On a Dark Path
The silence was rent by a bellow, which rose into a shriek of unmitigated agony. As one, Linwë, Oloriel and Veryandil leaped up and rushed out of the pavilion. The cry came again—hoarse, sharp, filled now with grief: Amrod! Amrod! Am—rod!
Veryandil: Nyello!
Oloriel: Linwë, keep him with you.
Veryandil: But nana, atto!
Linwë: Yonya, be still. Your nana must go to him.
Veryandil: I want to go also, atto!
Linwë: Not this time, melda. Come now.
Veryandil wailed his own grief, but his small voice was drowned by another cry, almost a roar—of fury. Veryandil, turned into his father's arms, weeping. Linwë lifted him up, murmuring comfort to him, and bore him back into the pavilion.
Oloriel rounded the corner of the shelter. There, on the grass between its back and the grove of Malinornë trees stood Veryandil's friend. Though his eyes were wide open, they were unseeing. He held his right arm out in front of him at chest level, and as she watched, horrified and fascinated, he swept it through the air, uttering a grunt as of great effort. He held his left hand shoulder high, clenched, as if he gripped something over his head. He turned, almost as if dancing, but there was no joy in the flushed face. She stepped back into the shadow of the pavilion, and very softly and calmly she spoke: Wake now. There is nothing to fear.
She reached out to touch his thoughts, and found the way closed as with stone. He turned toward her, eyes still unfocused—or rather, focused on his inner battle, and Oloriel spoke again, still quietly: Wake, my friend. No one menaces you.
For answer, he lunged toward her, right arm extended, and she saw the imagined sword, red and dripping, slicing toward her throat. Despite herself, she ducked under the swinging arm, then stood still, remembering her teacher's warning not to entangle herself in a dark vision. Only if the sufferer allowed it must she enter it; yet so strong was the imagery that Oloriel almost felt the wind of the sword's passage. For the third time, not trying to send to him, Oloriel said: Wake now. You are not in danger.
As if delivering a counterstroke, his arm descended, striking her right ear a glancing blow, and Oloriel sidestepped, her knees almost buckling, feeling the hot gust of emotion against her own closed mind. Then the eyes snapped alert, as if the physical contact had done what ósanwë could not. Oloriel looked into a fierce gaze that held her relentlessly. She did not waver, but simply waited.
Maglor spoke in a voice like rasping metal: Go! I will not submit to you.
Oloriel: No one asks you to submit, my friend. No one can take this burden from you; you must lay it down of your own will.
Maglor: Am I stronger than Namo? Stronger than Eru Ilúvatar?
Oloriel: Why do you speak so?
Maglor: For Eru Ilúvatar we named in witness—my father, my brothers and me; and upon me and all my house the curse of Namo lies.
Oloriel went still, as she understood—the marred hand, the surpassing skill at harp and song. Her face filled with wonder and she said: So, Macalaurë, and will you permit healing—for your sake—and my son's?
Maglor turned as though to leave, and she spoke behind him: Veryandil loves you, and I have seen your love for him as well. Go if you must, Macalaurë, but if you decide to allow me to help you, I will be here.
Maglor did not answer, but stalked away into the trees, his shoulders rigid with tension.
Oloriel returned to the pavilion. She found her husband sitting on Veryandil's bed, the child cradled in his arms. He met her eyes over the boy's dark head, and she sent: When Veryandil rests, beloved, I will tell you.
Veryandil looked up at her, his eyes red-rimmed from crying: Nana, what happened?
Oloriel sat down on the grass and said: Your friend was astray upon the Path of Dreams.
Veryandil: Again?
Oloriel: Still. Until he consents to go another way, he will return continually to a dark path; but he woke from his dream, and I was able to offer him healing. As yet, he can not bring himself to take the gift, little one, but I have hope that he will.
Veryandil: Perhaps he would listen to me, nana.
Oloriel: He may, yonya, but not tonight. I think he desires to be alone for a time. I have told him to seek me out if he wishes help. Meanwhile, you, my love, must rest.
His parents put Veryandil to bed, sang him their evening song, and waited until he walked a pleasant path of dreaming. Then they went outside. Oloriel leaned against a young malinornë near the entrance of the pavilion, looked up at the stars, and sighed. She sent: I have never seen such grief. He is in torment of fëa.
Linwë: You know who he is.
Oloriel: I do. He is Macalaurë son of Fëanor.
