34: Renouncing the Oath

For most of the next day, as the others hunted among the wrecks, Maglor did little but sit on a rock and stare into the west or follow Ragnor’s every move as the ellon joined the others in their explorations. On Denethor’s orders, everyone else left him alone, though he had people take turns ‘visiting’ with him.

“He is quiescent now, but I don’t trust him to stay that way,” Denethor told the others when he asked Damrod to be Maglor’s first ‘visitor’.

Maglor was not fooled and understood that his visitors were actually his guards. He patently ignored them. In the meantime, a quick inventory of what could be found in the wrecks was made to ascertain if anything was salvageable.

“Most of the metal that we’ve found is pretty rusted or crusted over but we might be able to salvage some of it for our use,” Glóredhel told Denethor the next afternoon.

All morning long, clouds had piled up and they feared rain or even snow. Denethor called a halt to the exploration shortly after noon when it became obvious that a storm was on its way, ordering people back to camp where they gathered their supplies and sought higher ground, fearing the flats might be flooded if it did rain. Now they were huddled on a rounded knoll that stood out from the headland, quickly putting together a hot meal even though it was early, for they feared they would not be able to keep the fire going once it began to rain, if it did.

“Transportation will be a problem,” Glóredhel continued. “Frankly, I don’t look forward to lugging any of it back to Mithlond.”

“We may have to mount more than one expedition to collect what we can,” Denethor stated. “We have plenty of time. The Sea will not reclaim this place overnight.”

“I cannot believe we’re standing in what once was Ossiriand,” Eirien commented as she began ladling out the fish stew, handing a bowl to her husband. “There are no landmarks whatsoever.”

“The waters would have eroded much of them and I’ve seen evidence of past cataclysms, underwater quakes and volcanoes, and that would have altered the landscape even more,” Damrod stated.

“My brother Caranthir ruled over these lands to the north.”

Everyone stared at Maglor, sitting beside the fire. He had dutifully joined them in moving the camp to higher ground, docilely gathering supplies when Denethor ordered him to, but he had not spoken a word to anyone all morning. Once they had settled in their new campsite, he had sunk back into an apathetic state and had ignored and been ignored by everyone. His speaking as he did surprised them all.

“Never liked Caranthir,” Voronwë commented diffidently. “Too moody and harsh toward others. The slightest thing would set him off and there was no living with him until he calmed down.”

Maglor actually smiled, though there was no warmth to it. “Adar used to say that Caranthir could give Lord Oromë lessons on wrath. I remembered one time when my brother was particularly angry over some trifling thing, Adar just picked him up and carried him all the way down to Finwë Park with my brother screaming and thrashing about and threw him into the lake there to cool him off. And he actually traveled through the city and not by way of the arbor that connects the palace with the park so most of the city witnessed it.”

“How old was your brother, then?” Sador asked.

“Well past his majority,” Maglor replied, actually chuckling. “Even as adults, none of us could best Adar.”

There was a thoughtful silence as the others considered the implications of Maglor’s words. Maglor sank back into himself, seemingly no longer caring to contribute to the conversation. There was a sudden rumble of thunder which surprised everyone.

“Looks as if we might actually get rain,” Denethor stated.

“It is a sign that the ice no longer has as firm a grip on the land as it once did,” Ragnor said, “though I don’t fancy getting wet. I wish we had better shelter.”

Everyone else agreed but there was little they could do about it but huddle under their furs and wait out the storm, for storm it was and the thunder was followed by flashes of lightning and then the rain came, pouring over them in sheets.

“We’re too exposed here,” Damrod shouted above the fury of the storm.

“That cannot be helped,” Denethor retorted.

Maglor came out of his fugue to pull his cloak over him and checked to see that Arthalion and Glóredhel who were sitting on either side of him were safe. Instinctively, he threw part of his cloak around Glóredhel, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She gave him a surprised but grateful look. He motioned to Arthalion to come closer as well and the three huddled together as the storm lashed at them, quickly soaking them through.

As quickly as the storm had come, it left, moving eastward up the valley of the Lhûn and in minutes the sun was shining and they were attempting to wring out the water. The flats had turned into a minor lake for the ground was still just frozen enough that the water could not drain immediately; the knoll had now become an island. Everything was a soggy mess.

