[A lone, baritone voice begins to sing with no accompaniment. He has no trouble weaving a melody without an instrument and the picture he paints with the lyrics is stark:]
Every year Companions Choose, as they have done before, The Chosen come with shining hopes to learn the Herald's lore. And every year the Heralds sigh, and give the same advice— "All those who would hold Magic's Power must then pay Magic's Price."
Oh there was danger in the North—that's all that Vanyel knew. An enemy of power dark sought Heralds out—then slew. But only those with Magic's Gift were slain by silent rage— Till Vanyel of them all was left the only Herald-Mage.
Yes, from the North the danger came, beyond the Border far— The Forest did not stay Dark Death, nor did the mountains bar. And Vanyel cried—"We die, my liege, and know not why nor where! So send me North my King, that I may find the answers there!"
Then North went Vanyel—not alone, though 'twas of little aid A Bard was like to be to him; and Stefen was afraid— He feared that he would fail the quest, a burden prove to be— Dared not let Vanyel go alone to face dark sorcery.
So out beyond the Border there, beyond the forest tall, Into the mountains deep they went that stood an icy wall— To find the wall had cracked and found there was a passage new, A path clean cut that winding ran a level course and true.
This path was wrought by magecraft; Vanyel knew that when he saw The mountains hewn by power alone, a power he felt with awe— But to what purpose? Something moved beyond them on the trail; They watched and hid—and what they found there turned them cold and pale.
An army moved in single file, by magic cloaked and hid— An army moved on Valdemar that marched as they were bid— A darker force than weaponry controlled the men and place, For Vanyel looked—and Vanyel knew an ancient evil's face.
Then Vanyel turned to Stefen, and he told the Bard to ride To warn the folk of Valdemar—"They call me 'Magic's Pride.' It's time I earned the name—now go! I'll hold this army back Until the arms of Valdemar can counter their attack."
So Stefen rode, and so it is no living tongue can tell How Vanyel fought, nor what he wrought, nor how the Herald fell. The Army came—but not in time to save the Herald-Mage, Although the pass was scorched and cracked by magic power's rage.
They fought the Dark Ones back although they came on wave by wave. No trace they found of Vanyel, nor of his Companion brave— They only found the focus-stone, the gift of Stefen's hand— Now blackened, burned, and shattered by the power that saved their land.
They only found the foemen who into the woods had fled And each one by unseen, uncanny powers now lay dead. As if the Forest had somehow bestirred itself that day— Had Vanyel with his dying breath commanded trees to slay?
And still the forest of the North guards Valdemar from harm— For Vanyel's dying curse is stronger far than mortal arm. And every year the Chosen come, despite the old advice— "All those who would be Magic's Pride must then pay Magic's Price."
[ Maglor is silent, listening, and he weeps for the lives lost. When Vanyel is done the line fills with an answer, a grieving, keening lament for innocence lost, blood on white sands, families torn assunder, the hopeless, desperate beauty and glory of a last stand ]
It means 'Day will come again'. They were the words cried at the last stand of one of the greatest Men I have ever known, as he stared at what was his death, and did not flinch.
[ Softly ] That tale is one of terrible despair, but also one of hope. For he was right. Dawn did come, although it took far longer than any would have wished. And so we remember him and the lessons he taught us, even now. That true hope, what my folk call estel, is born from the very depths of despair, and hangs only one, tiny, string - that we are not forsaken, and morning will come, even if we see it not.
Hope is hard to find when you stand alone. But I knew my moment was coming far before I faced it. [He says that lightly, shrugging off the years of nightmares that left him screaming and shaking.] The tale was written by Stefen, I believe. I found it in one of the stores.
It is. That is what makes estel special - for it is the light that burns in defiance of the dark. It is not optimism, or cheerfulness. Estel is endurance.
[ A soft, mournful noise ] Ah Vanyel, brave-heart. It was a great tale, one made the more lovely for its grief. Stefen is a good writer, and your skill is impressive, to take a tune you did not know and do as well as you did.
