Makalaurë Kanafinwë

The first thing you hear is the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. Slowly, slowly, you hear the voice - rising and falling like the waves and the cry of the seabirds wheeling overhead, it sings, slow and sad, in a language long forgotten by Time. If you listen, the words conjure the meaning for you, drawing the images of a people tall and proud and fair, of blood on white sands and flames on the water, and banners raised glinting under a new Sun. The first thing you see is a man, or at least, the shape of one. Tall and ragged, with his face turned towards the sea, he sings, and it is as if the sea weeps for him. His clothes are fine but well-worn, and his dark hair is tangled by the wind, untouched by any frost. His face is as young and unlined as any callow youth, but his eyes! Ah, his eyes, they are as grey as the sea, and so terribly, terribly old. There is a fell light in them, even now, but it is clouded by a grief that can never be assuaged.

~~~

Two familiar voices speak as one, and I cannot help but turn to see them, my sons of the heart. 

"Why did you kill our mother?"

I hide the flinch as I recognise what is to come. I am, as always, not given time to answer.

"Why did you abandon us?"

I cannot bear to watch, and yet I cannot look away. My beloved sons, looking at me with blank accusing eyes, but they aren't mine, not really. They never were. Around us, the pillars of Doriath rise, and the floor beneath my feet is slick with blood. Unbidden, my hand clenches around my blade, my brothers' voices an angry hum that refuses to form into words in the numb cloud that surrounds me. Still, I understand - we were once seven. Now, we are four. And they are so, so angry. Hands, my hands, holding tight enough to bruise, gripping small arms and dragging them with me (this is wrong, this is wrong, it was not I who did this, I did not sanction this! ... but I did not stop them, either. And they were so, so angry).

"Why are you trying to kill us?"

Not my sons, not mine, but akin to them, oh yes. So alike, looking at me with terrified eyes, even as we turn away, abandoning them to the creeping shadows in the trees, ignoring their pleas for us to return.

"Why did you kill us?"

Ah! Elured, Elurin, forgive me! My sons, please....

"Kinslayer!"

I can no longer tell which set of twins is which. Perhaps I never could? They stare at me with accusing eyes, reaching for me, begging, pleasing, grasping, demanding to know why. The Oath, it was the Oath, my sons, please understand!

"Give us back our parents! Give us back our lives!"

"I cannot!" I break from the dream, fleeing back to the world of the waking. It seems there will be no rest for me this night, either. I would weep, if I had any tears left. 'His very voice might cleave gold' they said of me once, a long time ago in the days of careless youth. But those days are gone now, nothing more than a faded dream. As I raise my voice in lamentation now, only the sea and the sand hear me, and surely it is not gold I cleave, but only my own heart. If they could hear me now, would they weep for me? Ah beloved, what has become of me? Will you mourn me, when I return not, or were you glad when they said that Maglor Kinslayer wanders still along the shore? Oh my brothers, does the Everlasting Darkness bring peace? Was it worth it, father, to make mother weep so?. 

 

There was a hall once, where a fire was always burning in the hearth, and soft cushions were scattered on nearby chairs and benches invitingly. A perfect place for song and story, in the Last Homely House East of the Sea. The world has changed, now, and the House is gone, and with it the Hall. But the world still remembers.

There is a place, now (then, always), where there is still a fire burning welcoming in the hearth, and the chairs and benches are always just perfect for sitting and listening. The windows and doors are open to everywhere (everywhen), and any can enter. Here, the memory of the great loremasters and storytellers still remains. You might catch Erestor, grumbling about people not respecting the library's sanctity, or Daeron might wander by the window playing his flute (O Luthien, Luthien, still he seeks you). Maybe Lord Elrond himself will be sitting in the corner with his children or his lady wife, listening to Lindir play. Perhaps Finrod Felagund will walk by singing of Valinor long ago (white shores and silver towers), or Echtelion might be playing his flute in the courtyard by the fountains. You might even catch old Bilbo, sleeping in a corner, or Rumil arguing quietly with Pengolodh at his desk. From the window which looks onto the garden, when the moon is full, the song of Tinfang Gelion still rises. But tonight, ah tonight, a voice is singing, low and sad like the waves on the shore. By the window that looks to the ocean, the last son of Feanor sits.

So enter, friend, and be welcome to the Hall of Fire. If it's story or song you are seeking, you've come to the right place.