“We need to find a better camp if we’re going to stay here for any length of time,” Damrod said to Denethor.

“How much longer will we remain here?” Finduilas asked, sounding frustrated. “We came here for Maglor’s sake, but he does not seem inclined to do anything.”

“We have only been here a day,” Denethor replied mildly, “and I do not wish to leave at any rate until we know for sure that it is safe to do so. See you how quickly the river has risen, flooding its banks? We cannot travel safely back up the valley if there is more rain in the offing. But I agree that we need a better campsite.”

“We’ll check the cliffs and see if there are any caves or perhaps a way up to the top where we can set up camp,” Arthalion offered, including Maglor in his statement when he gestured at him. Denethor agreed and the two set off to take a look. The water surrounding them was not deep, coming only to the tops of their boots, but it was hard going, the ground, now turning muddy, sucking at them.

“Look!” Arthalion exclaimed, pointing straight ahead. “We may be in luck. That looks like a cave.”

“It would be better if the entrance was higher though,” Maglor said. “You can see where the water laps it.”

“All we can do is look, right?”

As it turned out, what appeared to be a cave was not. It was a vent, only about ten paces wide and narrowing quickly until they could go no further. Disappointed, they continued their search.

“Did you and Arthad never have to seek shelter when you were here?” Maglor asked as they moved northward along the face of the cliff.

“Most of the time the weather remained dry,” Arthalion answered. “One time we were caught in a sudden storm but we were able to shelter in the wreck we were exploring at the time. They were in far better shape than they are now. I think the weight of the ice destroyed most of them.”

“Here. This looks more likely.” Maglor pointed upward to where they could see an opening. It was perhaps ten feet above them but the cliff was pocked and the slope up was shallow so they had little trouble reaching it. This time, they found an actual cave though it was not as large as they would have liked.

“It will be a tight squeeze, but we only need it if the weather sours again,” Arthalion observed.

“Let’s go back and tell the others,” Maglor said.

Denethor insisted on seeing the cave for himself and so they took him there along with everyone else and while they all agreed that it would be very cramped, they decided that they could at least store their supplies there. As long as the days and nights were fair, they were content to stay outside. So, some time was spent in transporting their supplies to the cave and drying out their cloaks. Once everything was set to their satisfaction, they went back to exploring and Maglor returned to his rock and sat in contemplation. Arthalion elected to ‘visit’ with him.

“And it is a visit,” he insisted settling beside Maglor on the rock, a large boulder that stood almost directly before the entrance to the Gulf. There were other such rocks scattered about and some of them were large enough to have been of concern to sailors long ago. “I have explored these wrecks and there is nothing new here for me. Have you decided what you will do?”

Maglor shook his head. “How do you renounce something as tenuous as words? Once spoken, they cannot be recalled.”

“Usually people apologize,” Arthalion answered.

“But the words are still there. They cannot be totally ignored.”

“True, but a sincere apology negates the words spoken in haste or anger or fear.”

“To whom would I apologize?”

“The one whom you most offended with your words,” Arthalion replied.

Maglor did not speak again and Arthalion seemed content to simply sit and watch the others move from one wreck to another. The water that had surrounded them was slowly dissipating so for the most part there were only large puddles and where the ground was exposed, it was soggy and muddy. Maglor frowned, thinking that there was something not right in what he was seeing.

“The water could not have evaporated so quickly and the sun is nearly setting so it’s not all that warm anymore. Where did the water go?”

“I suspect most of it has flowed into a chasm further out,” Arthalion said. “You can’t see it from here but do you see that wreck just beyond the furthest boulder over there?” He pointed somewhat to the southwest and Maglor nodded. “There is a chasm there, rather deep, for you can’t see to the bottom. It runs more or less north and south. I think it must be where the River Gelion once flowed.”

“Impossible,” Maglor protested. “That river was a hundred miles from the western-most entrance of the Dwarf-city of Nogrod and we’re about where that was before Beleriand was destroyed.”

Arthalion shrugged. “You may be correct. All I know is that more than likely the water has flowed into the chasm for the land slopes downward toward it though it’s not apparent from here.”

