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b2mem2012-03-19 09:37 am
engarian.livejournal.com) wrote in b2mem2012-03-19 09:37 am
Entry tags:
I-27 - Erulisse - An Overflow of Memories
B2MeM Challenge: I-27 – Sons of Fëanor – Maglor in the Fourth Age, Fëanátics – In Beleriand – Family Guy
Format: Short Story
Genre: Drama
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Maglor
Pairings: None
Word Count: 1300
Summary: Maglor has been wandering for more than two ages. Seeing a group of children and their father while in his current safe haven, his thoughts extend back to his youth and his father's death in Beleriand. It is time to move on once again.
An Overflow of Memories
The day was dusty and dry, but the crops had to be put into the ground in the hope of the upcoming spring and summer rains. As partial payment of his room and board, he had harnessed the old horse this morning, sharpened the plowshare with the rough rasp in the shed, and started plowing the back field, following the contour lines of the land.
There was little to recommend this little backwater area, only the fact that it was a crossroads justified the slightly larger than average building at all. But it was a crossroads between north/south and east/west – well, not exactly on the compass lines, but easier to describe thus. His arm moved up to his forehead, swiping off the sweat that had accumulated there and leaving a smear of dirt behind.
Maglor had come to this desolate area the previous summer, working out an arrangement where he would help around the Inn during the day and would play his lute in the common room at night – five nights a week if there were people staying in the Inn or if neighboring farmers had gathered to share a pint before separating outside of the front door to return to their colorless, dim lives. Why anyone would want to stay here for more than a single night was a mystery to him. Yet here he was. He had stayed through the summer, helped with the harvest in the fall, hunted and gathered fuel in the winter, and now that it was spring, he was plowing. 'How far a Fëanórian Prince can fall,' he mused, a small, sad smile on his face.
The scars on his hands, caused by handling that which he had no right to touch, let alone cradle closely to himself, were healed, although fine lines would ever be visible on his hands. After many thousands of years he had almost regained his flexibility, although he still dared not play the harp he had been carrying with him throughout his life. There were other instruments that he could play that did not pluck his life-strings with as much pain as his harp. Every so often, in the quiet of a darkened room, he uncovered it reverently and looked once more upon the beauty of his father's craftsmanship. On those rare occasions he would allow tears to once more fill his eyes and he would weep for his family, lost to the tides of time and their loyalty, lost forever and separated from him for eternity. Even now, so many centuries later, he still had no idea how long eternity would be, only that it stretched with emptiness in front of him and caused his heart to bend heavily underneath the burden of his sorrow.
He looked up as the horse came to the end of the row and he gently guided it in the opposite direction to plow the next line. As soon as he got through the contour portion he would be able to go a bit faster on the level surface. He felt empty as he plowed. He could not imagine that they would get enough rain to justify planting this crop. Following in his footsteps was Betta, the middle daughter, a sack of seed grain in her hands. As his plow opened the ground, she walked behind placing the seeds in the newly furrowed earth then tamping it down firmly with her bare feet leaving hope behind her lying in the ground If the Powers were kind, the rains would come with soaking gentleness that would allow the crops to grow happily and with health, soaking in the sun and drinking the rain. If the Powers were unkind, then famine might be visiting here during the coming year.
He cocked his head, hearing a team of horses and a wagon coming up the road. Shortly afterward he saw them cresting the nearby hillock, then turning into the yard of the Inn. The horses were unhitched from the wagon, and from the container poured a man, his wife, and several children who were obviously grateful to be released from the confinement of the wagon bed. They ran around the yard, several heading for the swing in the nearby tree and two taking the horses towards the trough of water waiting to refresh them. Their high voices, unintelligible from this distance, sounded of unconcerned happiness and the simple joys of childhood.
His reverie was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. Betta, his assistant, motioned that she would go back to the house to help her mother feed the children and their parents. She would return later to continue planting. He nodded, and unhitching the plow horse, led the gelding over to the small lake nearby for a drink and some fresh greens that he could crop. Once the horse was taken care of, he turned his attention back to the Inn and their guests.
