The Lands of Weeping and of War by bunn  

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Eldest

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They sang the morning through, quietly mingling song with the voice of the water running cool and clear across the shining pebbles of the stream-bed.  Elrond and Elros took turns with the harp, sitting in the shade beside the stream with the hounds dozing around them.  The hounds lay quiet, snoring and twitching their large hairy paws, or opening clear golden eyes the shape of almonds from time to time to watch the singers as they listened. 

Maglor found himself smiling as he sang, which was probably not the right thing for someone burned by a Silmaril to do, but was clearly what Elrond and Elros wanted.  

Elros had said there should be no guilt, but Elrond had told him to remember the names of the guards around the Silmarils that he and Maedhros had killed. 

It was impossible to do both at once.  Perhaps he could put the guilt away and return to it later, when Elros would not be troubled by it.  

He could hear an echo of Caranthir’s remembered voice at the back of his mind, making an acerbic remark about Maglor’s ability to put a matter off until the need for it had entirely passed.  But there was more than one duty to meet, and no point making a botch of it by trying to do everything at once. 

The song ended. “You’re wearing a very strange expression,” Elrond said to him.

“Just thinking about lunch,” Maglor told him.  He stood up and stretched, his mind carefully overlaid with music.  If Elrond could see beyond the music he did not say so. He only went to rummage dutifully in the bags for bread, apples, honey-cakes and smoked fish. 

“Tell me about this Isle of Gift,” Maglor suggested to Elros, once Elrond had handed out the food and given each hound a strip of dried meat to chew.

“I thought I said no arguments?” Elros said, glancing at his brother. Clearly this was a subject they had discussed at length.

Elrond laughed.  “Do you need reminding that you are neither Maglor’s king nor mine?”

“I don’t,” Elros told him with dignity. “Oddly enough, I can remember whose king I am. But surely I can make a reasonable request of my brother and my foster-father?”

“I didn’t intend to start an argument,” Maglor said hastily. “It was only that I haven’t heard much about the place and so I thought I’d ask.”  He paused, looking sideways at Elros as he sat on a great flat rock beside the stream, then added; “I hope you have the sense not to use that word where it will get you into trouble.”

“Which word? Reasonable, king or brother?” Elros enquired light-heartedly.  Maglor gave him a reproving look and he laughed.  “Oh, all right. But there’s nothing wrong with foster-father either.  The Edain often have their children fostered in another household.” 

“Not the way you were.”

“Well, perhaps not,” Elros admitted. “But foster-father is surely less likely to cause trouble in the West than Maglor son of Fëanor.  Foster-father could be anyone. Círdan.  Gil-galad. Celeborn. Gundor of the House of Hador.”

“It does our father no disrespect,” Elrond said to Maglor quietly. “Let us have this much?”

Maglor held up his hands. “Fair enough,” he said. “Who am I to tell you no?  But where in the West are you going, Elros? Elrond told me you were going off to an island with the Edain in a few years time, but I know no more than that.” 

“Ulmo is raising a new island from the Sea for us,” Elros said. “Not within the boundaries of Valinor, but just within sight of Tol Eressëa, as close as Men can come.  It will have a similar climate to the Lonely Isle; you’ve been there, haven’t you?”  

Maglor nodded, remembering starlit cliffs and quiet shadowed coves where waves rolled in from the distant and mysterious East.  “A few times,” he said. “We all went as a family, once, when I was quite young.  And then later, Finrod had a boat and used to visit regularly: I went with him a couple of times. But it was all starlight then, of course, and very few people lived there; only a few of the Teleri. I imagine it has changed a good deal with the Sun.” 

“Many of the Noldor returning from Middle-earth have settled there, so I heard from Finarfin and Anairë,” Elrond told him.  “There’s a new harbour on the eastern shore now, Avallónë. They thought I should go and live there.” 

“But you aren’t going?” 

“If you sail west, it’s forever,” Elrond said, fiddling with a stream-worn pebble in one hand and giving it more attention than it seemed to deserve. “You can never come back. Not to the Hither Shore.  You can visit the Isle of Gift, but Middle-earth is for Men, that’s the ruling.  Well, and Dwarves, presumably, though Eönwë  didn’t mention them. They want all of the Elves to sail into the West.”

“Hm,” Maglor said, non-committal.  

“Apart from the ringleaders of the rebellion, of course,” Elros put in. “They don’t want you, obviously.” 

“Obviously,”  Maglor agreed. 

Elrond threw the pebble from one hand to the other., “Many of the Sindar don’t see why they should go, not now the Enemy is defeated.  Celeborn isn’t leaving, of course, and probably wouldn’t even if Galadriel could, and wanted to. He thinks I should take up the kingship of the Sindar.” 

“Really?” Elros said, and laughed loudly.  “I wish I’d seen you wriggling out of that!” 

