when people take the time to do this, but I apologise to those I have not yet answered! Just a warning, this is a slightly longer chapter because it's leading up to many meetings
"A Platoon Sergeant and his Platoon Leader are bunking down in the field for
the night. The Platoon Sergeant looks up and says, "When you see all the
stars in the sky, what do you think, sir?"
The Lieutenant replies, "Well, I think of how insignificant we really are in the
universe; how small a piece of such a grand design. I can't help but wonder
if what we do truly means anything or makes any difference. Why? What do
you think of, Sergeant?"
"I think somebody stole the damn tent." - Random Military Humour
Chapter 61 – Grief, Goodbye and Survival
Brighton, England circa 2007
Maglor
He wasn't sure why he had awoken so abruptly except that the dream he had been having was vaguely disturbing as they often were. These days he felt so stretched and thin that falling asleep at the drop of a hat had become rather embarrassing.
He pondered whether this was what was meant by 'fading'. Perhaps he wouldn't become invisible; although there were times he ruefully wished he could become so. Perhaps fading just meant that you felt as though there wasn't enough of you to get to the end of the day. Sleeping these days, intermittent though it was, had become a blessing of sorts on a good day and a curse during a night of bad dreams.
It was the eyes that did it, he decided as he wandered into the kitchen of his apartment to put the kettle on for a cup of tea. The eyes of those whose lives he had terminated whether they deserved it or not stayed with him. They were the last things he saw in the night before sleeping and the first things he saw when he woke up. It had been the identical luminous, fear filled grey eyes of those twins so very long ago that had finally stayed his hand and made him see the terrible path he and his brothers had embarked upon all those millennia past.
He poured the boiling water from the kettle into the cup on top of the tea bag and the milk and leant against the window staring out over the rooftops at the glittering surface of the Atlantic Ocean waiting for the tea to brew.
At least that's what they called it these days, once upon a long time ago he had known the Atlantic by another name. However it didn't really matter what it was called, William Shakespeare had once written "What's in a name?" a sentiment that he had wholeheartedly concurred with. Whatever it was called, to him it was the ocean that divided the East from the West and it was to the West that his gaze was constantly dragged these days.
The fact that this and the living room windows looked out onto that ocean were the principal reasons he had finally settled on the south coast of England in place of what was now called Brighton.
The city of Brighton, now laughingly called the 'Gay Capital of the United Kingdom', had its beginnings in Saxon times in the 5th century. An ancient Saxon farmer called Beorthelm had owned a farm in the southern area of England called Beorthelm's Tun which gradually grew into a rural fishing and farming town, the farmers farmed on the cliffs and the fishermen had their houses along the foreshore.
It was at that time that he had stumbled on the small town after his many wanderings along the coast and discovered that, out of all of the mortals he had met, the inhabitants seemed to be the friendliest and the most accepting of a ragged stranger with long wild dark hair and who never appeared to get any older.
For a long time he had lived in a small isolated hut almost on the beach and kept himself to himself, only appearing occasionally at a feast where he would play and sing. There was a reason for not getting too involved; the situation for most of the Saxon people at that time was difficult to say the least. The political situation in England or indeed any other country was constantly unstable and subject to violent upheavals. He did not - would not in fact - get involved in anything that meant he would hurt another creature.
That didn't mean that he wouldn't defend himself of course, as many a robber or person with ill-intent discovered to their cost. His sword was slender, curved and keen and his arm was strong, stronger than it looked. His was a lean, whipcord strength and anyone who saw him stripped would have seen a body with well-defined musculature and a six-pack the average celebrity would have died for.
Time drifted on for him, although it must have seemed short, tumultuous and bloody for the mortals around him. The Middle Ages and the Brighton Charter to become a market town came and went. He reluctantly agreed to act as part of their twelve man council which only selected another member when one died and was amazed when they showed no concern or made any query that he seemed to live for so long or appeared not to age.
He was present when the French came to burn the town down in 1514 and burn it to the ground they certainly did. Not a difficult achievement for the French given that all the buildings were wooden. He helped in the rebuilding of the town only to have the French return twenty nine years later to have another shot at razing it to the ground again.