I do not know how he does it. We believe he has a mixture of Empathy, Healing and, of course, all the Bardic Gifts. It is a rare mix and he is the first of his kind.
The Gifts that show up in Haven are usually signs of what is needed. For example, if a war is on the horizon, there will be those with more tactical Gifts and fire power.
In Stefen's case, King Randale needed him dearly. He could sing his pain away so he could see to his duties.
I am glad that it is so. If ever he does come here, I would suggest that one with such talent speaks to the Lady Galadriel and her brother, Lord Finrod - both of them are skilled with Songs of Power, and the Lady is a healer of some renown. Who knows but that he might be able to learn something that might aid your King.
I fear he could use some healing himself. Of the heart, at least. I couldn't leave him in a better way. [He accepts that guilt. Stefen knows his duties come first.]
To lose one dear to you is... always very difficult. [ He is grateful Vanyel cannot see the pain that wracks across his face at that, grateful that years of control means his voice does not shake, that no pain bleeds through the recording ]
To see you again, I think, will be healing enough.
[ But it is not for you? Celegorm leans against his shoulder
Forgive me for my earlier assumption, Lord Maglor. I assumed because of your incredible longevity, grief and loss might be...distant from you. That clearly isn't the case.
[He wonders how Maglor does it. He marvels over the strength it takes to simply live.]
I will care for him as he deserves. He did not see the best of me in those last years.
[ a soft understanding chuff ] I suppose we might seem that way. Distant and remote. But no offence was meant, and none is taken. If we seem so, it is only because pain... is a knife that never fades, for my people. We distance ourselves... we have to. For if we do not it would slay us as surely as if you used a blade in truth. In that regard, Men have always been stronger than we.
Sorrow can kill Men too. [There are scars on his wrists that speak all too clearly.] We can reach the point where we don't want to live too. I think we are more alike than you think.
They call you our younger kindred. [ Maglor acknowledges ] And tis true, we are closer akin to each other than to others. But Men burn brighter and fiercer than we, I think, and you bear hurts that would have slain us.
That is what we all think, aye - that your fire burns hot and fast, and is the more passionate for it.
As for our creator, the Valar name him Eru, the One, and we, Elves, Men, Dwarves and Hobbits, are the Eruhini, the Children of the One, for we alone they had no part in shaping, and our fates they cannot clearly see, excepting the Doomsman. But Eru is their creator too, the One who stands Alone, before and after all else.
Your Eru reminds me of the Shin'a'in deities. They believe in a Goddess and God. The Goddess has four aspects: the Maiden, the Crone, the Mother and the Warrior. The God has four aspects too: the Rover, the Guardian, the Hunter and the Guide.
They have. He dwells in the Timeless Halls, beyond the Walls of the World, and from thence they came, descending into Arda for love of our world. It is said that perhaps Men go there, after their deaths, but we do not know, for our fates are sundered.
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bythewaves) wrote2015-01-20 02:00 am
[Voice]
Every year Companions Choose, as they have done before,
The Chosen come with shining hopes to learn the Herald's lore.
And every year the Heralds sigh, and give the same advice—
"All those who would hold Magic's Power must then pay Magic's Price."
Oh there was danger in the North—that's all that Vanyel knew.
An enemy of power dark sought Heralds out—then slew.
But only those with Magic's Gift were slain by silent rage—
Till Vanyel of them all was left the only Herald-Mage.
Yes, from the North the danger came, beyond the Border far—
The Forest did not stay Dark Death, nor did the mountains bar.
And Vanyel cried—"We die, my liege, and know not why nor where!
So send me North my King, that I may find the answers there!"
Then North went Vanyel—not alone, though 'twas of little aid
A Bard was like to be to him; and Stefen was afraid—
He feared that he would fail the quest, a burden prove to be—
Dared not let Vanyel go alone to face dark sorcery.
So out beyond the Border there, beyond the forest tall,
Into the mountains deep they went that stood an icy wall—
To find the wall had cracked and found there was a passage new,
A path clean cut that winding ran a level course and true.