Elrond flicked stream-water at him, and there was a brief digression, from which Maglor retreated backwards at speed with his honey-cake in hand to avoid getting soaked.  

Afterwards, both Elrond and Elros had to spread their shirts out in the sun to dry them off. 

“Anyway,” Elrond said, “I persuaded him there was no need.  Gil-galad can be king of the Sindar, if they want a king! But Celeborn would be terribly disappointed if I went off into the West forever. I’d feel I was letting him down. Then of course there are the Edain who don’t want to go to the Isle of Gift, like Arachon and his mother, and Halfdan...”

“I had the impression that Arachon is not going because you are not going, Elrond,” Maglor suggested. 

“Well, perhaps.  And I am not going partly because Gil-galad isn’t and because Celebrimbor isn’t.  And you.  But the main thing is that Elros is going and so are most of the Edain.” 

“It sounds as if it should be a lovely place, this island,” Elros said. “No fierce winters, and the summers pleasant but not too dry.  I am told we can expect many visitors out of the West to aid us in building our new home.  All we have to do is not sail any further west ourselves.” 

“Hm,” Maglor said doubtfully.

“Oh, I knew you wouldn’t like the idea!  But in the Isle of Gift,  the Edain will be under the protection of the Valar. It’s a chance to build a new home in safety, at last: a safety that Men have never had before. No orcs, or spiders, or dragons.  You ought to sympathise with that, at least!”

“It sounds like the bargain that my grandfather Finwë made,” Maglor said uncomfortably, thinking of his grandfather holding himself unkinged when the Valar usurped his authority, and banished his eldest son. “That had consequences that he had not anticipated.” 

“I did think of that,” Elros said. “But you must admit, the Noldor gained a good deal from friendship with the Valar, and though some of the Noldor may have come to regret it, the Vanyar and the Teleri have not.  And the Valar will not intervene in our internal justice: I asked about that.  The lives of Men are short and hard, but in the Isle of Gift they will live longer and in peace, and can lay down their lives at last without fear. ” 

“And that’s what he plans to do too,” Elrond said, wrinkling his nose and looking sideways at his brother.  “Lay down his life and follow the Edain.” 

“You can’t have a mortal people with an Elven king,” Elros said reasonably. “It isn’t fair on them.  They deserve to have a lord of their own people. If I am to be king of the Edain, which is what they want, I must be one of them. And anyway, I want to be.  It isn’t the easiest thing, learning how to be a Man, but I’m working on it.” 

“The Edain in Lindon live among the Elves,” Elrond said to his brother, his brow wrinkled in thought. “Once you are gone, their king will be Gil-galad. You think that’s not a good idea?” 

“It might not be, in the long term,” Elros replied. “In Hithlum and Dorthonion Men were given lands of their own, under their own lords.”

“Hm.  Very well, I’ll talk to Gil-galad about it when we get back...  But here! This was supposed to be a holiday and instead we’ve become serious and dull!” 

“We have,” Maglor said, and scooped the harp up from where it lay on the rock next to Elros.  “As penance for being dull, I shall play the harp one-handed, with my right hand behind my back, and you will both have to suffer listening to it.  I usually only do this when I’m very drunk and misled by bad companions.  I imagine it will sound awful.” 

“A truly horrible penance, to hear Maglor son of Fëanor play!” Elros laughed and jumped to his feet, offering a hand to Elrond. “Play something we can dance to.” 

Elrond took his hand and got up. “I suppose if you insist on vanishing beyond the Sea, I should dance with you while you are still here.” 

“And if you refuse to come with me, then I must dance here on the Hither Shore while I still can... that’s what the Edain do when they dance.  Dance in the moment and take joy in it, without looking too far back, or too far forward.”  

“I’ll play Stars over the Waterfall,” Maglor decided. “Can you remember the steps?”

“Probably,” Elros said cheerfully.  “And if not, we’ll make them up.” 

The one-handed harping was not quite as terrible as Maglor had feared, and Elros and Elrond danced for a little while.  Then dancing became far too hot, and they had to bathe in the  stream instead, to cool off.  After that, they took turns to tell tall stories about ridiculous things that orcs had done for a while, until one of the hounds got up and nosed Elrond behind his ear. 

“The day is growing cooler now the sun has gone down.  Perhaps we should ask the the hounds to work for their supper?” Maglor suggested.

“I thought you weren’t hunting?” Elrond asked cheerfully, getting to his feet and then turning to haul Elros up by a lazily extended hand. 

“Barely hunting, to set hounds after rabbits!” Maglor protested. “But if you want rabbit stew, you’ll have to skin them.  Skinning a rabbit with one hand is near-impossible, believe me.”

“I’ll skin them,” Elros said with a grin. “A pleasant change from eating whatever is put in front of me because someone cooked it and is watching anxiously to see if I like it.” 

