REMEMBERING

Maglor spent much of that night close by the pavilion, but had gone briefly in the early morning to his abode, returning his harp to its protective covering, before retracing his steps to recline against an obligingly situated tree nearby. 

‘Nana’ the softly whimpering child called out in his pain and confusion, rousing Maglor to watchful attention.

Maglor tensed, awaiting the voices of one or both parents or attending healer coming to sooth the hurting child.  When no one responded, Maglor moved swiftly into the healing pavilion and without thought first laid his marred hand on the child’s shoulder, easing the pain and encouraging healing.  Testing the draught on the low stand by smell and taste, he verified it to be an herb blend used to relieve pain. Though mixed with generous amounts of honey and fruit syrup, the bitterness was still strong enough to cause the boy to protest as Maglor lifted him carefully allowing him to reluctantly swallow the medicine. When the young boy quieted, he cradled him, careful not to cause pain, and began singing one of the comfort-songs from his childhood.  Holding this little one, stroking the silky, dark head brought back with a surge of remembrance a time ages past now…

*****

‘Nana’ wailed the distressed child while his twin brother held him.  Grief-stricken sobs from the quiet one tore at his heart. Maglor could bear their pain no longer. Taking each child by one hand he led them from the center of the encampment to the somewhat more secluded area of his own tent. Ushering them inside, he sank to the ground, cuddling a child in each arm, whispering words of affection onto the dark heads resting against his chest, singing their grief away for a time.

At last they fell into exhausted sleep. Maglor laid them side-by-side on his bedding, lying down next to them, one arm draped protectively about their small bodies…

*****

In instinctive imitation of his memories, he gently repositioned the now sleeping child, protectively curling about Veryandil. With a small moan of discontent, the child began to fretfully grasp for some familiarly comforting object. Seeking fingers shortly found and clutched fiercely a handful of the abundant length of Maglor’s unbound, raven-black hair, burrowing into it ever more securely until at last, appeased, he drifted into deeper sleep…

*****

…Elrond slept peacefully cradled about Elros, Maglor’s tall form creating a reassuring barrier to lean into, his arm resting lightly across them.  Rousing from dark dreams, Maglor attempted to rise, but found he was held firmly in place by small hands thoroughly entangled in his hair. He now regretted, for an instant, unbinding his warrior braids, but then childhood memories flooded back of the blissfully soothing feeling associated with his father’s strong arms holding him lovingly and his own small hands enmeshed in his father’s dark hair. Settling back he waited patiently for the twins to awaken…

*****

Thus Linwë found his son and the healer upon entering the pavilion. Briefly a flash of fatherly resentment surfaced in his mind; after all, Veryandil was the child entrusted to the care of himself and Oloriel, and his heart cried out painfully that his son could find comfort in the care of another.  Striding briskly to the bed he began to carefully untangle his son’s fingers from the hair of this stranger.  Arising with swift ease and fully aware of the displeasure of the child’s father, Maglor bowed his head to Linwë, and without a spoken word, departed swiftly.  Linwë stood in the doorway, puzzled by the odd behavior of the healer.

Oloriel returned shortly from her time of studying to find her husband cross-legged by their son’s bed, deep in thought.

Oloriel: Something troubles you, my love?

Linwë:  I found a strange healer caring for our son.

Oloriel:  Estë assured us Veryandil would be well cared for, else we would not have left him earlier.

Linwë:  This healer did not merely sit with our child, but seemed as a father in his attention.

Oloriel:  Help me understand your meaning.

Linwë:  As I have done many times with Veryandil, he was curved around him, an arm over him and…

His voice faded with his growing unhappiness.

Oloriel:  Pray continue.

Linwë finally managed to say: …the unbound hair of the healer was in Veryandil’s grasp.

Oloriel came to him, joining him on the grass and took him by the hand.

Oloriel:  He is also perhaps a father with a son he comforted in like manner.

Veryandil moaned softly:  Nana. Atto.