Linwë drew a sharp breath before answering: A Kinslayer? We have allowed our child to play and be alone with a—Kinslayer?
Oloriel: That is in the past, husband.
Linwë: To hear him in the throes of his —malady does not bode well for our child's safety.
Oloriel: Believe me, melda, Veryandil is perhaps the only one who is safe with him. You have seen his actions toward our son. He is as tender with him as are you.
Linwë answered bitterly: I have seen.
Oloriel, who had noted her beloved's reaction to Maglor, laughed softly, not in mockery, but in gentle teasing: Oh, Linwë, do you really think another could take your place in our son's heart? Not so; he has a generous spirit, as you know. Do not seek to leash it, love.
Linwë started to retort, then, looking into his wife's smiling eyes, he himself smiled a little sheepishly: Still, are you sure this one can be trusted? Such terrible things are said of him.
Oloriel: I know, and many of them may be true, but it is also said that he cherished the sons of Éarendil and that they came to love him. I think we should trust the wisdom of Heri Estë and Heru Irmo. They would not have permitted him to enter here if there was no hope of restoration.
Linwë: Did they tell you about him?
Oloriel: Not directly. Heru Irmo did tell me that there was one here who would find healing difficult, but that it could be accomplished.
It was Linwë's turn to sigh: I see. Well, in my few years of service to the High King, I have found the counsel of his peers to be as reliable as his own; but do you truly think that we should allow Veryandil to seek Macalaurë alone?
Oloriel: I do. He will not respond to anyone else, I fear, especially not to a prickly father.
Linwë laughed softly, leaned forward, and kissed Oloriel on the mouth. She slid her hands behind his head, returning the kiss with delight. After a moment, they drew apart, and then, knowing that their child would be guarded, they went hand and hand into the soft darkness of the trees.
*****
As on the first day of his sojourn Maglor sat by the lake, staring without seeing at the quiet water. He had not rested at all in the night, for he was afraid—afraid that he would not be able to awaken from the fiery dreams which plagued him. Even as he sat, he could hear the sound of battle, faint but oddly distinct—the clash of swords, the cries of combat and of death. He shook his head to clear it, but seemed to see flashes of red flame out of the corners of his eyes. A quiet footfall behind him brought him leaping to his feet. He whirled and sprang forward—and saw the face of Veryandil, pale with fear. Maglor cried out in horror, knelt, and gathered the boy to himself. Instead of attempting to escape, Veryandil wound his arms around his friend's neck and pressed his face against his chest.
Maglor: Forgive me! Oh, Veryandil, have I hurt you?
Veryandil answered in a muffled voice: You have not, Nyello, but who were you fighting?
Maglor: My—myself, little one.
He sat back, with the child in his lap and looked into his face. The color was returning, and Veryandil said softly: When I was small, one time I was lost in dreams. It was dark—so dark—and cold. The air had a terrible feeling; I do not know how to say it, Nyello, and I could not find my way out or leave the Path. Then my nana came to me and led me out of the dark to a night of stars. That is how she discovered her gift of Sight. She can help you also, if you will let her. She has told me so.
Maglor: I do not think anyone can lead me out, Veryandil.
Veryandil looked at his friend and said: Do you not want to come out, Nyello?
Maglor: It is not a matter of wanting, child; it is a matter of—ability.
Veryandil: That is why you need my nana's help. I could not do it alone. What do you dream of when you are lost?
Maglor did not answer, and after a moment, Veryandil said: You do not have to tell me, but I will tell you what I dreamed. As I said, it was dark and cold, like snow. The air had a—a—sour smell like—I do not know what it was like—and there was something in the dark that was--.
He shook his head, finding no words.
Maglor said: It sounds like a memory of the Journey, Veryandil, and of things which menaced the Quendi at that time.
Veryandil: Were you there?
Maglor: I was not, but I have spoken to those who were. Perhaps you had heard a tale which your mind turned into a dream.
Veryandil: Perhaps. I was very little, and I do not remember; but when nana led me out, the sky was filled with stars and—there was a lake; it was not like this one. It was bigger.
Maglor: Cuivienen.
Veryandil: I think you are right.
The child slid off his friend's lap onto the grass, and leaned against him. Together, they sat in silence. After a time, Veryandil said: Nyello, will you show me more of the harp?
Maglor: Gladly, hína.
