31: Of Harps and Other Matters

After that, things got a little easier for Maglor. He still was forced to endure being guarded, but he was now more willing to interact with those around him, helping with the daily chores of living, or rather, surviving in this white wilderness. He often found himself wondering if those who had survived the crossing of the Helcaraxë would think it poetic justice that he, at least, suffered a taste of the hell they had experienced in reaching Ennorath. Would Finrod, for instance, scorn him and his experiences? Others might, but he doubted his young cousin would. Finrod… Well, he would have to wait and see.

In the meantime, he spent hours seriously contemplating Denethor’s words, analyzing his own feelings about himself. Was he as full of self-hatred and loathing as Denethor intimated?  He was unsure. And how does one go about forgiving oneself for simply being? It wasn’t as if he had chosen to be born, to be the second-born son of the great Fëanor, rather than the son of someone else, anyone else. How could he forgive himself for that?

Yet, he suspected that that was the core of it. He had to forgive himself for simply being Maglor, forgive himself for all the wrongs he had committed and even for all the right choices he had made, if he had made any. He was unsure about that last. He could only think of a handful of times when he knew he had made the right choice: succoring Elwing’s two sons and adopting them, then giving them up when it was time, joining with Denethor and his motley crew. It was a woefully short list compared to all the wrongs he had committed against himself and others.

And at the very heart of it were the damnable Oath and the Silmaril.

Yet, for all his ruminations, he found no easy answers, only more questions, and he sometimes despaired of ever finding the truth in all of it. His sleep was still plagued by nightmares, but they were muted now, for Denethor insisted that they continue guarding his sleep and while he dreaded having to do so, he appreciated the effort of the others to help ease his sleep as much as possible and said as much to Glóredhel when she happened to be on guard duty, for they all took a turn at it.

“You’re welcome,” the elleth said. “Now, would you like me to sing to you?”

“Yes, please,” Maglor said as he settled himself into his furs. “Something about spring, perhaps. I weary of all this white and yearn for some green.”

“We all do,” Glóredhel said. She paused for a moment and then began singing a simple song often sung to elflings about flowers blooming and trees dressing up for summer and the forest animals dancing with delight for the return of spring. He had sung it himself to Elrond and Elros when they first came to him. The memory of that made him smile as he slipped onto the Path of Dreams and for the first time in a long time his dreams centered around his two foster sons when they were young and he would sing to them.

****

“You haven’t worked on your harp lately,” Arthalion commented one day when the two were helping to repair and replace some of the animal skins that were being used as a roof over the enclosure. The weight of snow and ice had brought some of them down, leaving gaps in their cover. The Elves had to first dig the snow out before they could rescue the skins and Maglor welcomed the physical activity.

“I’ve not felt like it,” Maglor grunted as he scooped some snow into a cooking pot and then walked over to the south entrance and dumped the contents outside the enclosure. It was slow, laborious work, for they had no shovels, save for two small ones used primarily for digging privies. Everyone else on snow removal duty was using cooking pots, although Duilinn and Gwilwileth were rolling the snow around into a ball and collecting it that way, giggling like elflings with their endeavors.

“Don’t make it too large or you won’t be able to get it through the doorway,” Ragnor told them, shaking his head in amusement as son and possibly future daughter-in-law continued rolling the snowball. Maglor glanced up and smiled at their antics.

“You should get back to it,” Arthalion said.

“Back to what?” Maglor asked, having forgotten what Arthalion was talking about.

“Your harp. You should continue working on it.”

“Why? And why do you care?” That last came out more brusquely than he had intended and Arthalion stopped to stare at him in surprise. “Sorry,” he apologized and Arthalion nodded in understanding.

“I just think you should,” the ellon said. “I think that harp is important to you.”

“In what way? It’s just a harp, one of many that I’ve had over the long years.”

“Yet, I sense that this harp is different. I do not know in what way, but I think it matters that you finish it, and sooner rather than later.”

“These last few weeks….” Maglor shrugged, unsure how to express what he was feeling.

“Yes, I know. Here, I’ll take that.” Arthalion reached over and grabbed the pot Maglor had been filling and went to dump it. When he came back, he crouched down next to Maglor, handing him back the pot and idly scooping up some of the snow, packing it into a ball rather than throwing it into the pot.