Linwë rose quickly to come to his son’s side and gently took his hand crooning soothingly.

Linwë:  We are here, my son.

Veryandil said sleepily:  I dreamed of a beautiful song, Atto.

Linwë remained silent.

Veryandil tried again:  Atto, there was light in it, too, of gold, and silver.

Still Linwë did not answer his son.

Veryandil pleaded:  Please, Atto, sing it again.

Linwë:  The song was not mine, Veryandil, but that of the healer that cared for you.

Oloriel joined them, her hand resting lightly upon Linwë’s as he fought to cover his distress with caring words.

Veryandil:  Will he come back?

Linwë holding back tears:  If you wish it, my son.  Rest now and I will seek him for you.

Closing his eyes Veryandil murmured gratefully:  Thank you, Atto.

Before sliding into sleep once more Veryandil reached out his hand in appeal.  Linwë shook a braid over his shoulder and onto the waiting palm. Gripping it tightly, Veryandil sighed contentedly and slept.

*****

Linwë and Oloriel sat under the clear night sky discussing the stranger who had tended their son.

Oloriel: Estë herself gave him leave, my love.

Linwë insisted stubbornly: It is not the place of a stranger to care for him in such a manner.

Oloriel patiently: The Lady said he is a mighty healer of long forgotten arts.

She paused then, considering her consort.

Oloriel said hesitantly:  Though she said, as well, that our son may be the means to begin the healing of the healer.

Linwë looked up, startled by the calmly declared statement.

Linwë: What can she mean?  Is our child gifted with healing?

Oloriel: She would say no more, but assured me that Veryandil could well be the key to the healer’s release.

Linwë stood and walked quickly back into the pavilion, tense with denial. Oloriel followed him a moment later to find him gazing at Veryandil’s sleeping form. She leaned against her husband, but he did not yield to her unspoken plea to wrap an arm about her in comfort.

*****

Linwë kept silent vigil over his sleeping child, troubled not only by his perceived neglect of Veryandil’s welfare, but also by the unwelcome intrusion of the ‘healer’, while Oloriel rested on the low bed next to their son, drifting on the Paths of Dreams.

A feather-soft touch on his shoulder startled him, and rising swiftly he spun to face the visitor only to come face-to-face with the Lady Estë.

Linwë abashed bowed his head and without raising his eyes to her, bade her welcome.

Estë:  You wish to undo the past and see your son healed, my child?

Linwë puzzled:  Of course, my Lady, how could I not?

Estë: Others there are who share your grief, in portion, although not only of myself do I speak; some wounds are not of the hröa.

Linwë gazed uncomprehendingly at the Lady.

Estë sighed and continued: You and your lady have not yet seen a great year and your son is but a young child. When twelve great years you have seen, think you will love your son less?

Linwë responded strongly:  He will always have my love, Lady. How can you think else?

Estë:  The healer is ancient even in the reckoning of the Eldar, yet he is loved as truly as your love for Veryandil.

Linwë stood quietly contemplating her words.

Veryandil stirred then, his bound arm restricting his movements.

Veryandil:  Atto?

Linwë bowed briefly to the Lady and went quickly to the bedside.

Veryandil:  I am thirsty, Atto, and…

His small voice trailed off in dismay.

… I need help…to…to…

Tears filled his eyes.

Linwë nodded knowingly and gently lifted his son carrying him to the privacy corner of the tent.

Veryandil whispered: Oh, Atto, I love you.

Linwë smiling with joy: I love you, my son.

*****

Oloriel had already departed when a healer came with an herb tea to ease pain. Linwë watched attentively as the damaged shoulder of his son was examined and was surprised at the pronouncement.

Healer: His recovery is astounding. Have you or your consort an unusually strong healing gift?

Linwë frowned and shook his head, but spoke not a word.

Healer: Veryandil, I shall unbind your shoulder, but be careful not to try to move your arm until I tell you.

