Voice, Open

[bythewaves]

[ Grief, as deep as the sea, as endless as the sky. Pain, like sheeting ice, in the voice that speaks... and for those with ears to hear, a tiny, quiet envy and relief. ]

For those who knew them, the list of those freed from this world now includes the Lady Galadriel and her husband, the Lord Celeborn, their daughter, the Lady Celebrian, the Lady Idril, and Maedhros my brother. Also, the Lady Sif, who counted us as family in lieu of those left in her own world.

Their things are with me, but they left no letters behind.

Comments

[bythewaves]

[ A snarl, anger from the depths of his despair ]

Damn them all! They twist us, bind us! You should break the statue, amil. You should leave them.

[sculptor_of_aman]

[She remains as calm as ever.]

No. I will not break it. Come. Let me show you my progress so far, if you're willing to look upon it.

[bythewaves]

[ His fingers have a slightly translucent quality to them again, the progress gained with Maedhros here lost, but they grip tight as he shakes his head, burying his head in her lap ]

I don't want to see it. I hate it. I hate them.

[sculptor_of_aman]

[She lightly runs fingers through his hair, much as she did when he was a child.]

And that, Makalaurë, is why I will not let them forget.

[bythewaves]

[ A dry sob and he clings, as if he were that child again ]

Why! Am I so terrible a brother that he must always leave me behind?

[sculptor_of_aman]

[She speaks very softly.]

Am I so terrible a wife, a mother, that I should never again see my loved ones, save in carvings?

[bythewaves]

No! We should never have left, never, but we, I, we, we could not let atto go alone. Amil I want to go home!

[sculptor_of_aman]

We cannot, yonya. And for one if us to try would mean we would not see each other again. We must do what we can with this place, cruel as the strokes have been dealt. But, so long as we hold our memories, our loved ones are never entirely gone. I preserve them in art, but the true love is in the hearts that hold them.

[bythewaves]

[ Maglor sobs, curling into her arms ]

Why! You don't deserve this why must they torment you also? I hate it here so much.

[sculptor_of_aman]

We are here because Morla believes she has a use for us. Or, possibly, that she does not want Solais to be able to claim our talents for her own purposes. I would not put such selfishness above her.

...or, perhaps, in some way, it is my own fault. I know what I was told by my father, by the Valar. I heard the words of your oath and your Doom. Logically, I knew... I knew you could never come back to me. But you were all so brilliant, surpassing even your instructors, even more so as a family, I thought... I hoped... perhaps you would invent some way to overcome it and come home, but...

[She shakes her head.]

I knew. I knew more than I told anyone. At home, there is a statue of your brother. Everyone believes it is unfinished or broken. I have not the heart to explain it to them. And... one of you. The harp at your feet because your hands can no longer play it as they once did. That's where I kept your last gift to me. On that statue. Mandos... he never had to tell me. I knew. Except for one. For you. My last hope. I hoped so hard and so long and so dearly... You, the one most like me, that perhaps something would prevail in you... The last song... It wasn't enough to read it. I wanted to hear it from you. Just once. And in the midst of those silent wishes, I was brought here.

[bythewaves]

My fault then. I am sorry! I did not... want to hurt you again... but I cannot cross the sea. But... my song reached you?

[sculptor_of_aman]

The last one that you left for me before the March.

Was there another?

[bythewaves]

There is now. [ He leans on her, the worst of the storm past, for now ] I finished it on Samhain, with the Sea calling. I do not know if it is the one that they say is heard on the river and the wind into the Second and Third age, but the Noldolante is finished, now.

[sculptor_of_aman]

...I would hear it, when you wish to play it.

[bythewaves]

[ He opens his mouth and then hesitates and shakes his head ]

Sorry. Not. Not yet. I cannot... it hurts too much right now.

[sculptor_of_aman]

Another time, then.

...do you remember the last song for your grandfather? Perhaps that one is more fitting for the occasion.

[bythewaves]

[ He nods and leans against her. He does not have his harp, but he does not need it. Soft and sad he sings the dirge that lamented the passing of Light and the death of the King, the death of his grandfather. ]

Ochone, ochone, the King is dead
The Light is passed into Shadow
Where now is the Morning?
Ochone, ochone, my grandfather is dead
The joy is gone from my heart
And only tears remain