The children were continuing to play outside. Suddenly a cry went up from the area around the swing. One of the children had been hit on the head by the hard wooden swing seat and was weeping in the arms of an older child. No sooner had he noticed this, then their father came from the door of the Inn and, reaching the crying child, scooped him up in his arms, comforting him in his distress. Maglor's thoughts went back to his own father, gone for such a long time. Suddenly his heart clenched and his memories flew through the ages to times of similar staging in the days of his youth in Tirion and later in Formenos. Finally, to how Fëanor had been at the time of his death.
Fëanor had been grievously harmed by Morgoth's minions, but he had been rescued by his sons. All of them had held out hope that their father would be able to recover and continue to lead them in this new land. But while crossing over the pass, Fëanor had called a halt, feeling in his heart that he would shortly be meeting Námo in Mandos' Halls. He called each one of his sons to his side, beginning with Ambarussa and continuing through Maitimo. With each one he had private words, assurances of love, and apologies. He had also required each one to again repeat the words of their terrible Oath to him. But there was no doubt in Maglor. Their father had loved each of them dearly.
Watching the father below carry his injured child back to the Inn, followed by the rest of his family, he allowed one tear to fall before he regained control over his emotions. How very much he missed his family. He felt strongly that he would never be allowed to sail the Straight Road, and that unless he came through Mandos' Halls, he would never see his brothers, mother or even - against all hope - his father again.
Suddenly a day that had been so pregnant with possibilities was dimmed by sorrow and memory. He knew it was time to pack up and move on. If he kept moving, perhaps his memories might only catch up with him occasionally and allow him some surcease from their pounding reminders. He stood and taking the traces of the plow horse, returned to the field. He would finish this day's work, but leave on the morrow for the next small hamlet where he could live anonymously for another year or so before moving again.
A/N The most difficult thing about this prompt was that it required Feanor as a family man in Beleriand, when he was slain almost immediately. Oops! Hopefully I managed to wrap it up so that it makes sense and so that Maglor's love for him, despite everything he had to endure, comes through clearly.
Format: Short Story
Genre: Drama
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Maglor
Pairings: None
Word Count: 1300
Summary: Maglor has been wandering for more than two ages. Seeing a group of children and their father while in his current safe haven, his thoughts extend back to his youth and his father's death in Beleriand. It is time to move on once again.
An Overflow of Memories
The day was dusty and dry, but the crops had to be put into the ground in the hope of the upcoming spring and summer rains. As partial payment of his room and board, he had harnessed the old horse this morning, sharpened the plowshare with the rough rasp in the shed, and started plowing the back field, following the contour lines of the land.
There was little to recommend this little backwater area, only the fact that it was a crossroads justified the slightly larger than average building at all. But it was a crossroads between north/south and east/west – well, not exactly on the compass lines, but easier to describe thus. His arm moved up to his forehead, swiping off the sweat that had accumulated there and leaving a smear of dirt behind.
Maglor had come to this desolate area the previous summer, working out an arrangement where he would help around the Inn during the day and would play his lute in the common room at night – five nights a week if there were people staying in the Inn or if neighboring farmers had gathered to share a pint before separating outside of the front door to return to their colorless, dim lives. Why anyone would want to stay here for more than a single night was a mystery to him. Yet here he was. He had stayed through the summer, helped with the harvest in the fall, hunted and gathered fuel in the winter, and now that it was spring, he was plowing. 'How far a Fëanórian Prince can fall,' he mused, a small, sad smile on his face.