Veryandil nodded, but added aloud: Will you please sing the song of gold and silver light again?

Healer gently: I sang you no song, child.

Veryandil determined: But my Atto said the healer sang to me.

Healer: It was not I.

Veryandil looked to his father as the healer unbound the injured shoulder.

Veryandil: Atto?

Linwë curtly: It was another.

Tears welled in Veryandil’s eyes at the harsh tone of his beloved father. Seeing the hurt, Linwë came to him, stroking his soft dark hair and murmuring his love.

Slowly the healer probed the shoulder, manipulated and rotating it to test range of motion, and lowering the arm to rest on the child’s chest, drew back.

Healer musing aloud: The speed of healing would seem forced, but for the smooth knitting of torn muscles and lack of weakening of the surrounding areas which would be expected to accelerate the mending.

She studied the silent parent, then addressed the child: Tell me of the singer-healer, Veryandil.

Veryandil: It is only his song I remember…

…and the pain went and I felt safe…

Linwë turned away and strode outside, nearly colliding with an unusually tall elf about to enter.

Linwë embarrassed bowed his head: My pardon!

Silence was his only response and glancing up he gazed directly into the face of the very cause of his distress.

Linwë blurted out: YOU!

Maglor eyed him warily, dangerously alert, his hand moved unconsciously to the sword hilt at his hip. He faltered upon finding only empty air where his weapon should have rested. Stepping back a couple of paces he continued to observe his opponent carefully.

Maglor thought scornfully: A mere child! And no warrior either lest he be more than he seems.

Then with a sighing breath he remembered a time long past when it was he rising to the defense of two dark-haired boys, prepared to forfeit his life for theirs should it be required of him…

*****

…Returning from preparing food for the sleeping twins, he was startled to find an elf crouched close beside them. Most of the warriors kept a safe distance between themselves and the young ones, as they well understood the reason for the flaring tempers of the two remaining Sons of Fëanor, and had no wish to be cut down by a flashing elvish blade for their supposed  interference. Dark red, the hair of the interloper and as Maedhros reached a hand out toward the unwary twins, with a silent snarl of rage Maglor grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked his brother backward, crushing him to his chest, his dagger already pressed firmly against Maedhros’  unprotected throat. Maedhros stilled as Maglor hissed menacingly in his ear: Harm them not or, by the Oath, your life is forfeit!

Though his brother had meant only kindness, this time, he would not forget the wrath poured out upon them for the deed of their mother, Elwing. Nearly had Maedhros vengefully slain them in recompense for the loss of their own twin brothers, Amras and Amrod; fuel added to the fire of his rage over the theft of Jewel…

*****

The tension melted from Maglor’s fighting stance and bowing slightly, he turned to leave.

Linwë watched the internal struggle and now regretted his own anger. This one not only kept the song his son desired to hear, he belatedly realized, but must also be responsible for his extraordinary healing. Love for his hurting child overcame his resentment in that instant.

Linwë: Again I ask your pardon… lord?

Maglor froze, then whirled about, certain his identity had been revealed, awaiting the moment when revulsion and disgust replaced the hopeful look on the young face before him, but Linwë simply stood with hands outstretched in sincere apology.

Linwë quietly: You seem lordly, if not lord in fact. 

Pausing he continued: Will you enter?

Maglor dipped his head and allowed Linwë to hold aside the flap for him.

*****

Maglor went to the boy’s side, looking first into his eyes, then placing a large hand on the shoulder, performing the same testing procedure, and for the first time his grim expression lightened, though it could hardly be called a smile.

Healer: Light binding I would recommend and perhaps a smaller draught for pain.

Maglor nodded in agreement, then sank gracefully onto the floor at the child’s side, taking the good hand and began to sing quietly. Though reluctant, Linwë left with the healer, leaving Maglor alone with Veryandil.

Veryandil hesitantly: Are you the singer from my dream?

Maglor nearly inaudible: Aye, child. 

And he continued his song.