This path was wrought by magecraft; Vanyel knew that when he saw
The mountains hewn by power alone, a power he felt with awe—
But to what purpose? Something moved beyond them on the trail;
They watched and hid—and what they found there turned them cold and pale.
An army moved in single file, by magic cloaked and hid—
An army moved on Valdemar that marched as they were bid—
A darker force than weaponry controlled the men and place,
For Vanyel looked—and Vanyel knew an ancient evil's face.
Then Vanyel turned to Stefen, and he told the Bard to ride
To warn the folk of Valdemar—"They call me 'Magic's Pride.'
It's time I earned the name—now go! I'll hold this army back
Until the arms of Valdemar can counter their attack."
So Stefen rode, and so it is no living tongue can tell
How Vanyel fought, nor what he wrought, nor how the Herald fell.
The Army came—but not in time to save the Herald-Mage,
Although the pass was scorched and cracked by magic power's rage.
They fought the Dark Ones back although they came on wave by wave.
No trace they found of Vanyel, nor of his Companion brave—
They only found the focus-stone, the gift of Stefen's hand—
Now blackened, burned, and shattered by the power that saved their land.
They only found the foemen who into the woods had fled
And each one by unseen, uncanny powers now lay dead.
As if the Forest had somehow bestirred itself that day—
Had Vanyel with his dying breath commanded trees to slay?
And still the forest of the North guards Valdemar from harm—
For Vanyel's dying curse is stronger far than mortal arm.
And every year the Chosen come, despite the old advice—
"All those who would be Magic's Pride must then pay Magic's Price."
[Voice]
Aure entuluva!
[Voice]
What does that mean?
[Voice]
[ Softly ] That tale is one of terrible despair, but also one of hope. For he was right. Dawn did come, although it took far longer than any would have wished. And so we remember him and the lessons he taught us, even now. That true hope, what my folk call estel, is born from the very depths of despair, and hangs only one, tiny, string - that we are not forsaken, and morning will come, even if we see it not.
[Voice]
This is a song I haven't heard sung before.
[Voice]
[ A soft, mournful noise ] Ah Vanyel, brave-heart. It was a great tale, one made the more lovely for its grief. Stefen is a good writer, and your skill is impressive, to take a tune you did not know and do as well as you did.
[Voice]
I spent many hours listening to him create music to accompany his lyrics. I know his hand even if...
This was written after my death.
[Voice]
[ An understanding noise, remembering how he had first met Vanyel ]</small Written by one who misses you dearly and knew you well.
[Voice]
I miss him dearly, but we will be reunited again. Should he arrive here, I will gladly introduce you.
[Voice]
I would be honored, Vanyel.
[Voice]
He is a Bard worthy of your time. He can sing pain away.
[Voice]
[Voice]
The Gifts that show up in Haven are usually signs of what is needed. For example, if a war is on the horizon, there will be those with more tactical Gifts and fire power.
In Stefen's case, King Randale needed him dearly. He could sing his pain away so he could see to his duties.
[Voice]
[Voice]
[Voice]
To see you again, I think, will be healing enough.
[ But it is not for you? Celegorm leans against his shoulder
It is too late, for us growls Caranthir lowly
And Nyelo is too young agrees Curufin ]
[Voice]
[He wonders how Maglor does it. He marvels over the strength it takes to simply live.]
I will care for him as he deserves. He did not see the best of me in those last years.
[Voice]
And I am sure you would, and will.
[Voice]
[Voice]
[Voice]
Perhaps we burn brighter because we live such short lives?
[Voice]
As for our creator, the Valar name him Eru, the One, and we, Elves, Men, Dwarves and Hobbits, are the Eruhini, the Children of the One, for we alone they had no part in shaping, and our fates they cannot clearly see, excepting the Doomsman. But Eru is their creator too, the One who stands Alone, before and after all else.
[Voice]
[He pauses.]
Have the Valar ever laid eyes on Eru?
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