“What are you doing?” Maglor asked.

“Hmm? Oh, I just thought Duilinn and Gwilwileth’s idea has some merit. If we roll this into a large ball we can get rid of more snow faster.”

“Well, go ahead. I think I’ll just continue filling the pot. I do not mind the work. It keeps me from thinking too much.”

“Well, I still think you should work on your harp when we’re all gathered together tonight. Everyone else is working on something and you just sit there staring at the fire.”

“And that upsets you.”

Arthalion shrugged as he began rolling the ball in the snow, making it larger. “I think it upsets everyone. You sit and you stare and you do little else. You barely speak to anyone. You don’t interact with us at all. You’re there but you’re not.”

“I’m a prisoner, after all, Arthalion,” Maglor said mildly, giving the ellon a brittle smile. “Oh, I know. There are no bars on my prison and no chains, but I’m a prisoner nonetheless no matter what anyone else says to the contrary. My comings and goings are monitored and the only time I’m left alone is when I go to use the privy. Why would I, a prisoner, bother conversing with my gaolers?”

Arthalion glared at him. “Was I a prisoner?”

Maglor reared back in surprise, not sure what the ellon was talking about. “When? Where?”

“Here, with you. Was I a prisoner?”

“Of course not! Why would you think so?”

“When I first joined you, my every move was watched. I was never left alone. There was always someone there.”

“We were only looking after you,” Maglor tried to explain but Arthalion cut him off with a brusque gesture.

“Yes, of course. I know that. I even appreciate why you did it, but the point I’m making is that even though I was guarded every minute, I was not a prisoner, and neither are you. You guarded me out of a genuine concern for my well-being. I was mind-damaged, after all and who knows what the mind-damaged will do?”

“I’m not mind-damaged and I doubt you are anymore,” Maglor protested.

“Mind-damaged, no. Soul-damaged, yes. And who is to say which is the more dangerous state for all concerned? Maglor, we all care for you. We all love you and only want your happiness, but you cannot be happy while you are chained to that Silmaril. If you are in prison, it is not we who have the key to your cell. It’s the Silmaril and until you can deal with it, you will always be in prison, though you walk freely under the skies of Ennorath.”

“And you think working on my harp will help?” Maglor asked.

Arthalion shrugged. “It’s a start. That harp is important to you, though you deny it. I have sensed it in the way you carve each piece. This is not just another musical instrument for you. What it is, I cannot say, only you can, but I think not working on the harp is wrong.”

For a moment Maglor crouched in the snow, gazing at nothing in particular as he mulled over Arthalion’s words. He came back to himself when he found a snowball in his face.

“Hey! I thought you were going to roll it, not throw it,” he protested, wiping the snow out of his eyes.

Arthalion just grinned at him and began scooping up more snow. Maglor threw aside the cooking pot and began scooping up his own. It was hard to tell who managed to throw their snowball first and soon others were joining in. It was some time before they remembered the roof needed repairing.

****

Later that evening, Maglor sat on his furs, sunk in thought, going over his conversation with Arthalion and what it might mean. He was still reluctant to continue working on his harp and he could not find the strength within him to pull the pieces of wood out and begin working. So he sat, half-listening to the low conversations of the others as people gathered about the fire to eat some stew.

“Venison yesterday, venison today, and no doubt venison tomorrow,” he heard Ragnor grumble as he settled down with a bowl.

“Unless it’s goat, instead,” Damrod said, sounding rather philosophical about it.

“Is there a difference?” Ragnor retorted.

“Shut up and eat, Ragnor,” Finduilas ordered, giving her husband a glare.

“Yes, dear,” the ellon said with a sigh.

Maglor smiled at the interchange and others chuckled.

“Goat good,” Arthalion whispered where he was sitting next to Maglor and then gave him a wink when Maglor looked at him. Maglor was hard put not to laugh out loud and occupied himself with eating.