The scars on his hands, caused by handling that which he had no right to touch, let alone cradle closely to himself, were healed, although fine lines would ever be visible on his hands. After many thousands of years he had almost regained his flexibility, although he still dared not play the harp he had been carrying with him throughout his life. There were other instruments that he could play that did not pluck his life-strings with as much pain as his harp. Every so often, in the quiet of a darkened room, he uncovered it reverently and looked once more upon the beauty of his father's craftsmanship. On those rare occasions he would allow tears to once more fill his eyes and he would weep for his family, lost to the tides of time and their loyalty, lost forever and separated from him for eternity. Even now, so many centuries later, he still had no idea how long eternity would be, only that it stretched with emptiness in front of him and caused his heart to bend heavily underneath the burden of his sorrow.
He looked up as the horse came to the end of the row and he gently guided it in the opposite direction to plow the next line. As soon as he got through the contour portion he would be able to go a bit faster on the level surface. He felt empty as he plowed. He could not imagine that they would get enough rain to justify planting this crop. Following in his footsteps was Betta, the middle daughter, a sack of seed grain in her hands. As his plow opened the ground, she walked behind placing the seeds in the newly furrowed earth then tamping it down firmly with her bare feet leaving hope behind her lying in the ground If the Powers were kind, the rains would come with soaking gentleness that would allow the crops to grow happily and with health, soaking in the sun and drinking the rain. If the Powers were unkind, then famine might be visiting here during the coming year.
He cocked his head, hearing a team of horses and a wagon coming up the road. Shortly afterward he saw them cresting the nearby hillock, then turning into the yard of the Inn. The horses were unhitched from the wagon, and from the container poured a man, his wife, and several children who were obviously grateful to be released from the confinement of the wagon bed. They ran around the yard, several heading for the swing in the nearby tree and two taking the horses towards the trough of water waiting to refresh them. Their high voices, unintelligible from this distance, sounded of unconcerned happiness and the simple joys of childhood.
His reverie was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. Betta, his assistant, motioned that she would go back to the house to help her mother feed the children and their parents. She would return later to continue planting. He nodded, and unhitching the plow horse, led the gelding over to the small lake nearby for a drink and some fresh greens that he could crop. Once the horse was taken care of, he turned his attention back to the Inn and their guests.
The children were continuing to play outside. Suddenly a cry went up from the area around the swing. One of the children had been hit on the head by the hard wooden swing seat and was weeping in the arms of an older child. No sooner had he noticed this, then their father came from the door of the Inn and, reaching the crying child, scooped him up in his arms, comforting him in his distress. Maglor's thoughts went back to his own father, gone for such a long time. Suddenly his heart clenched and his memories flew through the ages to times of similar staging in the days of his youth in Tirion and later in Formenos. Finally, to how Fëanor had been at the time of his death.
Fëanor had been grievously harmed by Morgoth's minions, but he had been rescued by his sons. All of them had held out hope that their father would be able to recover and continue to lead them in this new land. But while crossing over the pass, Fëanor had called a halt, feeling in his heart that he would shortly be meeting Námo in Mandos' Halls. He called each one of his sons to his side, beginning with Ambarussa and continuing through Maitimo. With each one he had private words, assurances of love, and apologies. He had also required each one to again repeat the words of their terrible Oath to him. But there was no doubt in Maglor. Their father had loved each of them dearly.
Watching the father below carry his injured child back to the Inn, followed by the rest of his family, he allowed one tear to fall before he regained control over his emotions. How very much he missed his family. He felt strongly that he would never be allowed to sail the Straight Road, and that unless he came through Mandos' Halls, he would never see his brothers, mother or even - against all hope - his father again.
Suddenly a day that had been so pregnant with possibilities was dimmed by sorrow and memory. He knew it was time to pack up and move on. If he kept moving, perhaps his memories might only catch up with him occasionally and allow him some surcease from their pounding reminders. He stood and taking the traces of the plow horse, returned to the field. He would finish this day's work, but leave on the morrow for the next small hamlet where he could live anonymously for another year or so before moving again.
A/N The most difficult thing about this prompt was that it required Feanor as a family man in Beleriand, when he was slain almost immediately. Oops! Hopefully I managed to wrap it up so that it makes sense and so that Maglor's love for him, despite everything he had to endure, comes through clearly.