This time he had been one of those who had convinced the rest of the council to place beacons at specific places in Sussex and along the coast as an early warning system. The French arrived only to be faced by the wrath of an Elf Lord and a very angry crowd. They were driven back forthwith and apart from the gradual encroachment of the sea he had witnessed few other incidents apart from the gradual decline of the town due to the ongoing series of wars between the French and the Dutch which prevented the fishing vessels from going out to fish.
Maglor, son of Feanor, Spirit of Fire and Kinslayer had lived through many ages. He had watched the domicile of his choice grow, be burnt down, decline and then grow up again as a result of Dr Richard Russell of Lewes declaring in 1750 that the bathing in seawater was good for the health.
This had resulted in first a trickle and then a steady flow of the fashionable world of the rich and mighty travelling to Brighton to 'take the waters' and subsequently gave Maglor the best laughs of his life to watch as the bathing contraptions were wheeled down to the sea and their occupants were lowered into the 'health-giving' seawater. Especially since if they had just looked a little further out they would have seen a completely naked wildly beautiful elf disporting himself in the freezing waves like some sea otter!
The Prince Regent, then the Prince of Wales, came with his friends and Brighton was duly put on the map as a fashionable watering place and somewhere to be. Maglor watched in bemusement as the Regency rich and aristocratic members of the Haut Ton lived and played out their scandals during the Brighton 'season' and was a popular performer in the many turreted, oriental themed Pavilion during the balls and assemblies held there. In his private opinion the beloved summer palace of the Prince Regent was the hugest carbuncle on the face of the landscape, but he did set a good table with fine wine!
He especially found favour with the ladies, who were fascinated with his wild, dark beauty and the air of tragedy that followed him around. They regularly compared him with the equally wild and beautiful dark poet Lord Byron which caused him no end of sardonic amusement. Maglor had met Lord Byron in London and saw no similarity in that handsome, but dissolute member of the aristocracy to a life and war-hardened elf who had seen a colourful panoply of violence, war and beauty paraded before his ancient eyes age after age.
The building that Maglor now resided in had been one of the first brick built buildings put up in the rapidly developing town. It had served him well down through the centuries, even surviving the German air raids of a modern age that destroyed five thousand other houses and buildings.
He owned the building – had done so for many years – and had gradually built up his life and his bank balance to the point where he had no need to perform in public, yet he still did occasionally, when and where it suited him. He lived on the top floor of the building and wanted for very little. Indeed his needs were very few. He kept in touch very sporadically with the only other known members of his species remaining in Middle Earth. Thranduil with whom he had ridden out the Ice Age down in those caverns belonging to the Elven King of Eryn Lasgalen whose forest, once known as Mirkwood, was now part of the forests of Rumania and Transylvania. Also Celeborn who was also still lingering on this side of the ocean.
Maglor had been stunned to receive a messenger millennia earlier from Thranduil who had tracked him down and warned him of the impending series of cataclysms which were all showing the Elves, ever in touch with nature and the earth, that something nasty was coming. Thranduil suggested that Maglor may wish to join him and the remaining members of his prior Woodland Realm in the safety of his underground retreat.
This invitation had surprised Maglor immensely, no more so than the realization once he arrived at Thranduil's stronghold that not only did the Elven King know Maglor was still alive and wandering the coasts of Middle Earth, but that he seemed to harbour no resentment at the kinslayings of so long ago.
"Water under the bridge." He had declared softly when Maglor and the messenger had duly presented themselves at his court. "I could not, in any event, allow one of our kind to be overtaken. We are few, we who have opted to stay in Middle Earth. We need to stick together."
Another such group of refugees had ridden from the lands that used to be the haven of Imladris, headed by Celeborn, Prince of Doriath, still stubbornly refusing to be drawn over to Valinor and who was ably aided and abetted in this by his two grandsons Elladan and Elrohir, also stubbornly ignoring the call to join their parents.
