Sojourn

He had forgotten how quiet it was here, a silence made more still by the soft lapping of wavelets on the shore of the lake. The only other sounds were the occasional song of a bird and the whisper of a breeze through the branches of the silver willows. He sat on the grass, staring at but not really seeing a clump of daisies in the sunlight at the edge of the water. His body showed wariness in the tense shoulders, the sudden quick glances around him, but he did not move from his place for several hours, not until the shadows of the trees behind him alerted him that evening was coming.

He had been told that a pavilion would be prepared for his use further along the shore, but he was not yet ready for even that simple shelter. The desire to let go of his semblance was strong, but he had agreed not to do so for a period of time. When he had come into this place, he had been met by Heri Estë herself, who had looked at him with such a tender smile that he had nearly fled in shame. Seeing his distress, she had said: I can not hold you to a hróa, Heru Makalaurë, but I would ask you to maintain one for a few days, at least until you are more at ease here. No one will compel you to do anything; this is not a prison but a place of healing. Will you remain?

Maglor: I—I will, Lady.

Estë smiled again: I thank you.

With that, she had left him. For a few minutes, he had stood irresolute. Then, slowly, he had gone forward into the green and silver shadows of the trees, following the grassy paths which led him at last to the edge of the lake.

Though he had seen no one with physical sight, as a Faded, he could sense other fëar with him in the grove—flashes of brightness caught out of the corner of an eye, brushes of thought touching his mind, but no one tried to speak to him. All of those he sensed were Maiar; he felt no other Faded, but then the state of fading was not one to be healed; it was simply a stage of life for his longeval people. All were welcome here, and he knew that even the Valar themselves came for refreshment. Yet it was for healing and renewing that he had come, and so, as dusk deepened and the first stars awoke above him, he rose and walked along the shore until he saw, a little way back among the trees, the soft glow of lamplight from an open door. Turning aside, he came to the pavilion, a shelter of gray silk, Estë's color, the cloth spread over a light framework of wood, with rolled-up sides which could be lower to keep out rain. Inside, it was lit by a small lamp, set on a low table. There was also food there—fruit and bread and a flask of the pale yellow wine he favored. On one side was a low bed, spread with a coverlet of the same color as the pavilion. The floor was the grass of Lorien. He was about to take some fruit, when he saw his harp, in its case of soft leather beside the bed. Food forgotten, he picked up the instrument and went out to sit under the sky.

Withdrawing the harp and tuning key from the case, he set about adjusting the strings into the Stars mode. It had been a long time since he had used it, so that it took him some minutes to order the harmonies. Finally, however, he began to play. At first, his music reflected his agitation, with abrupt changes of tempo and rhythm, but slowly, very slowly, the peace of the night entered into him and his fingers moved more deliberately on the strings. From deep within him came the echo of ancient melodies, songs of childhood and boyhood. He hummed softly, not yet willing to sing, but willing to allow the music to take him where it would.

Isil rose above the trees, and he greeted him with a cool run of notes, like the light made audible. The lake in front of him was now mirror-still, reflecting the sky and surrounding woods, and at last, eyes lifted to the clarity above, Makalaurë sang. Just as his harping had been a bit ragged at first, so his song did not flow smoothly at first, for grief welled up within him—grief for all the years alone, but as midnight came and went, and Isil rode in the southern sky, his song steadied and grew strong. Thus he spent the remainder of the night, alternately singing and playing. At dawn, he ceased, replaced the harp and key in its case and went into the pavilion. He drank a glass of the cool wine, ate bread and fruit, quenched the lamp and lay down to take the first real rest in many years.

At mid-morning, he rose, undressed and went down to the lake to bathe. The water was cool and clean, the shallows floored with smooth sand. He had no soap root, but somehow, he did not think he needed such things here. He lifted his feet and swam, feeling the buoyancy, almost like the weightlessness of disembodiment. That thought nearly caused him to dissolve, but, remembering his promise, he held on to his hróa and swam along the shore of the lake. It was an almost forgotten pleasure to feel the rippling of muscles and the rhythm of breathing, let alone the coolness and clearness of water. He circled the lake, waded ashore and went back to the pavilion. Without surprise, he saw that fresh clothing had been laid out for him, and a porridge of grains set on the table. Before he sat to it, he went to the door and bowed his thanks.