He rose and retrieved his harp from where he had set it at the foot of a tree. Placing it on the grass in front of the boy, he sat down behind him, saying: The strings are made of a special metal and ring like bells when plucked—so.
He plucked a chord, and the sound did indeed ring like a distant bell. It died away after a time, and Maglor continued: Music has colors, Veryandil, some bright, some dark. When you play, you blend them together like the colors of fair clothing—so.
He played a series of lovely, flowing chords, then said: With a harp of this type, however, if you do not silence discordant strings, the colors clash, like ill-matched garments.
He played another series of chords, allowing the strings to ring together. Veryandil giggled and said: They sound like tumbling rocks.
Maglor: So they do. To prevent such a landslide, you must do this.
He played the same series of chords, quieting jangling strings with fingers and the palms of his hands. Then he said: Now, play a tune for me, Veryandil.
The boy plucked out the melody of one of his mother's morning songs, trying to silence unwanted discord as his friend had done. Maglor encouraged him, taking his hands and positioning them to achieve what the child wanted. They continued so for some time, Veryandil's delight evident in the quick smiles he turned upon his teacher.
After Veryandil had played the song more or less to the boy's satisfaction, Maglor taught him a few simple chords to accompany it, then said: Sing and play it, meldonya. Do not worry about playing the melody at present.
In a clear high voice, Veryandil sang:
The Lady Arien is sailing in the sky,
Her ship a golden fruit of Laurelin.
All day she steers her course through shining blue,
And sings of all she sees upon the Earth.
Of foxes and of fawns the Lady sings;
Of waterfowl and whirling flights of doves;
Of herds of horses roaming on the plains
And all the Children of Ilúvatar.
At evening she will come again to rest
Upon the coolness of the Outer Sea.
Then Ulmo's folk will draw her under Earth
To bring her to her rising in the East.
Maglor: Well done, Veryandil. Now, play it once more, silencing any dissonant strings as you go.
Veryandil did not sing the words this time, merely humming the melody. He had to stop several times, as he found it difficult to reach some of the strings to quiet them. When he finished, he sighed, lifted his hands from the harp, and shook them vigorously.
Veryandil: My hands have been running hard, and they are tired.
Maglor laughed, patted the child's right shoulder affectionately, and, standing up, he took the harp and replaced it beneath the tree. Coming back, he sat down by his friend, took his hands and began gently massaging them: The strings are spaced a bit far apart for you, I think.
Veryandil: They are, but I like playing.
Maglor: I know, and I think you have a gift for it.
Veryandil grinned excitedly: Do you?
Maglor: I do.
Veryandil: Will you teach me?
Maglor: If I can, child.
He started to release Veryandil's hands, but the boy, seeing a flicker of brightness, caught the left one, which was nearest to him and said: Nyello, there is a star in your palm, like the one at the center of my gift to you.
Maglor tried to withdraw his hand, though not roughly, but Veryandil took a firm hold: Nyello, what happened?
After a moment, almost inaudibly, Maglor answered: I tried to touch a star, and it burned me.
Veryandil, astonished said: How did you do that? Can you climb up into Menel?
Maglor: I can not. It was not a star yet—and it was on the Earth. Please do not press me, Veryandil, for I will not speak of this.
Veryandil gently stroked his friend's hand and said: If you want to talk to my nana, she is in the grove of silver willows where the shore bends to the right. She goes there every day. I must go now, for my atto and I are returning to the guesthouse, since I am well. Heri Estë says I can come to see you, so I will be back tomorrow. Maybe my hands can run again then?
Maglor smiled, a bit wanly, but a smile nonetheless and said: We will let them run.
Veryandil gave Maglor's hand a final caress, rose, and walked away into the trees.
When his friend had gone, Maglor rose and went over to the tree under which he had set his harp. Sitting down, he leaned back against the sturdy trunk, harp in his lap, and began to play. The clear notes spilled from his fingers, bright as sunlit rain. It had been uncounted years since he had played as he had in the last few days, his music untroubled by lamentation. He did not sing, not this time, for the quiet joy which arose in him went beyond mere words. He played until his hands, unused to such prolonged exercise, grew as weary as the child's had; and then, casing the harp, he returned to his pavilion, lay down on his bed, and slept.
*****
In the guesthouse, Veryandil recounted his day to his parents: And then he showed me how to keep the rocks from sliding, the harp strings you know, and then I sang nana's song about Heri Arien, and then I played some more, and then my hands wanted to stop, and, atto, nana, did you know he has a star in his hand?