Denethor took a few moments to discuss ‘affairs of state’, as Eirien put it, meaning he spoke of any concerns that needed to be addressed, such as organizing the next hunt, which they would need to do in a day or two. Maglor would have liked to have volunteered for that, but knew that Denethor would not allow it, so he contented himself with volunteering to check the walls for any structural damage caused by the weather while the roof was still being repaired. Denethor agreed and once everyone had been given an assignment — who would cook, who would take which watches, who would guard Maglor’s sleep if he chose to sleep that night and so on — the rest of the evening was devoted to singing, telling tales, and working on projects.

Maglor sat and stared at the fire, ignoring the others as they bustled about. He noted Saelmir climbing the stairs to take the first watch. He himself would take the dawn watch and did not think he would sleep this night. Perhaps tomorrow night or the night after. Denethor had convinced him that it would be better for all concerned if he did not try to sleep during the day, for there was too much that needed to be done to keep them all alive in this brutal environment and everyone’s help was needed.

Someone began singing. It was a lament, ancient and well-known to all. Maglor, only half-listening, continued staring into the fire, letting himself drift with the song, remembering that particular event, seeing it again in his mind’s eye. His brother Maedhros had been at the heart of it, as usual, and he himself had had little to do with it, but it had affected them all for good or ill. He had not bothered making a song of it; someone else had done that — Finrod, he thought, or possibly Fingon. After all this time, it was hard to remember who had composed which lament, there had been so many over the long years.

The singer stopped suddenly and a silence fell upon them all. Maglor did not notice at first, too lost in the music, but when he felt a hand on his arm, he blinked and realized that everyone was staring at him.

“What?” he whispered, fearing the answer.

“Maglor, what were you doing?” Arthalion  asked.

“Doing? I was listening….”

“No, Maglor, you were playing. Look at your hands.”

Maglor glanced down where he saw Arthalion’s hand on his arm. His own hands were crooked in a well-known position, the left slightly above the right as if—

“I was playing a harp, I mean pretending to….” He reddened in embarrassment as he realized what he’d been doing, following the music in his mind, accompanying the song with an imaginary harp. Why, he hadn’t done that since he was a newly minted bard, mentally practicing the notes for various songs his music master had assigned him. He glanced up at the faces of the others. Most looked sympathetic, a few looked amused. Arthalion squeezed his arm to get his attention.

“I really think you need to finish your harp,” the ellon said and then released his hold on him, returning to his own project, making a leather vest for himself, for he had been reduced to wearing borrowed clothing from those who could spare them and he wished for his own wardrobe.

After a few moments, the singing resumed. Maglor just sat there, staring into the fire, consciously keeping his hands clasped, determined not to air-play the harp again that night.

****

As it was, it was another three days before Maglor felt ready to take up working on the harp. In the interim, he continued to do whatever chore needed doing, finding the physical labor a welcome relief from his more cerebral activities. Yet, he caught himself one time as he stood watch air-playing the harp again when a particular piece of music lodged itself in his mind and, try as he would, he could not stop it. Why the harp was so important to him, he did not know, yet Arthalion, at least, was convinced that it was. When on the third evening he pulled the pieces of wood out of their storage place beside his furs, no one commented, but he saw Arthalion nodding and there was a knowing smile on the ellon’s lips, though he did not look at Maglor directly, still intent on his sewing.

Maglor, for his part, found something soothing in the motion of carving the various pieces, mentally imagining how he wished the harp to look.

“How long will winter last?” Sador asked as they all sat in companionable silence working on their projects. No one felt like singing that night for some reason. “By my reckoning, we’re well into Nínui and the season of Echuir is upon us.”

“I think it extends beyond the New Year, perhaps as late as the beginning of Lothron,” Arthalion answered, “though in truth I’ve long forgotten when any particular day or season arrives. I just knew that the warm season was very short and I would spend the long hours of daylight hunting and preparing for the next winter.”

“And we will have to do the same,” Denethor said. “We were fortunate that, as late in the year as it was when we came here, the weather held fair long enough for us to prepare for the winter as well as we have.”

“Do you see us removing to Mithlond in the summer and abandoning this place except perhaps as a watch post?” Neldorion asked.

“What does everyone think?” Denethor said in answer, gazing around at the group as they huddled around the fire. “Should we move on to Mithlond and make that our base of operation?”