When he had eaten, he again took up his harp and went out to explore Lorien.

To call this place a garden was a misnomer. It was an open forest, trees widely spaced so that sunlight dappled the soft grass. It was surrounded by a high green hedge with no barring gate. Everywhere there were places for repose—grassy banks, seats of wood or stone set at a height which invited reclining, deep beds of moss for dreaming. Besides the lake, with its central island where the Lady would rest by day, there were small gently flowing streams and fountains which rippled instead of spouting. All was peace and quietness, of sound and sense. Colors were soft greens, pale golds, earth browns, nothing to excite or incite.

After several hours, he came back to the pavilion, one of many he had seen on his walk, sat down before it in the afternoon light and played and sang that which his fëa had heard.

Estë: Your song is very fair, Makalaurë.

He started slightly, for he had been wholly absorbed in his art.

Maglor: I thank you, Lady.

Estë: How is it with you?

Maglor: Well enough

Estë: Is it difficult to remain in hróa?

Maglor: At times. I was alone when my fëa finished its work, and I did not really understand what had occurred. Oh, I knew what fading was, but not how it was.

Estë: Yes, I know. Makalaurë, if you are in need of anything, know that I am open to you.

Maglor: Again I thank you. I feel—at a loss. I have had to rely on myself for so long that—forgive me—but I do not truly know how to ask.

Estë laughed softly: Sometimes, words are not necessary. Be at ease, Eruhina.

Maglor: How long must I remain here?

Estë: There is no "must", Makalaurë; there is only "will".

The Valië flowed to her feet, touched him lightly on the shoulder, and glided away.

He spent the second night much as he had the first, except that there were long pauses of silence between his songs in which he simply looked up into the dark blue of the sky. Finally, he lay down and entered The Path of Dreams. He did not weave deliberately, but let his mind wander where it would. Suddenly, there was fire and the screams of dying kinsmen. With a cry, he sat up, thinking he was attacked, but there was nothing and no one near him. He bowed his head to his knees. It had been like this since he cast away the accursed stone. Every time he lowered his defenses, the memories would come. He heard a soft rustle behind him, and a deep calm voice spoke.

Irmo: Quietly, Eruhina, quietly. No one threatens you.

Maglor: I threaten me, lord.

Irmo: You have the right of it, and when more than your mind knows this, you will be healed. Will you allow me to ease you somewhat?

Maglor: I—I do not know.

Irmo: Fair enough. I will not compel you, but know that I too am open to you, and since Olorë Mallë is my province, I may be able to show you safer paths, but only if you allow it.

Maglor turned toward the Vala, but he had gone. With a sigh, he lay down again, then turned onto his side, curling into a protective position. He did not weep, but lay, tensed and still, for some time. Finally, very slowly, he relaxed and rested.

The second day was much like the first, except that he caught glimpses of the lord and lady, not following him, but met seemingly by chance at turnings in the paths or beside the lake. At dusk, they both came to him, and after greeting him courteously, simply sat with him.

Estë: Will you play for us, Makalaurë?

Maglor: What would you have, lady.

Estë: What you wish.

So he played; at first, it was clashing dissonances and conflicting melodies, like a whisper of the Marring. Neither Vala commented, but glanced at him compassionately. Gradually, he forgot their presence, so unobtrusive was it, and his melodies moved from battle to lament, from sorrow to resignation, and finally, as on the first night, to a tentative peace.

When he ceased, both Valar smiled. Then, Estë said: May I see your hand, Eruhina?

Maglor did not answer for some time, then, slowly, he held out his hand to her. She did not touch it, but simply looked. Finally, she said: You have decided to keep the scar?

Maglor: (fiercely) Yes! Do you think all is forgotten, lady?

Estë: (calmly) Nothing is forgotten, Makalaurë, for how then can we learn, but that is not the question.

Maglor: What, then, is the question?

