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[izamaina]

A Thousand Lies and One Truth: A Song of Regrets

Makalaurë thought he knew blood, the occasional accident when a harp string snapped, Nerandel’s pottery falling and trying to catch it, a beam falling on a worker. He thought he knew all the ways to die, knew them because, in Tirion, death was only temporary. The dead would return, talking about the ever gracious Valar, almighty in power and wisdom. He thought he knew mistakes, lying to Maitimo or Atar about something, trying to best Artanis with words, scoffing at Turukáno’s attempts at flirting with Elenwë. All paled in comparison to this.

The ships had burnt and he had not stood aside. People had burnt and he had not stood aside.

It was not because he hated everyone on board and all those waiting for the ships in Valinor, or that he saw them as his father saw them; as baggage. His own brother has been aboard one of those ships, burnt alive for no good reason. His cousins, who had fought their kin at Aqualondë for them, betrayed Arafinwë and the Valar for them waited on the shores of Valinor for ships that would never come. His uncle, the proudest of the Noldor would have to walk back to Tirion in shame, betrayed by the brother he loved and trusted and his nephews.

He was a Kinslayer and Blood-traitor. He was an ex-prince and a coward. He was Makalaurë of the line of Finwë, second born of the house of Curufinwë. Makalaurë had been a naive boy, thinking that a song and a God at hand would solve everything. He was not that foolish anymore. A God would have lifted his brother from the boat. A God would have slain Melkor or banished him to the void for all eternity. A God would have taken back the Silmarils from Melkor and a song would have had more to tell of than the beginning of the end. And now that task fell to the Eldar, to go to the land of their uneducated kin, who had suffered for ages under the hand of Melkor and bring them to an age of enlightenment and regain the treasures that his father had crafted.

They had arrived in Losgar, rested overnight and in the morn, Fëanor had ordered the ships to be set afire. Of his six sons on shore, only one stepped forward to protest what Fëanor was doing, it had been Maitimo, in that moment, Neylofinwë, recent crown prince of the Noldor. The only son that was expected to be perfect, a jack of all trades and a master of none. So that in the tricky world of Noldorian politics, it could be said that he favoured no particular craft. The son who was never supposed to disagree with his father had disagreed with his father. And so Makalaurë had witnessed the madness of Fëanor, his father and done nothing. In that moment, Fëanor’s words has seemed reasonable, the loss of the Silmarils had brought out the worst in them, he thought he could see that. His father was disguising madness under fervour, his brothers cruel delight and sorrow under passion. But he was still Makalaurë. Right?

He had stood aside and let Amburassa burn.

He had stood aside and agreed with the unspoken whisper of traitor that was aimed at his older brother.

He had stood aside and betrayed his blood because his father had said so.

He had sworn a blood oath that would bind all of his father's line and condemn him.

And he would do it again. And again. And again.

Makalaurë would never do any of those things. He didn't know who he was anymore. All he knew was that the ragged camp on Lake Mithrim and his own regrets were his shroud. All he knew that Maitimo and his personal guard with the Fëanorian forces were finalising plans for an attack against Melkor. A three pronged attack. All he knew was that elves whispered traitor as his brother passed and plotted in the darkness that was now, ever present with the light of the two trees extinguished. All he knew was that his father had survived a potentially fatal balrog attack. All he knew was that while he sat and brooded, trying to tell himself that he was still Makalaurë, that nothing had changed and struggled over understanding the Sindarin language, his brothers prepared for war. His father gloated over the defeat of Nolofinwë without truly meaning it. His people whispered of plots and stories amongst themselves. He had tried not to feel sick at the thought of murder and of murdering and had succeeded. He had tried to ignore how the elves who carried the feanorian star and were filled with passion over Fëanor’s noble quest to win back the Silmarils and anger over how Nolofinwë Finwë chose to name himself, despite not being king, whispered about his brother when he wasn't looking. In that, at least, he had failed. In that, his naive belief that if he confronted the rumor mongers, the rumors would stop and he would be hailed as a hero had faded.