Linwë: A star, yonya?
Veryandil: He does. You can not see it in the sunlight, but we were in the shade of the trees. It is right in the center of his hand, in the—scar.
Veryandil's parents glanced at each other, and Linwë gave a barely perceptible shrug.
Veryandil said: Can we—may we go to see him tomorrow? Heri Estë said I could if it is all right with you.
He looked hopefully at his parents, and Linwë answered: I still have to work on my verses for the festival, little one, but I brought my small writing desk with me, so we shall go to the Gardens with your nana. We shall seek out your friend, but, if he does not wish to play, yonya, you must not trouble him.
Veryandil: I will not, atto. Thank you.
*****
In the cool morning, the family set out, Veryandil proudly carrying his father's leather satchel of parchment, pens, and ink and Linwë carrying the wooden lap desk. Oloriel bore a hamper of bread, fruit and cold fowl for their midday meal. Passing through the gap in the hedge which served as the gate of the Gardens, they went to one of the open glades, set up their "camp", and went to seek Maglor. After failing to find him where Veryandil had left him, they followed the guiding stones to the pavilions of rest. As they approached the one in which Maglor had his home, they heard an odd irregular thumping sound from within, punctuated by short sharp cries. Alarmed, Linwë gripped Veryandil's right arm, as the boy started to run forward: Wait, yonya. Let me see what it is.
Oloriel had stopped, and suddenly, her face twisted into an expression of pain. After a moment, she said in a fierce whisper: Both of you, wait here!
Veryandil: Nana?
Oloriel: Stay here, yonya! Do not argue!
Linwë started to speak, but she gave him a quelling look, and he knew she was seeing something inwardly.
Oloriel went forward cautiously and looked into the dimness of the shelter. Maglor lay half on and half off his bed. Once again, his eyes were open, wide open, and his face bore no trace of sanity. The lips were drawn back from his teeth, foam flecked the corners of his mouth, and as she watched, he struck out with first one clenched hand and then the other.
***** invoke
Battle sounds raged about Maglor as he now teetered between the dark visions and reality.
Holy stars of Elbereth! He had returned to Sirion and the dreadful slaughter of that long ago day! His body was exhausted from killing, his mind numbed by unalleviated carnage and added grief at the loss of his own twin brothers, their long hair, red as a summer fox, now sodden with a deeper red, the blood of Elves. Breathing heavily he hewed and slashed indiscriminately.
Having dispatched the elf before him he spun savagely around upon hearing a slight sound behind him. Catching the elf low across the back with an upward-curving backhanded stroke made even more devastating by his momentum, he nearly severed the enemy in two. Thrown sideways, the dead elf released from her arms the body of her small child, likewise dead from the same blow. Rolling onto his back the boy stared up with wide startled eyes into the face of his slayer.
Maglor stared back in horror. Dropping to his knees, the sword clanging to the ground as it fell from nerveless fingers, he crawled to the child, heedless of danger. Clutching the limp form to him he rocked back on his heels, throwing his head back, keening in his agony of guilt.
There Maedhros found Maglor weeping bitterly. At the touch of his brother’s hand Maglor leapt to his feet, snarling his unadulterated fury. Maedhros sprang away from Maglor, his sword drawn, hoping he would not have to slay his own brother as he would a crazed beast.
“Come, Maglor, Elwing is discovered! She has the Jewel!” Maedhros shouted.
Placing the small, still body gently in the arms of his mother, Maglor followed his brother, sword in hand once more.
*****
Remembering that touch had brought him back before, Oloriel knelt on the floor behind him and gently laid a hand on his forehead. Maglor yelled, reached back, and grasped the offending hand by the wrist.
*****
When the hand met his fevered brow it was an enemy at his back and he grabbed the wrist, the physical touch jolting him into partial awareness.
*****
Her mind filled with a sudden blaze of gold and silver light, and Oloriel cried out, not in pain, but in wonder. Mistaking the cry, Linwë and Veryandil rushed to the entrance, and saw Oloriel kneeling on the grass, her right arm held down. Again she cried out, and Veryandil broke from his father's grasp, flung himself onto the grass beside Maglor and shouted: Nyello! Nyello! Do not hurt my nana!