They lapsed into silence once again and Maglor kept an eye on Ragnor who was some distance away, staring into some wreck with Saelmir and Finduilas. He knew the ellon was carrying the Silmaril with him; he would have been foolish to just leave it lying about. His right hand spasmed involuntarily and he stirred himself, glancing briefly at the sun.

“I don’t think anyone has thought of dinner,” he said. “They’re too busy exploring.”

“Well, we can certainly do something about that,” Arthalion said, giving him a smile and climbing down from the boulder. “If you build up the fire, I’ll throw something together.”

Maglor nodded and leaped easily down and joined Arthalion on the knoll where they had decided they would remain unless the weather forced them into the cave. He busied himself with the fire and soon the two had a venison stew bubbling away.

“I wish we could supplement our meal with some greens or roots,” Maglor said. “Our diet is so very limited.”

“Is it different in the South?”

“Mostly. There are other types of game and, of course, vegetables, fruits and grains abound, though probably not as much as they did before the ice came. The South is very dry, almost drought-like, yet the Mortals have adapted to its conditions and seem to thrive. The civilizations of the Fourth Age are not even a memory to them and most are hunters and gatherers roaming in small bands, following their herds.”

“How sad,” Arthalion said.

Maglor just shrugged. “It is what it is. Someday when the ice goes away entirely and the world warms again, new civilizations may arise.”

“And will any of us be here to witness that, do you suppose?”

“There are those who did not join Denethor and his people,” Maglor said. “I suppose they will still remain, though perhaps not. I suspect that they will fade eventually unless they involve themselves with the Mortals in some manner.”

“Do you think they would?” Arthalion asked, looking skeptical. “I know that Arthad and I had little to do with them. Their lives are so brief that to know them and to lose them is a never-ending grief.”

“Perhaps,” Maglor said with a shrug. “I spent more time with them than most, I deem, avoiding the company of my kind as much as possible. I found the Mortals to be… interesting and very much alive. They are like fireflies, their light shining brilliantly for a season before dying. Yet, as brief as their light might be, they bring a certain beauty to the night.” He paused and gave Arthalion a sheepish grin. “Poor analogy, I know, but it’s the best I can come up with on short notice.”

Arthalion laughed. “It works well enough. Ah… I see the smell of this delicious stew has caught the attention of our fellow travelers.”

“Then I will leave you to serve them,” Maglor said and before any of the others reached the fire he had returned to the boulder which he had claimed for his own, studiously not watching Ragnor as the ellon crossed his line of vision but kept his eyes focused on the horizon where the sun set in glorious color. Soon, twilight enclosed them and Eärendil’s Star shone brightly just above the horizon as the night deepened and the other stars became visible. Maglor kept his gaze fixed to the west, though from the corner of his eye he could see the others huddled about the fire, softly conversing as they ate their meal. He was grateful that no one came to ‘visit’ with him. He wished only to be left alone to think.

He knew he needed to come up with a way of dealing with the Silmaril yet for some reason his thoughts wandered down strange paths of distant times, half-forgotten. Most of them centered round his childhood and young adulthood: sitting in his ammë’s lap as she brushed his hair and sang songs, playing with his brothers, working beside his adar as an apprentice, the journeys he had taken in exploring Valinor, being tutored by Lord Aulë’s Maiar, and a host of other memories in no particular order. They were good memories, memories of a younger, more naïve and innocent Maglor, and he wished with a wistfulness that surprised him that he could reclaim that younger self. His brothers, if any had been reborn, would have regained their own innocence and he envied them that. If only he had managed to die….

Lost in his thoughts as he was, it took a moment for him to realize that the night was brighter than it should be. There was a silver glow all about him and he turned to see the moon rising almost directly east. It was full and he recalled someone commenting on that as they traveled down to the coast. It was a glorious sight and he caught his breath as he watched it rise majestically above the horizon, casting silver beams. One such beam seemed to flow straight down the valley like a road and when he turned back to the west, it was as if it continued on.

Suddenly, he knew what he had to do. He leapt from the boulder and ran back to the knoll. “Ragnor! Bring the Silmaril quick!”

“Whoa, Maglor,” Denethor said, rising to meet him. “Slow down.”

“There’s no time. Where’s my harp? Oh, bother, I left it in the cave. I’ll be right back.” He did not wait to listen to anything anyone wished to say to him, but headed back down to the knoll and ran as quickly as he could toward the cave. In his haste and in the dark, for the cliffs blocked the moon’s light, he failed to notice a small rock and suddenly went flying as he tripped over it. He lay there gasping for breath and felt someone pull him up.

