A Little Freedom by bunn
Mar. 2nd, 2018 05:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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b2memB2MeM Prompt and Category:
"There he wandered long in a dream of music that turned into running water, and then suddenly into a voice."
initial prompt
Format: short story (1135 words)
Genre: angst
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Characters: Maglor
Pairings: none
Creator’s Notes (optional):
Summary: Maglor looks into the Silmaril, makes soup, and counts spoons. Follows The Tombless Sea
The leather bag, neatly stitched and marked with the star of his house, was black and stiff, slimy to the touch now but it still held together, for it had been made with skill and care. He pulled it from the coarse pale sand of the seafloor — it always came to rest there, so he could see it clearly — and he swam back towards the light, bursting into cold daylight and taking a breath as his hair clung around his face.
The waves pushed him back to shore, wanting nothing to do with him, and he stumbled from the foam, falling to his knees and pulling the bag open greedily, giving in one more time.
It shone brilliantly, colours of gold and silver out of childhood long lost, and he could not hold himself back from touching it for a moment, though he knew that it would burn him, and it did. The light of everything that he had known and loved would not endure his touch, for he had chosen darkness many times over.
He knelt there for a long while, wide-eyed in silence, enspelled by the Oath that bound him to the light that condemned him.
His body reminded him that the gravel beneath his knees was sharp, the wind was cold and his stomach empty. He ignored it at first, but it protested more sharply as the grey light in the sky began to fade, and he found himself shaking. Eventually he pulled himself away, got up stiffly, stretched and pulled his more or less dry cloak around him.
He left the gem lying on the rock where he could see it from the corner of his eye.
There was little food to be found along the shoreline that had until recently been the east-border of Beleriand. Celegorm would have found something easily enough, of course, but Celegorm was buried in a shallow grave scratched into the iron-hard midwinter soil outside Menegroth, out there somewhere beneath the Sea. But where the fires that had blazed from the rocks had guttered and died leaving only black ash, willowherb had sprung up, blushing tall and fair, coming down almost to the shoreline, and wild carrots followed. Amrod had told him that you could eat the willowherb, and how to tell wild carrots from the hemlock...
Maglor pulled up roots one-handed, keeping half an eye on the Silmaril as he did it. He had dazzled the Oath into silence with light for now, and so he could glance at it sideways and not be caught.
He washed the roots in seawater, added a few small mussels and handfuls of a delicate green seaweed to the pan that had been in the pack that Maedhros had abandoned on the rock, and climbed back up with them to the Silmaril to make a fire. Maedhros had carried more gear than he, since Maglor had the harp to carry... The willowherb made good kindling: Amrod had showed him that, too.
It was easier when the Silmaril was in the ocean. When the gem was there beside him, the Oath pushed at him to look at it, to wonder if it was safe, to think dark thoughts of what he might do to anyone who came to take it from him. But he could not bear to leave it in the Sea for long either.
“I should have thrown you into the fires before they went cold,” he told it bitterly, though he knew that was not something he could do. Not after Dagor Bragollach, and the rivers of fire that had taken so many friends and allies, not after Glaurung blazing in fury at Nirnaeth Arnoediad, after Ancalagon the Black belching flame across the sky.
Perhaps the Silmaril knew it too: at any rate it did not reply. It never did. He was not sure if he wanted it to reply in his father’s voice, or if he was afraid that if it did, it would speak of Eldar and of Aftercomers who had taken in hand a Silmaril.
Probably he should have taken the path that Maedhros had taken, whether that path led to the Halls of Awaiting or to the Everlasting Darkness to which they had pledged themselves. But that was not something he had been able to bring himself to do either. The treacherous voice of hope would not let him, and anyway it was Maedhros who was the brave one. Maedhros and Celegorm and Caranthir, and Maglor standing next to them, pretending that he was brave, too. If he had been brave, he would have stood with Maedhros at Losgar. But probably that would not have changed anything.
The clouds were clearing at last into the west, leaving a faint red afterglow of the vanished sunset, and stars appearing. The evening star shone in the west, echoing the light of the Silmaril. It was distant now, impossible to pick out as the ship that had slain the greatest of the Winged Dragons. Gil-Estel they had called it when first they saw it, the Star of High Hope, and that hope had proved true for almost everyone.