They had greeted Maglor with reservation, but were friendly enough. Celeborn who had not been born in Valinor and who, after many millennia has passed now held no particular grudge against anyone, rapidly mended whatever bridges that still needed it and for five thousand years they watched as the ice crept inexorably over the majority of the northern hemisphere forcing whatever human life there was left alive and had not succumbed to the intense cold to migrate further and further south.
Of course the race of the Elves is a hardy one and the extreme cold did not keep them from regularly going to the surface and foraging whatever they could. Eventually as life began to evolve again and as it seemed that these forays were getting more frequent, it was obvious that the world was returning itself to another Age. Game in the shape of the mammoth, bear and other mammals became more plentiful and the rising temperature began to melt the huge ice sheets, this time causing massive floods over the ensuing centuries.
The degradations of the insidious creeping ice had eventually destroyed whatever had been left of ancient habitation either by humans, elves, hobbits, dwarves or any other species. Mostly the Elves had feared for those of other races left outside the protection of Thranduil and his realm, but Elrond's two sons had been assured by the Hobbits and the Dwarves at least that they would seek shelter on their own account.
The sad thing of this was that, although Maglor and Elrond's sons went in search of other signs of life once the ice had thawed and receded, they found very little left of humans and nothing at all of the dwarves or the hobbits.
The once proud city of Gondor was gone apart from a few lumps of rock which may or may not have been part of the stone walls of the city. The ice had altered what used to be Moria to the point where Celebrimbor's famous doors were now an indistinguishable part of the surrounding rock face of an apparently impenetrable mountain range.
Parts of Imladris had come through, but not unscathed and neither Elladan nor Elrohir had the heart to remain in Middle Earth any longer once they had seen the beauty of their former home reduced. Their links with the line of Elessar and Arwen were now severed. If any of their line had survived they were scattered to the four corners of the earth.
A few scant months after the end of their search they, Celeborn, Maglor and some of Thranduil's warriors as escort travelled to where the Grey Havens had used to stand, thinking that it too would have disappeared.
To their surprise, some of the delicately wrought parts of the docks of the Grey Havens still stood, including the quay from which the Ringbearer's ship had departed so many millennia ago. At least the part closest to the actual water did, the rest had crumbled like everything else, including the tall tower of Elostirion on the other side of the Gulf of Lhun that had once held a palantir.
Even more surprising was the sight of a tall ghostly white ship moored at the dock and at her helm the most familiar and distinctive figure of Cirdan smiling broadly around his silver beard.
Both of the twins knew why they had been so drawn to go there and they knew that their grandfather and the others had also known. The ship had come to take them home. It was time. Their long watch over Arwen and Estel's descendents was effectively over. It was with glad hearts that they looked towards the ship that would take them back to the loving arms of their mother and father. However, even as they stepped lightly towards the gangplank, they were aware that their grandfather had not moved from his position on the quayside.
"Daeradar…" The twins started back to him, remonstration and questions in their eyes, but their grandfather clasped them both gently in his arms.
"This ship is for you." He said softly, tears prickling at the back of his eyes.
Elladan had looked aghast. "But what about you? Daernaneth…" His voice trailed away and Maglor had moved away to a distance, not feeling that he had a right to be part of this conversation.
"Your Daernaneth knows that I will not be arriving with you." Celeborn said gently. "She understands my reasons and knows that it is not time for me to yet leave. However your time is now come and you must leave."
Elrohir buried his face in Celeborn's shoulder. "You do not think any of Estel and Arwen's line have survived." The flat statement was muffled and his voice sounded thick with tears.
Celeborn sighed and his eyes met those of Maglor who smiled back in sympathy. "If there are survivors of the line, and I admit I have my doubts, then you must trust Thranduil, Maglor and myself to recognize them for what they are. If we find them rest assured we will continue to watch over them as best we may. In the meantime, I have packages and letters for your Daernaneth and your parents and Thranduil has some for Legolas."
The twins stepped back and swallowed down the tears that still threatened to overcome them both and received the packages from their Grandfather.
Maglor remained in the background. He had greeted Cirdan civilly and received a courteous greeting in reply, but there was no indication that his presence was welcomed on the vessel, although the Shipwright's eyes had twinkled slightly at the sight of him in the company of Celeborn and his grandchildren.