“Easy now, Maglor. You’re going to hurt yourself if you don’t take care,” Ragnor said. “We’ll go to the cave together, all right?”

Maglor just nodded mutely and turned to continue on, keeping to a steadier pace. In moments the two were climbing up to the cave entrance and Maglor had to feel his way for there was no light that penetrated the darkness of the cave. He remembered where he had placed his own belongings. He had not originally planned to bring his harp on the journey, but at the last moment, he shoved it into his haversack, though he had yet to play it.

Now he hunted for it frantically, fearing that time was running out. At last he found it and was quickly back outside. He looked about and thought the moonbeams were still showing him the way.

“Come. We don’t have much time,” he said and headed, not toward the camp, but across to where he could still see the moonlight like a road heading straight west.

Everyone else joined him and Ragnor as they trekked across the flats, detouring around or through wrecks. No one commented or complained. Maglor ignored them all, intent on following the road and forcing himself not to demand Ragnor give him the Silmaril. The ellon was walking beside him and they had not been this close to one another since the journey began. Maglor shut his mind to the seductive call of the Silmaril, keeping his focus straight forward.

And then they were forced to come to a complete halt, for directly before them was a wide gash in the earth, the chasm Arthalion had told him about earlier. Even in the chancy light of the moon he could see that it was too wide to cross and there was no bottom that he could discern. He stood for a long moment staring first into the chasm and then directly west where he could still see the road of light.

“When the time comes, that is our path,” he said, startling everyone.

“We know this already, Maglor,” Denethor said with the patience of an elder humoring a child.

“No, you don’t understand,” Maglor said as he turned and pointed to the moon and then up at the stars. “Mark this night and the position of the stars. When the moon is full and rising directly in line with the Gulf and the stars are as you see them, that will be when we must Sail. That will be when the Straight Road will open to us.”

“How do you know this?” Ragnor demanded, sounding somewhat angry. “How can you possibly know anything of the sort? Did some Maia come and whisper in your ear or one of the Belain?”

“No. No Maia or Balan has spoken to me. I do not know how I know. I only know that I do. But that is not why we are here. Ragnor, you have been guarding the Silmaril and I thank you for your diligence, but your guardianship comes to an end this night. Of your courtesy, would you give me the Silmaril so I may give it to the one to whom it should go?”

There were gasps from more than one throat and Finduilas whispered something in her husband’s ear, but Ragnor ignored her, staring intently at Maglor who did not flinch from the ellon’s gaze.

“What do you mean to do?” Ragnor finally asked.

“There is no time to explain,” Maglor replied impatiently. “See you, already the Road begins to fade. I need to do this now before it is too late… for all of us.”

For another eternal moment, Ragnor continued staring at Maglor and all the others remained silent, then, he pulled off the carrysack that never left him and reached in to remove the Silmaril still wrapped in cloth. Maglor felt his right hand spasm and the pain forced him to grit his teeth to keep from screaming. Even covered, the light of the jewel could be discerned and its seductive song heard, though Maglor suspected that only he heard it. Ragnor held the jewel out and Maglor took a deep breath, briefly closing his eyes, suddenly unsure as to whether he could do what he knew he must. Then he reached out and took the jewel, careful not to let any part of it touch his skin, knowing that the fire of its purity would burn him.

There were stifled gasps from more than one throat and several people even took a step or two back and more than one ellon put hand to sword as if anticipating an attack. Maglor noted all this but ignored it, though the part of his mind that was not focused on the Silmaril was pleased to note that Glóredhel neither stepped away nor sought for a weapon, but stood beside him unflinchingly. Indeed, her expression could almost be said to be one of professional interest and if the situation wasn’t so grave he would have smiled at that thought and teased her about it.

Instead, he bowed to Ragnor in deep respect, something that the ellon had not expected, for his eyes widened in surprise. Maglor then turned to face west and bowed just as deeply before speaking, never taking his eyes from the West and Those Who abode there.