He could remember, when years ago, Findekáno and Maitimo had had an argument, Findekano had stormed away with a shout of;

‘You all try so hard to please your father, you can't see who you could and should be!’

That wasn't the truth. Was it?

“Makalaurë. Father wants us in the central tent for the last touches to the plan.” It was Maitimo, his normally well tended and loose red hair pulled back in a plait as he disturbed Makalaurë from his musings.

This would be fun. Meetings always were, differing opinions shouted across the table, Carnistir talking nonstop about how this would impact the economy and funds they had, Turcanfinwë trying to sneak out to be with Huan and away into the woods, Maitimo assuming the role of Neylofinwë and stopping him. But this was different, that was in Valinor, where a word from Nerdanel about how they were disturbing her sculpting would stop them in their tracks, where Ambarussa trying to fool them with the twin telepathy would have them laughing or mock trying to conduct experiments to see if it was really possible for them to talk to each other telepathically. Now one of the twins was dead, Nerdanels last words to them were ‘Damn you all in the name of Illuvatar and to Mandos with you!’ and his older brother was preparing for a war he would lose.

Heavy hearted, Makalaurë stood up and followed his brother to the plain tent that sat in the middle of the camp, an eight pointed star on a red background barely visible in the light of the lamps fluttered in the breeze.

How was it that he was now walking towards war, when one week ago, he was planning lyrics for a new song.

How was it that he was preparing to take place in what was probably a plot to remove his older brother from existance.

How was it that as he walked towards the tent, he questioned his fathers motives.

The meeting had scarcely required his presence, Curufinwë the younger had taken up most of it whilst Turcanfinwë nodded in the corner and Maitimo had hardly said a word. Pityafinwë was present, physically if not mentally and Carnistir had been silent. His father had spent most of it whispering with Curufinwë. The only thing he had brought up was how they should consider using the Sindarin forms of their names and learning the language to persuade the Sinda to join them. The idea had been approved by his father and he had spent the rest of it working on names.

It was too soon after the meeting when the trumpets rang out and Makalaurë heard the distinctive sound of hooves striking against the hastily laid out cobbles that had been placed down after one to many elves slipped in the perpetual mud underfoot. Laying down his notes on the differences between Sindarin and Quenya vowels as he walked outside to see his brother and his guard marching out of the gates, a small voice inside his head whispered that this was the last he would see Maitimo. Huan was standing to attention as Turcanfinwë looked out, avoiding eye contact with any of the others. Curufinwë and his father were standing together, a smile bordering on his father's face whilst Curufinwë clenched his teeth. Carnistir was writing down the names of those who had ridden off and Amburassa was nowhere to be seen.

Within moments of the last of Maitimo’s host vanishing from sight, the camp was back to being a rush of activity, elves collecting and distributing weaponry and armour until his father spoke up.

“Stop. The other two armies will not be going.” Makalaurë heard that in perfect clarity. It was expected, ever since the burning of the ships. To him, at least, the world had fallen silent as his father spoke.”My son, has proven himself to be a traitor to my family and our cause. Even now as he leaves, he goes to report to his master, Melkor. I only found this out after I had said he could go, as he planned, I am sure. He has played me for a fool, he has played us all!” The answering roar of assent seemed deafening and out of the corner of his eye, Makalaurë could see Ambarussa turning and walking away. His father's meaning was clear, they would abandon Maitimo to die all for the sake of power and the Silmarils.

And he was too much of a coward to do anything.

He retreated to his own tent, absorbing himself in the Quenya to Sindarin translations, avoiding his father and brothers. He didn't know what to do. How could he, he reasoned with himself. How could he. How could he when the threat of his father hovered overhead, how could he when the oath he had sworn twice writhed in the back of his mind. How could he leave his brother to die a traitor's death and allow all of his brothers personal guard to die as well. How could he indeed?

