Silmarillion Writers' Guild A Minor Talent by Lyra

Chapter Three

I really don't know why I took my harp along. It was one of those spur-of-the-moments things that I am still prone to do, except that it's even more stupid than usual.
Actually this entire quest is stupid, and I couldn't tell you why I am doing it. Sometimes I mutter under my breath as I march, 'Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid' in the rhythm of my footsteps. I don't remember how often I have told myself to turn around and march back.
I cannot tell why I am not listening to my own advice. That is, actually I can. I just don't want to. I don't want to admit that even now, after all these years, after everything, I am still running after Russandol. The thought infuriates me. Russandol never cared enough to come running after me. Of course, that kind of thing seems to run in the family. Míriel abandoned her son and husband. Fëanáro abandoned us in Araman (Russandol abandoned me). Fëanáro's sons abandoned their brother. It was to be expected, really.

Still, when first I heard the news, I laughed because I could not believe what I was told. The childish part in me that insists on idolising Russandol (for of course Father was right; that was what I was doing) thought that he would never, ever get himself into such trouble, that he was much too smart for that. The part of me that is thoroughly my father's son thought that no one would ever leave their brother in Moringotto's clutches, not without a fight. But then, that seems to be the way my family works. We are prone to do the decent thing, no matter where it gets us. We may not be brilliant. We do not create works of staggering genius. We do not have talents that amaze all around us. We just take our place, and do what is needed. We honour our promises.

And we, at least, do not abandon our kin. We ran headlong into Alqualondë because we saw our cousins in danger. We braved the Ice because Father had pledged his allegiance to Uncle Fëanáro, even after Uncle Fëanáro had made inescapably clear that he did not care for Father's allegiance. For all the good it did, we might as well have allowed the Teleri to slaughter Uncle Fëanáro (as they were on the verge of doing). For all the good it did, I could simply have allowed that one fisher to stick his harpoon into Russandol, ungrateful bastard, and saved us all a lot of hassle.
Instead, I am yet again trying to do the decent thing. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid.

They have probably begun to bring the harvest in, back at our new home. They will be missing my help. Heck, they will be missing me, I hope. They'll probably worry. They don't need that, on top of everything. And all because some childish part of me wanted to play the hero.
It won't get to play the hero, I'm afraid. I have searched everything and there is no entrance into Angamando. Well, there is one, but since I am looking for an entrance that also allows me to get out again, the great gate isn't helping me at all. Getting in is not in truth the problem. Getting in and out again, there's the rub. But I could have figured that out without going on this stupid journey, if I had stopped and thought for long enough. I have searched everything, and by now I must accept that it's hopeless.

And still that childish part of me insists that I should at the very least say goodbye. I never said goodbye when Russandol left for Formenos with his father; never said goodbye after Alqualondë (hardly my fault, since I did not know he was leaving). Might as well say goodbye now, since it appears to be goodbye for good, and maybe then I can finally stop running after him. Maybe I can stop missing him. Maybe I can stop blaming myself.
And because I am not only prone to do the decent thing, but also prone to do stupid things – and because I have dragged my harp along all this way anyway, and I may as well put it to some use – I sit down, and play the first tune that comes to mind.

I no longer have the least difficulty with Rúmil's Song of the Trees, having played it so often. I recall how I first tried to learn it, because it was Russandol's favourite song. I never played it for any of his begetting day parties – first I lacked the skill and later the will, so to say. Besides, there was always Macalaurë; there was no need for me.

But Macalaurë is not here, so my minor voice will have to do. And damn it all, I am doing well. The mountain walls pick it up in echo, and the howling wind quietens as if to listen. I sing of the dark waters of Cuiviénen to the soot and dust, I sing of the dark forests of the primeval world to the gasping rocks, I sing of stars. I am aware of the danger to me, am aware that Orcs on patrol might overhear, or that they might in fact hear me inside Angamando; but all I can think is, Let them hear me.
Let them know what they are missing.

I sing more softly now, but only for effect, not out of fear: Now I have reached the part where our forebears walked through the Calacirya, darkness behind them, stars over them, and a glimmer of promise ahead. I sing softly, as though the walls of the Pelóri were muffling my voice, and the echos around me falter. And then the song has taken me through the Calacirya and I see, painted in Rúmil's words, for the first time the splendour of Aman and the mingled light of the Trees, and my harp and my voice rise up in exultation:
"Spoke we of light who walked beneath the stars?
We knew no light, nor yet did we know joy...

And a second voice joins me.

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