Veryandil bolder: I am Veryandil and I hurt my shoulder.

Maglor: Indeed.

Veryandil: Do you have a name?

Maglor: Many names have been mine, but they are worn and full of sorrow.

Veryandil: Will you choose a new one. I chose mine at the Essecilmë. It honors my father, as it was the one he gave to me.

Maglor: When the time comes, so will a name.

Veryandil: What shall I call you until then?

Maglor: What would you choose?

Veryandil paused thoughtfully: Nyello.

Maglor: Nyello…singer. That name I will use for now.

Veryandil: Your song of the light is beautiful, Nyello. Would you sing it again?

Maglor: Aye, though first you need to eat and exercise your body to aid the healing.

Veryandil eagerly: Am I well enough to go outside?

Maglor: Perhaps.

*****

Later that day after the pain draught had worn off Veryandil continued interrogating his new friend, Nyello.

Veryandil curiously: Do you live here or study like my mother? She is a healer in dreams, but I do not know what that means.

Maglor: Nay. For rest and peace I tarry.

Veryandil: Where do you live? We are from near Tirion.

Maglor: A traveler only for now.

Veryandil persistent: But everyone lives someplace.

Maglor: You are young yet, little one.

Veryandil pensively: When I will not answer Atto he says I am hiding my thoughts because they do not please me.

Maglor: Your Atto is wise in seeing into the heart. Then to deflect the flow of questioning asked: You would wish to hear a tale of another small child who was ever curious of all around him?

Veryandil instantly delighted: Very much, please, Nyello.

Maglor recounted some of the adventures (and misadventures) of a pair of boys, twins in birth, but not in nature, to his rapt audience of one. When he saw the twitch of discomfort and deemed it time to proceed with the healing, he poured a small measure of the pain-blocking herbs and told Veryandil to lay back and rest. Placing his hand on the injured shoulder, Maglor began to sing the Song of Light. Veryandil looked up under sleepy lids.

Veryandil: The twins, Nyello, are they your sons?

Maglor’s song falter as pain gripped his heart.

Maglor his eyes haunted: Not of my blood, Veryandil, but of my heart.

Veryandil opened his lips to speak again only to find a long finger resting lightly on them in a gesture of silence. Closing his eyes in acceptance of the decree, he drifted into sleep, to a song of long ago when light of gold and silver bathed their land in indescribable beauty.

*****

Veryandil awoke to the soft voices of his parents outside the pavilion.  He found the pain nearly gone and climbed carefully out of the low bed, padding quietly to the opening. Linwë turned, noting the barely heard footfalls and stretched out his arms to enfold his young son.

Veryandil: Atto, Nana, I am much better now.

Linwë:  Tell us of your healer, Veryandil.

Veryandil excitedly in a rush of words: He permitted me to name him, he does not live anywhere, he has twin sons who are not really his, and he sang the Song again.

Oloriel: Veryandil, slowly, dear heart.

Veryandil frowning: And he is very sad.

Oloriel: Did he say this to you?

Veryandil struggling to explain: Not with words, Nana, but… with his voice and… sometimes his hands would stop moving … and his face did not smile… and his eyes looked… somewhere else.

Oloriel and Linwë exchanged unspoken words.

Oloriel: This may be the healing he requires, wound of fëa, not hröa.

Linwë: Yet how will our very young son be part of this healing?

Oloriel: Trust in the wisdom of the Powers, love.

Oloriel moved to sit close to her husband and child and together they began to sing a children’s song to the glory of Varda, Star-Kindler, much as their kind had done in ages past at the Lake of the First Awakening, a song of joy and wonder and love for the Light.

Maglor sitting alone under the trees, long fingers resting lightly on harp strings, watched the three with intense longing on his fair face, and tenderly followed the simple tune. Rising long after the family had gone inside to rest, he returned to his lakeside dwelling.

*****

Notes:

Fëa - spirit

Essecilmë – Name-choosing ceremony