“It was a true hope, really,” Maglor said to Eärendil, taking a sip of thin hot salty mussel soup. “Our Enemy fell, and that was supposed to be the point. I would be honestly happy to consider you one of Fëanor’s kin and entitled to the thing that way. I suppose it’s too much to expect that you should feel the same.”
Eärendil, high in the western sky, made no answer. He was probably busy with more important matters than conversation with a lost and wandering distant cousin who had been declared an enemy both by his acts and by his Silmaril.
“No?” Maglor said. “Ah well. I don’t suppose my father would either.” He scooped a mussel from the pan. Maedhros had packed three spoons, and he wondered again if that meant that Maedhros had not planned his death all along, and who the third spoon had been for: Fingon, or their father. Or perhaps it was just a spare spoon.
The soup was finished: enough to silence the protests of his body for a little while, and so he cautiously pulled the harp from its leather cover with his left hand. He had touched the Silmaril with two fingertips this time, like a fool. Fingertip burns were the worst kind.
He turned his back upon the Silmaril, settled the harp on his knee, balanced it carefully in the crook of his right arm, well away from his aching hand, and began to play one-handed, thoughtlessly, wandering into a dream made of music as he let the notes spill out unplanned and fall like golden light of Laurelin through rain, down to the endlessly surging sea.
"There he wandered long in a dream of music that turned into running water, and then suddenly into a voice."
initial prompt
Format: short story (1135 words)
Genre: angst
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Characters: Maglor
Pairings: none
Creator’s Notes (optional):
Summary: Maglor looks into the Silmaril, makes soup, and counts spoons. Follows The Tombless Sea
The leather bag, neatly stitched and marked with the star of his house, was black and stiff, slimy to the touch now but it still held together, for it had been made with skill and care. He pulled it from the coarse pale sand of the seafloor — it always came to rest there, so he could see it clearly — and he swam back towards the light, bursting into cold daylight and taking a breath as his hair clung around his face.
The waves pushed him back to shore, wanting nothing to do with him, and he stumbled from the foam, falling to his knees and pulling the bag open greedily, giving in one more time.
It shone brilliantly, colours of gold and silver out of childhood long lost, and he could not hold himself back from touching it for a moment, though he knew that it would burn him, and it did. The light of everything that he had known and loved would not endure his touch, for he had chosen darkness many times over.
He knelt there for a long while, wide-eyed in silence, enspelled by the Oath that bound him to the light that condemned him.
His body reminded him that the gravel beneath his knees was sharp, the wind was cold and his stomach empty. He ignored it at first, but it protested more sharply as the grey light in the sky began to fade, and he found himself shaking. Eventually he pulled himself away, got up stiffly, stretched and pulled his more or less dry cloak around him.
He left the gem lying on the rock where he could see it from the corner of his eye.
There was little food to be found along the shoreline that had until recently been the east-border of Beleriand. Celegorm would have found something easily enough, of course, but Celegorm was buried in a shallow grave scratched into the iron-hard midwinter soil outside Menegroth, out there somewhere beneath the Sea. But where the fires that had blazed from the rocks had guttered and died leaving only black ash, willowherb had sprung up, blushing tall and fair, coming down almost to the shoreline, and wild carrots followed. Amrod had told him that you could eat the willowherb, and how to tell wild carrots from the hemlock...
Maglor pulled up roots one-handed, keeping half an eye on the Silmaril as he did it. He had dazzled the Oath into silence with light for now, and so he could glance at it sideways and not be caught.
He washed the roots in seawater, added a few small mussels and handfuls of a delicate green seaweed to the pan that had been in the pack that Maedhros had abandoned on the rock, and climbed back up with them to the Silmaril to make a fire. Maedhros had carried more gear than he, since Maglor had the harp to carry... The willowherb made good kindling: Amrod had showed him that, too.
It was easier when the Silmaril was in the ocean. When the gem was there beside him, the Oath pushed at him to look at it, to wonder if it was safe, to think dark thoughts of what he might do to anyone who came to take it from him. But he could not bear to leave it in the Sea for long either.