Irmo: Is it set at rest, Eruhina?

Maglor: I slew my own people, a thing unnatural to us. I became a part of the Marring! This can not be redressed.

Estë: Not by you, Makalaurë, but to say that it can not be set at rest adds to the darkness.

Maglor: And it is that darkness we invoked, Lady, my father and my brothers and me.

Irmo: So you did, but within Eá you can not fulfill the oath. Do you not understand this?

Maglor: Yes, and it has been the source of torment to me for—years!

Estë: Why will you cling to pain, Eruhina?

Maglor: Why do you call me that?

Estë: Because you are.

Maglor was silent, his face reflecting conflict.

Irmo: We hope you will rest with us a while and let us do for you what we can. Sérë, Makalaurë.

They were gone, and Maglor put his face in his hands. He did not weep, but sat motionless for some time. At last, he dropped his hands and looked up at the quiet sky and gently swaying trees. A cool breeze, scented with leaves and grass and water, touched his hot face. After a while, he lay down where he was.

A rumble of thunder woke him from the first sleep he had allowed in years. The sky was dark, the air heavy with moisture. Lightning flickered to the east, and he briefly wondered if this was an attack, but there was no sense of impending evil. He rose and went into the pavilion, lowered the curtains and lay down on the bed. Thunder crashed overhead and large drops of rain began tapping on the light covering, soon increasing to a downpour. Wind stirred the curtains, bringing the smell of wet grass, and he lay quiet, watching the flickering lightning through their almost transparent fabric. Finally, he allowed himself to sleep again.

When he awoke, it was still raining, but softly. A thrush sang his morning song just outside. Maglor lay on his back a while, then, with a deep sigh, almost a groan, he got up, opened the door curtain and looked out on a softly sparkling world. Each leaf and blade of grass shone with gentle light, almost, he thought, with a wrench of the heart, like the mingled light of the Trees. He stepped out onto the wet grass and looked up. The sky was still clouded, but the clouds were high and white, and already breaking toward the east. He went back into the pavilion, and as he had done previously, took off his clothes and came out to walk to the shore. The water felt almost warm in the cool air, and he swam slowly, stopping to float on his back and look up at the brightening sky and greening trees. Anar broke through the clouds and each thing he looked at shone with reflected glory.

When he returned to the shelter, he saw, without embarrassment, those who attended him. Like a nér and a nís they were, the one dark-haired and the other golden. They wore the Lady's colors, silver-gray and flowing. When they saw him, they both smiled and bowed: Greetings, Heru Makalaurë, said the woman.

Maglor: And to you, my lady. I thank you for your care.

The other Maia said: You are most welcome. We wished to know you better and to enquire if there is anything you need.

Maglor: No, I thank you.

They smiled again and left. Inside, he found clothes and food. In truth, he needed neither, but he understood that they were to help him remain housed. So he dressed and ate, then unbound his hair and let it flow free.

Maglor's walk that day took him to the other side of the enclosure, where there was a stand of mellyrn. The trees were in their full spring splendor, golden blossoms scenting the air with their fresh sweet perfume. Beneath them the grass was soft, and starred with white clover. He sat under the trees, listening to the gentle bubbling of one of the forest streams and the songs of robins and finches. Opening the harp case, he removed the instrument and key, adjusted the strings for Sun mode, and played. The melody was not exactly lighthearted, but lighter in mood than those of the previous days. He looked up into the branches as he played, watching the fluttering blossoms against the clear sky.

At first, even Maglor's keen ears did not hear the crying clearly, it was so soft. When they did, he stilled the strings to listen. The sound went on, a low half-whispered moan. He set the harp on the grass and stood up slowly, turning his head and eyes, but holding the rest of his body still, ready for flight or defense.

Several hundred yards away, just at the edge of the grove, stood one of the pavilions, its back to him. The sound seemed to be coming from inside. He went forward cautiously, years of exile making him suspicious. He approached the shelter and stopped. The low plaintive sound continued, and he heard the whispered: Nana! Nana!