“East Mithlond is less damaged than the other side,” Maglor said. “If we were to move there, we could each find our own place and that will give people more privacy. Also, we need a forge and a kiln and other things and there’s no point setting any of them up here. We’re better off in Mithlond, but I think using this as a watch post would not be a bad idea. We still need to keep an eye on those cat-creatures unless we mount an expedition to destroy them.”

“We’re going to have to do that anyway if we want access to the mines that are in the mountains,” Ragnor pointed out. “I agree with Maglor that moving to Mithlond would be best. We did see a few buildings that, with a bit of work, could be made snug and winter-proof.”

“What about our plans to harvest seeds from the trees in Tûm Ivon?” Finduilas asked. “There is no protected place in Mithlond for a nursery.”

“We might be able to find some deep valley in the mountains to the north,” Rían suggested. “Arthalion, do you know of such? Did you and Arthad ever explore the mountains themselves?”

Arthalion shook his head. “No. Except for the caves, we did not go into the mountains, so I cannot tell you if there are any suitable valleys for setting up the tree nursery. It certainly is something we should consider doing once we can. That cave system extends well into the mountain range. Arthad and I didn’t explore far, just enough of it to determine what could be useful for us in terms of shelter and having a supply of water.”

“It might be worth taking a look,” Damrod said to Denethor. “If we can find ore lodes to the north, we can ignore the southern mountains and those cats. We can also hunt in the north.”

“I agree,” Denethor said, “but I hesitate to abandon this place completely.”

“Doing so would not be wise,” Maglor said. “I am concerned about those cats. They have a level of intelligence that is most troubling and there is nothing that says they won’t follow us into Mithlond. We do not know how wide their hunting range is, after all.”

“Yet, we’ve decimated them to the point they should not be a threat to us, haven’t we?” Eirien asked.

“Decimated is not the same as eliminated and I would like to not have to worry about them at all,” Denethor replied. “I think our first order of business is to deal with those creatures once and for all before we do anything else. Once that threat is removed, we can concentrate on doing what we need to in order to survive over the years until we have the wherewithal to Sail.”

“So, you think we’ll be here for some time,” Voronwë said.

“It does stand to reason, does it not?” Denethor answered. “I do not see the Belain providing us with transportation. That’s up to us.”

“We should have just stayed in the South then,” Duilinn groused. “At least there we could have bought a ship.”

“True, but you’re forgetting one thing, two actually,” Denethor said, casting a meaningful look at Maglor and Arthalion. Maglor felt himself go pale at the implication of Denethor’s words and he noticed Arthalion looking equally nonplused. “And there is also this,” Denethor continued, casting his gaze around. “We could indeed have taken ship in the South. Certainly any of us could have traveled to the coast if we so desired, but none of us did, none of us even contemplated doing so. While the Seas are frozen here in the North, that wasn’t the case in the South; they were ice-free and we could have Sailed.”

“But we didn’t,” Damrod said.

“No, we did not,” Denethor echoed, nodding in agreement. “It took a dream and a commission from the Belain themselves for us to leave our lethargy behind and regain hope enough to believe that we could eventually reach Dor Rodyn. The Belain could certainly have instructed me to go to the coast and buy a ship if that’s all they wanted from us, but we know that is not so. Maglor and Arthalion are living proof of that. No. We were always meant to come here and we are meant to find our own way. The days when the Belain would provide us with a convenient island by which to transport us across the Sea are long over, my friends. It’s up to us and I believe if we remain true to each other, if we keep estel in our hearts, we will find a way. That it may take a few ennin to accomplish, what of it? It’s not as if we’re expected for tea on a particular day, after all.”

There were chuckles at that.

“I hope they serve us more than just tea when we finally get there, though,” Ragnor said and everyone laughed and the rest of the evening was spent in discussing what kinds of food and drink they hoped the Belain would feast them with once they did reach the Blessed Realm.

And all the while, Maglor sat in silence and continued to work on his harp.

****

Nînui: February/March in the Gregorian calendar; also called Nénimë.

Echuir: Stirring, which begins around 9 February in the Gregorian calendar; also called Coirë.

Lothron: May/June in the Gregorian calendar; also called Lótessë.

Note: The Elvish New Year fell on 6 April in the Gregorian calendar. See Appendix D for a discussion of the calendar system used in Middle-earth.