“I should have thrown you into the fires before they went cold,” he told it bitterly, though he knew that was not something he could do. Not after Dagor Bragollach, and the rivers of fire that had taken so many friends and allies, not after Glaurung blazing in fury at Nirnaeth Arnoediad, after Ancalagon the Black belching flame across the sky.
Perhaps the Silmaril knew it too: at any rate it did not reply. It never did. He was not sure if he wanted it to reply in his father’s voice, or if he was afraid that if it did, it would speak of Eldar and of Aftercomers who had taken in hand a Silmaril.
Probably he should have taken the path that Maedhros had taken, whether that path led to the Halls of Awaiting or to the Everlasting Darkness to which they had pledged themselves. But that was not something he had been able to bring himself to do either. The treacherous voice of hope would not let him, and anyway it was Maedhros who was the brave one. Maedhros and Celegorm and Caranthir, and Maglor standing next to them, pretending that he was brave, too. If he had been brave, he would have stood with Maedhros at Losgar. But probably that would not have changed anything.
The clouds were clearing at last into the west, leaving a faint red afterglow of the vanished sunset, and stars appearing. The evening star shone in the west, echoing the light of the Silmaril. It was distant now, impossible to pick out as the ship that had slain the greatest of the Winged Dragons. Gil-Estel they had called it when first they saw it, the Star of High Hope, and that hope had proved true for almost everyone.
“It was a true hope, really,” Maglor said to Eärendil, taking a sip of thin hot salty mussel soup. “Our Enemy fell, and that was supposed to be the point. I would be honestly happy to consider you one of Fëanor’s kin and entitled to the thing that way. I suppose it’s too much to expect that you should feel the same.”
Eärendil, high in the western sky, made no answer. He was probably busy with more important matters than conversation with a lost and wandering distant cousin who had been declared an enemy both by his acts and by his Silmaril.
“No?” Maglor said. “Ah well. I don’t suppose my father would either.” He scooped a mussel from the pan. Maedhros had packed three spoons, and he wondered again if that meant that Maedhros had not planned his death all along, and who the third spoon had been for: Fingon, or their father. Or perhaps it was just a spare spoon.
The soup was finished: enough to silence the protests of his body for a little while, and so he cautiously pulled the harp from its leather cover with his left hand. He had touched the Silmaril with two fingertips this time, like a fool. Fingertip burns were the worst kind.
He turned his back upon the Silmaril, settled the harp on his knee, balanced it carefully in the crook of his right arm, well away from his aching hand, and began to play one-handed, thoughtlessly, wandering into a dream made of music as he let the notes spill out unplanned and fall like golden light of Laurelin through rain, down to the endlessly surging sea.
no subject
Date: 2018-03-02 06:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-03-03 04:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-03-02 07:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-03-03 04:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-03-02 08:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-03-03 04:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-03-03 08:09 am (UTC)Even though your a Kinslaying murder with a glowing jewel addiction...
Wonderful fic, lovely juxtaposition of angst and the mundane. Really like how you portray the sillmaril kinda like heroine. He doesn't want to do it but it hurts so good.
no subject
Date: 2018-03-03 04:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-03-03 02:23 pm (UTC)His longing to engage with others through the Silmarils--his father and Earendil--is both sad and shows the power of these stones to assume a central place in his awareness.
This made me sad:
pretending that he was brave, too.
Because he is, in many ways, the bravest of them: the only one to question the Oath and the only one to survive to face the consequences of what his actions have done to the world.
no subject
Date: 2018-03-03 04:06 pm (UTC)Being in a situation with no choice but to dive into WWI and being very afraid seems only rational, and yet to Tolkien itself it felt like he had 'little physical courage' even though in the end he got through it and was one of the survivors... So I thought it would be interesting to give Maglor that characterisation, as he is the one who writes the song and the one who survives the wars.
no subject
Date: 2018-03-03 05:58 pm (UTC)"...the gravel beneath his knees was sharp, the wind was cold and his stomach empty. "
Owch, all the way. Compelling reading.