*****
A faint distant cry brought him further to his senses, and as his eyes focused he found a small child before him, eyes wide in terror and confusion. AI! Have I slain his mother? Where is this place? Sirion? There is no escape, no release from the past. Better the Halls and peace of a kind than this endless pain. Death shall not come to this child by my hand.
*****
Maglor sat up abruptly, releasing Oloriel's wrist. He stared, first at Veryandil and then at his mother with a dazed expression, which turned to grief. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. He put his head in his hands and rocked back and forth, as though he was in torment. Finally, he lifted his head. Again, he tried to speak and failed. Veryandil reached out to touch him, but Maglor shrank away. He turned toward Linwë, who had come forward to stand beside Oloriel, his expression a mixture of loathing and compassion. Maglor said thickly: You are right to despise me, Linwë. I will trouble you and your family no more.
And with that he fled the constraint of his hröa.
Again Veryandil reached toward his friend, whose form suddenly seemed to disperse into a mist which rapidly thinned into nothing. Then many things occurred at once. Veryandil screamed, a long wailing cry. Linwë leaped forward, snatching his son from the grass. Oloriel, who had continued to kneel, head lifted, expression rapt, started, sprang up, and wrapped her arms around her family. From outside there was a clear singing, and Heru Irmo came into the pavilion. He stood beside the three Elves, continuing to sing, and it was as if a clean wind blew through the small space. When the song ended, he said softly: Come out under the trees, my friends, and I will tell you what I can.
Linwë, carrying Veryandil, with Oloriel walking beside him, followed the Vala out, and they entered the grove of malinornë trees. There, Heru Irmo gestured the Elves to sit down, and he himself did so. Irmo said: My spouse is coming with water from her fountain. It will ease you.
Veryandil was trembling with reaction, though no tears fell.
Irmo: Here is Estë. When all of you have drunk, I will continue.
The Lady carried three small crystal goblets, which seemed to be full of softly shimmering moonlight. She came first to Veryandil, and held a cup to his lips: It is water only, hína. It will not make you sleep.
When the child had drunk, Estë gave a draught to each of his parents, both of whom looked almost as shocked as the boy. She then sat down beside her spouse.
Irmo said: Your friend, Veryandil, lived in Middle-earth for many years. On endórë the Eldar are more subject to the Marring than they are here. Their bodies are consumed by their spirits, and they become invisible to the sight of bodily eyes. This is called fading. Your friend is in the midst of this process. He can still maintain a form, but he can also let it go. This he has done, and has fled from the Gardens.
Veryandil: Does it hurt? Is he hurt?
Estë answered gently: He does not hurt in his body, child, but his fëa is in pain, not from the fading, but from other causes.
Veryandil: Will that happen to me? Will I also fade?
Irmo: We do not believe so, Veryandil, for here in Aman, your people age no more quickly than Arda does.
Veryandil: I want to help Nyello, Heru Irmo. He is so sad. I do not think he wanted to hurt my nana. He was caught in a dark dream.
Irmo smiled at the boy: I think you are right, little one, and I think you may be able to help him.
Linwë asked in an anguished voice: How can a child of ten springs help a—help one like that?
Irmo: By speaking for his friend before the High King. Others have done so, but their tales were of deeds long past. It would be good if his kindnesses to Veryandil were recounted.
Veryandil: I will do it, Heru Irmo, if my atto and nana will let me.
Linwë and Oloriel looked at one another, Linwë almost angrily, Oloriel with an expression of recalled wonder. Finally, Linwë said: I would not have my child exposed to danger, Heru Irmo.
Irmo: Indeed not. You shall go with him.
Linwë: Lord, do you know where Mac—Nyello has gone?
Irmo: We do not, but the Gardens are not Mandos, and he is free to leave them as he will. Some of my folk shall seek him, as well as those of my brother, Namo.
Oloriel: I would go as well, Heru Irmo, for I have something to tell the King about this one.
Irmo: As you will, Oloriel. Rest now, all of you, for the remainder of the day, while my folk prepare provisions for your journey.
*****
Note: All Eldarin words are in Quenya.
Nana, "mama".
Atto, "papa".
Yonya, "my son".
Melda, "dear, beloved".
Malinornë, "mallorn".
Ósanwë, "interchange of thought".
Fëa, "spirit, soul".
Heru, "lord".
Heri, "lady".
Quendi, "general name for Elves".
Hína, "child".
Meldonya, "my friend".
Endórë, "Middle-earth".
Menel, "the sky, the heavens".