“Once, I took an Oath, one that should never have been spoken. It was an Oath born of madness and though its very words seared my soul, I joined with my brothers to utter it. It was wrong. I was wrong and I have paid for it ever since.” He paused to take a deep breath, knowing that what he was about to do would most likely destroy him.

“Once, you asked my adar if he would relinquish the Silmarili to you that the Trees might be saved. He refused and the Trees are forever gone. He was wrong. I know that what I do now cannot begin to change all that has followed from that refusal, but in humility and in contrition for all the crimes I have committed because of my Oath I offer you this Silmaril and beg for your forgiveness.”

He bowed again, then knelt, holding the Silmaril up, still covered, though its light peeked out here and there, illuminating the night. Maglor took a deep breath and when he spoke again it was in Quenya. He vaguely heard Voronwë whisper a translation into Sindarin for the benefit of the others.

“I, Macalaurë Fëanárion, confess to you who sit upon the thrones of the West and to the One who is above all thrones, that I have sinned in deed and in word most grievously in what I have done and what I have failed to do. I hereby solemnly and of my free will renounce all claims to this or any other Silmaril for all the ages of Arda that may remain and beyond. I humbly ask for your forgiveness and accept whatever punishment is my due for my crimes.”

He then placed the Silmaril gently upon the ground, carefully removing the covering to allow it to shine in all its glory. The others exclaimed in wonder at the sight as Maglor rose shakily to his feet, feeling suddenly weak for some reason. Arthalion was immediately beside him to lend him his support and he gave the ellon a grateful smile, then bowed once again to the West. When he straightened, he removed the bag in which lay his harp and removed the instrument, tuning it to an ancient mode known as Silmë Mornë Neninnar, a minor mode that had been popular in Aman but rarely played in Ennorath even among the Noldor.

He played several arpeggios, getting the feel of the strings and the sound, making sure he had tuned it correctly and when he was satisfied he struck a dark chord and then lifted his voice in song.

The entire world went still at the sound of it as Maglor sang a song newborn from the very depths of his fëa. He sang in Quenya and it was the song of his life, all of it, all the good and the bad, all the beauty and the ugliness of his long existence. He sang of his dreams and his regrets; he sang of his hopes and his despair. He did not spare himself and tears began to flow but he never stopped singing, pouring his heart out, opening himself up in a way he had never done before as he sang of his life.

And all the while, the Silmaril glowed with preternatural beauty.

Intent as he was on his song, Maglor paid little attention to anything else and he was unaware at first as to what was happening around him.

“Look!” he heard Aerin cry out. “Look at the Silmaril and Eärendil’s Star!”

Maglor felt his concentration falter as he glanced down at his feet. The jewel was shining brighter than he ever remembered it doing and belatedly he realized that some of that brightness was coming from above and as he lifted his eyes he saw Eärendil’s Star seeming to flame, doubling in brightness.

“Watch out!” someone cried in alarm and Maglor felt more than one hand grabbing him and pulling him back away from the chasm. He gasped in wonder and terror as a dark wave rose from out of the depths and fell upon them, inundating them, and several people fell to the ground for the weight of the waters, though Maglor managed to remain erect, quickly covering his harp to protect it. When the waters receded, the Silmaril was gone and Eärendil’s Star dimmed to its normal brightness.

Amazingly, none of them were soaked and the ground was no wetter than it had been. It was as if the wave had never been or was but a phantom image, yet the Silmaril was gone and so was the moonlit road, for now the moon was high above them.

For a very long time no one spoke or moved. Maglor stared at the spot where the Silmaril had been, trying to understand what he was feeling at that moment. Was it relief or regret or a mixture of the two? He was not sure, but he felt something freeing within him, some sense of rightness. He glanced up at the stars bathing them all in benediction and a sense of peace washed over him, leaving him feeling weak. Tears still flowed and they felt cleansing as if they were washing away all the filth that had darkened his life and soul.

“Remember this night,” he whispered, still staring at the spot where the Silmaril once was, swaying slightly and feeling lightheaded. “Remember the stars and the position of the moon. Someday the waters will return and we will Sail and the Straight Road will open for us. Remember…”

It was Arthalion and Ragnor who caught him before he fell senseless to the ground, but he never knew it.

****

Silmë Mornë Neninnar: (Quenya) Starlight on Dark Waters. The mode is in reference to Cuiviénen, the Waters of Awakening.