The sky was still a pale blue along the edge of the western mountains, but in the East the sky was shading darker with the trees outlined dark against it.  Insects were chirping in the long grass, and the air was full of the scent of honeysuckle and meadowsweet.  

The hounds wove through the undergrowth, working along scent trails as they walked down into the shadowed valley.  

The hound that had given its heart to Elrond, younger than the others, disgraced himself at first with excited yipping.  Elrond knelt to explain very seriously that yipping was not required, and they went on walking quietly through the shade of the valley, the hounds ranging ahead silently now, heads down among the bushes.  

Then the lead hound, with a faint rustle in the leaves caught a rabbit, and then another and before long they had ten rabbits and a small deer: more than enough to feed four hounds and three people.

The light had faded from the western sky and the stars above were fiercely bright against the deep velvet-blue of the night.  No sign yet of Eärendil rising in the west.  He must be behind the mountains still. 

Maglor was about to suggest that they end the hunt and go back to their camp to make a fire, when suddenly the heads of the hounds went up in alarm, and they began to growl, deep in their throats. He could hear what had alarmed them, a sudden sharp movement in the bushes.  

A tall figure loomed dark against the sky, massive, far taller than any of them.  

Maglor grabbed automatically for the sword that was not on his belt any more, and then, remembering, drew his small belt-knife with his left hand.   Elrond and Elros swept out their own swords and stepped in front of him.  Elrond had the temerity to push him backward with one hand as well, which was wrong on a number of levels, but this was not the moment to argue about it.   

“Who is there?” Elros called out warily in Sindarin. “I am Elros son of Eärendil, and this is my brother Elrond. We mean you no harm,” Then he said it again in the tongue spoken by many of the Edain, and in Quenya too for good measure.

There was a long pause. 

“What do you want?” said a huge tired voice, speaking in Sindarin with an odd accent. “Are you Elves?”

“Half-elven,” Elros said.  “Two of us, and one Elf.”  

“We are hunting in these hills,” Maglor said, deciding that if he was going to be unarmed and un-named, he was certainly not going to be voiceless as well. “We rode up from Mithlond, the city of the High King of the Noldor.  Now, who are you?”  

 

“Who am I?  Who are you, alone, yourself and nameless?” 

Maglor had heard this sort of thing before.  “A singer of the Speaking People, one who came across the Sea. I am myself, a foe of Morgoth. Now unfold yourself to me!”  

The huge figure sighed massively and sat down beside a great elm tree, though Maglor did not think his words had pushed it that way.  Sitting, it was about Maglor’s height, and in the starlight, he could see it was holding itself awkwardly, lopsided.  It was clad in torn deerskins. 

“Are you hurt?” Elrond asked sharply. 

“I am old,” it said. “Old and worn and torn by darkness.  The path ahead is long and steep.”

“I think he’s a spirit of the land, like the rivers,” Maglor said to Elrond and Elros. “How do the Speaking People name you?” he asked.

“Iarwain they called me then, when once we danced beneath the stars.  Iarwain Ben-adar, old and young and with no father, for I was here in the Beginning. But they are gone, the Elves of starlight. The Enemy returned with wrath and ruin, as he came before your folk awoke beside the lake so far away.”

“You are an enemy of the One Enemy?” Maglor demanded, sheathing his useless knife. Elros and Elrond had dropped the tips of their swords but had not put them away. 

“I am a friend of all kindly creatures, and no friend of the Great Death,” Iarwain said, sagging wearily. 

Elros sheathed his sword decisively. “Then we are friends.  We have food to spare. Come and eat with us, and we will help you if we can.”  

*****

They had walked slowly back to the camp, and Elrond had made a fire, while Elros skinned the rabbits and Maglor watched and tried to feel lazy rather than useless.  

In the clear flickering yellow light of the flames it was clear that Iarwain had suffered grievously in the recent war.  His shoulder had been cleft through, one arm was missing and he had a long, deep wound all the way down his right side, ripping through the ribs to the thigh.  

It was an injury that would have killed any Elf or Man, and yet from the look of the edges of the wound, it was slowly healing.  

Maglor picked up the harp and frowned at it. He was fairly sure that he could have at least begun to mend Iarwain’s wound if he had both hands to use, but with his right hand burned and aching, it was a different matter. 

“Let me set words on your hand again,” Elrond suggested. “Perhaps if I concentrate on the fingertips.” He looked sideways at Iarwain. “I’ve never mended anything like that.  I’m amazed he can walk.  Or even stand up.” 

“The land can recover from most things, in time,” Maglor said. “Very well.  You see what you can do for my fingertips, and then we’ll try together, all three of us. I’d have one of you play but...”

Elrond shook his head.  “No. Harp and voice are your great skills, not ours.” 

“You’ll never get better if you don’t practice,” Maglor said automatically, and held his hand out to Elrond.