Curufinwë had wanted to discuss implementing the Sindarin language into the camp, Makalaurë couldn't face him. He couldn't look at his brothers face and know that he didn't stand up for Maitimo. Couldn't face Pityafinwë as a half not Amburassa as a whole. Couldn't look at his father and know he would obey him but there would always be a thread of doubt in his mind. Could either of his brother deserve to die? Surely not.

But what is will be.

Everyone's named needed Sindarisation, and Makalurë was the only one who knew how. He had written down their names, in order of how he remembered them. Maitimo and both of the Amburassa were on the list. With a sigh, he set to work, page after page being consumed as he made notes, charted down rough approximations and doodled treble clefs in the corners of the page.

He was tired, so, so tired. It was illogical, he knew that. He had had what made for a night's sleep, it was just so dark now. He had never been without light. There had never been a moment when there was no light. Even when the light changed, it was still light. But now, save for the lanterns which remained, for those that rode with Maitimo had taken some, all was black.

Name after name was filled in, elf after elf telling him what they wanted their name to mean. He had done those that rode with Maitimo already. All he had done was asked how they wanted to be remembered and that became their name. Turcanfinwë had become Celegorm and his father was now Fëanor. What was left of the twins was Amras, the other would have been Amrod. Maitimo would be Maedhros. Curufinwë became Curufin and Carnistir was now Caranthir. He was Maglor. The Sindarin names sounded better to him. They had left who they were behind and became new. Both clean and tarnished. They had come from Valinor, leaving a trail of blood and death, started again in what was to be called Beriland. But even with leaving their kin behind, the stain of their wrongdoings followed them. They could never truly escape. Even if a thousand years passed.

To Maglor, waiting for news of the battle, it seemed as if a thousand years had passed, but pass they did. In the uncountable stretch of time that was the darkness, a horse arrived, limping, carrying a single elleth, Fëarillë she had been. Her cloak was torn and the rich red of it stained with darker shades. Her armour was dented and covered in a dried crust of blood. Part of a once white tunic had been torn up to bandage around her arm. She was paler than anyone he had ever seen and her hair, what was left of it, was tangled.

“I request an audience with Curu-Curufinwë.” her voice shook as she spoke, pain written across her face as she dismounted and blood beaded on her side.

“It is Fëanor you wish to speak to?”

“Curufinwë, Fëanaro, Fëanor, I don't care!”

“This way Fëarillë, I will send for him.”

“I don't have time. Just get me there, or does he no longer care about his sons?”

The guard seemed flustered, his hands waving through the air in vaguely confused motions.

“I will take her.” Maglor spoke at last, walking up to Fëarillë. He didn't know why he was volunteering to face his father's wrath, but apparently he was.

Fëarillë started to walk towards the main tent, Maglor accompanying her.

“Fëarillë, what a, surprise.” Fëanor spoke softly as she pushed the opening  of the tent open.

[izamaina]

Merry Christmas to me. 😀😀😀 Now, for the rest...

[izamaina]

A Thousand Lies and One Truth; sub-narrative:

May A Star Shine

When he was young, Eärendil wanted to be a star. Those that dabbled in philosophical thought came to the conclusion that he simply wished to be part of the Song and part of Varda. They were wrong.

Eärendil had heard the Silmarils likened to stars once and, with a head full of fantasies of being a star and his own belief, brought on by how elves, bitter with rage and sorrow, would claim that they had more right than any to a Silmaril.

Elwing had one. It was the one her father had given her before she escaped, it was the one Lúthien and Beren took from Morgoth. It was the one that killed her brothers, her father, her people. In Menegroth, when her father was still alive, elves would tell her stories of the undying lands, of Valinor. They spoke of a city that seemed harsh and stark under one blossom but soft and incredible under another. They spoke of shipwrights with such incredible skill, they spoke of a King who worked with his own for everything. They spoke of beauty and talent, of maths and science, art and philosophy, of unrivalled craftsmanship. With the Silmarill in her hands, she could believe it. They said it was crafted by Fëanor, but they spoke of him with hate and rage. So how could he make the Silmaril?