Elrohir however stopped in front of the Feanorian before stepping onto the vessel. "Is there nothing you wish us to take back with us Lord Maglor?" He said politely. "No messages you wish to send?"
Maglor stared at him for a moment and then shook his head. "None that any would wish to hear, I think nor are there many in existence to hear them… except…" He hesitated.
"Except?" Elrohir persisted.
"If you should happen to make the acquaintance of my Amille, the Lady Nerdanel, please send her my love." Maglor's voice had dropped to a whisper. "Tell her that I…I am sorry." A tear tracked down his lean face. "Desperately sorry, for everything."
Elrohir clapped a comforting hand on Maglor's shoulder. "I will tell her. I will find her and make sure she knows." He said softly.
Maglor inclined his head and smiled. "My thanks."
And that was the last he saw of the sons of Elrond. He and Celeborn had not travelled back to Thranduil's underground home, but instead had gone their separate ways and as life restarted and the modern eras of human civilization revved into action they had all been swept up and had not had the opportunity to stay in touch regularly apart from the occasional missive sent by messenger or lately by the unlikely medium of email.
In fact it was the soft ping of his email notification that brought him back to the present and his tea which was steadily brewing a darker brown and growing cold in the cup. He swore softly, scrunched the tea bag up with the spoon to throw it in the rubbish bin and spooned some sugar into the resulting rib-sticking brew.
He wandered into the nook beside the window where his laptop sat on the table and sat down thrumming his fingers gently on the surface. The notification told him that he had four email messages. Two were spam; one was the usual monthly long rambling email from Thranduil which he would read later on over some breakfast and one more. The sender of this email was not known to him, it simply read Alun Davies. He pondered the addressee, and wondered if this could possible be more spam.
However as he pondered, sipped his tea and grimaced at the strong virulent taste of an over-brewed teabag a sudden memory assailed him. He remembered a meeting with a young woman called Kim and subsequently a policeman called Alun Davies during the War of Wrath when he and Maedhros had still been chasing those elusive sirens, the Silmarils. He also remembered a wedding and as the memories started to come thick and fast, he wondered.
How was it that he had not remembered any of this before?
Could it be the same Alun Davies? And if so, how did he know that Maglor was still here in Middle Earth? And Kim…she had to be here and possibly now pregnant with the Maia's child! He feverishly looked for something with the current date on it, momentarily forgetting that it was in the taskbar of the desktop, the human predeliction for counting time and being obsessed with days and dates had not affected him since he never ran out of time.
Ah there it was...he did some rapid mental calculations and ransacked his memory for anything Eonwe, Kim or any of them had said which could pinpoint at what point in events they currently were. When he had finished he sat back, hand shaking as he groped unsteadily for his mug of tea, more to give him something else to think about than the momentous events that were probably about to happen.
He jumped up and swore loudly as the tea sloshed unsteadily over the rim of the mug and splashed the side of the laptop. He swept the device off the table just in time before the tea rolled to the end and dripped on the hardwood floors.
"Bugger, buggery, bollocks." He swore again and carefully placed the laptop on the dry end of the table.
By the time he had cleaned up the mess and re-connected the laptop again, he had decided that not only was he convinced that the email from Alun Davies was not spam, but also that he would actively try to find him and Kim if possible.
It shouldn't be too hard, he thought, she was British Army wasn't she? And so had the modern version of Eonwe been British Army. What was the name again? Martin? Morgan? Matthews… that was it!
He opened the email up and the first line of the message shocked him so much he practically stopped breathing.
"Hano…
It has been a long time, I know, since we last met…..Alun Davies who we both met so long ago at Kim and Lord Eonwe's wedding managed to find your email address and has kindly allowed me to use his computer to send you this message…what a wondrous form of communication! Atar would have been fascinated! "
His eyes swept downwards to the signature and he went rigid when he saw "Yours Nelyafinwe" at the bottom of the screen.
His brother was alive. Not only alive, but in Middle Earth.
How? Why? And was this the reason why he was having his dreams once again?
He stabbed at the reply button.
ooOoo