Instantly, Maglor rounded the pavilion and went in through the open door. On a pallet like the one he used, a child of no more than ten Sun-years lay, his face turned toward the light, crumpled in misery. Maglor was filled with indignation that this small one should be left alone. He knelt by the bed. The boy ceased crying, though he sniffed loudly.

Child: Where is nana, and where is this?

Maglor: Do you not know?

Child: No. I was climbing a tree. I fell. Now I am here and I hurt!

Maglor: You are in Lorien. What is your name, child?

Child: Veryandil.

With a soft rustle of clothing, Heri Estë entered, walked around the pallet and knelt on Veryandil's other side. The child started to turn toward her, but she said: Do not move, sweeting. I am here to aid you. Your mother knows where you are and will come soon.

She reached forward and gently laid her palm against the child's left shoulder. He winced and would have pulled away, but she said: No, little one. Be still for but a moment while I see what damage you have done to yourself.

Slowly, softly, she drew her hand down the child's back. The boy clenched his teeth, clearly determined not to cry out. After a moment, the Valië said: There are no broken bones, but the shoulder will have to be put back. I will send you to sleep, for otherwise, it would be very painful.

With that, she reached up to lay her hand against Veryandil's forehead. The boy sighed, his dark gray eyes closed fully, and he slept.

Estë looked at Maglor and said: Heru Makalaurë, will you assist me?

Maglor: But Lady, you--.

Estë: Yes, I can, but so can you. You have dealt with such injuries on the battlefield, have you not?

Maglor felt a rush of emotion—fear, anger, compassion and finally, resignation. He got up and went to kneel beside the lady. Estë gave him a glance, filled with calm encouragement. Then she said: I will be here if there is difficulty.

Maglor laid his hands on the shoulder, felt the bulge where the joint was dislocated, then, swiftly but carefully realigned it and pushed it home. He turned to the lady and said: The arm will need to be bound to his side, lest he re-injure it before it heals.

Estë: Yes. I will bring what is needed.

The Valië rose and went out, and Maglor remained kneeling beside the sleeping child, his thoughts as agitated as an unquiet sea. He had done nothing extraordinary, nothing he had not done many times before, as Estë had pointed out, but working thus brought the memories nearer the surface and out of the realm of dreams.

Estë returned with pliant withes of willow and strong cloth. She looked at him, noting his state and said: I had hoped helping Veryandil would ease you somewhat, my friend.

She sighed. Maglor answered, very low: Did you go to the war with the others, my lady?

Estë: I did, though my power to soothe was sorely tried in such turmoil. Rest was very far from the hróar and fëar of the combatants, Makalaurë. I could do no more than dim the heat of such flames, not extinguish them. Come, let us finish our task. Do you wish me to make the sling?

Maglor looked into the deep kind eyes and shook his head. He picked up the withes and cloth, wrapping the slender bands of wood with swift fingers. Then, very carefully, he lifted the child's arm and bound it with many soft folds to prevent it from jostling and pulling at the healing joint. When he had finished, Estë laid her hands upon the shoulder and sang, a low murmur of sound that nonetheless filled the small space with softly sparkling power. Maglor felt its effect keenly, and understood that it was his almost-disembodied state which made him aware of her working. When she ceased, Estë bent and kissed Veryandil's dark hair, rose, and with a gentle smile, invited Maglor to follow her out of the pavilion. He also rose and went with her.

Estë: He will sleep for the rest of the day, Heru Makalaurë. Thank you for your help.

Maglor nodded but found no words to say. He went back to where his harp was and sat down beside it. After a little, he picked it up, and returned to sit a few feet from the rear of the pavilion. The song he played and sang was neither of war nor of grief. It was a lullaby, a song of gentle dreaming and quiet waking, woven with all the skill he could find. The child's mother came, and walking beside Heri Estë, entered the pavilion. Moments later, Estë came out. She looked down at the minstrel, who, with closed eyes and flowing fingers, continued his own healing working. The Valië's eyes shone with gladness, and she sent a silent thought of blessing to the singing Elda. He looked up and met her gaze, singing on, and she saw the tears on his face, though his voice was steady and quiet. She bent her head to him in respect, and went away.