Gilthornthêl spoke of Valinor with longing and pain. When Elwing had gone up to her and asked how Fëanor could have made the Silmarils she had told Elwing of Valinor once again, but this time she spoke of darkness creeping in, the Valar misinterpreting, swords drawn during a council meeting and aimed at a brother, lies whispered and rumors spread, the discrediting of a prince, a woman who chose death, that nothing was thought of dying because you would just return to the living. She spoke of blood spilt upon gem-filled sand and ships burnt. She spoke of dead that would never come back, of a brother betrayed. And then she spoke of ice, mile after mile of it, snowflakes that were sharp and bitter to behold, cracks covered with snow, children dying first, the feeling of hunger as it overcame all other feelings save from the cold, of how tears froze to the cheeks and skin was torn away by the howling winds that swept across the land. She spoke of elves who gave up, of putting your life in a game and hoping you lose. She spoke of eyes reflecting nothing but whiteness and death. She spoke of how, when they arrived in Beriland, no help was offered to them, of how, she was informed, almost casually, that her sister had died protecting her lord.

Gilthornthêl had lived this, Elwing knew. So she stopped believing that the Silmarill was good, but she was still drawn to it.

Eärendil’s grandfather was Turgon, brother of Fingon. Both had seen the Silmarills and could not describe them- of course, Fingon was dead and thus, could not talk and he had never met his grandfather. But still.

They had no warning, why would they? The first they knew of it was a horn call from outside, followed by a black haired elf walking into the city. The elf either did not care or did not notice the looks aimed his way. Dior, her father, had gone out to meet him, all of his guards following him, in contrast to how the elf walked alone, as if he needed no protection. Gilthornthêl seized her by the wrist and dragged her away, telling her that she must take the Silmaril and go. She had fought back, protested, she wanted to see what would happen, and she wanted her brothers. Gilthornthêl had sighed and hurried of to look for them, leaving Elwing clutching the Silmaril and listening to her father's conversation with the strange elf.

“My pardons, Maedhros was unable to come. He is waiting outside.”

“What do you want, Maglor?” Her father had growled.

There it was, a name to go with the face. Maglor Fëanorian, kinslayer, blood-traitor and musician. The last sounded so out of place.

“The Silmaril.”

“You cannot have it!” Dior had shouted, “It is not yours!”

“I have an army. And as much as I would dislike to have to kill you and your children, if you will not give it to us, you will die.” The way Malgor said it was calm but a fire was burning in his eyes and Elwing knew that he meant every word. She ran to Gilthornthêl, escaped in time to see the army that stood waiting funnel into the city. She escaped with the Silmaril.

She escaped without her brothers.  

Her brothers are dead.

She is alive.

Years pass.

Eärendil met Elwing on one of his adventures. Elwing had a Silmaril, and his fascination with the gem soon meant a friendship with Elwing and Gilthornthêl. Over time Elwing and him became more than friends and he took to sailing. He missed the birth of his sons, missed their first steps, first words, and what was presumed to be their last. When he heard the news, Maglor and Maedhros had gone after the Silmaril, he hoped they were talking about the ones that still lived in Morgoth's crown. When Elwing flew to him, clutching the Silmaril, he knew that hope to be false. The first thing she said was;

“They killed my brothers.” He knew. “They have killed our sons.” He knew.

“What did you call them?” He whispered.

“Elrond and Elros. Oh, Eärendil, I wish you could have met them.”

“Tell me about them, please.”

“Elrond was quiet, he read so many books, Elros was the opposite. They were twins.” The last statement was unnecessary, but important. If he would never meet them, then he wanted to know as much about them as he could. “My brothers were twins.” It was little more than a whisper.

“I know.”

“They would have loved you.” He didn't know if she was referring to his sons or to her brothers.

When he was younger, he wanted to be a star.