They said I loved my
eldest too much, that my love was folly favouring him unfairly. Only I knew I had loved him not enough, lost
in my pain I had been a poor father to my motherless child. Care he had, indulgence for his wishes, but
ever marred with grief.
My younger children grew
tall with loving parents and a joyous home.
It was my younger sons who had my fuller, better love, and so it was
Fëanor who had forever my indulgence, for nothing could atone for the love I had
not given when it was most needed.
I failed my father. I failed to return his love by opening my
heart to his children. Failed to care for his happiness, look beyond my own wounds.
I failed my wife, when I
would not heed her, would not put her needs beside mine, would
not believe in her wisdom.
I failed my father’s
people, never my people, when I did not care for them. I only demanded.
I failed my sons. I put my pride first, my anger first, my
vengeance first. I made them my instruments,
not my blood.
All failures are one. I failed in love.
I know we are lost, for
this time I cannot hold them. The Oath
rages. I have no hope with which to hold
my brothers. If we do this all elven
hands will be opposed forever, all hope of new allegiance gone. The Darkness will claim us. But they know
only the Oath will never sleep with the stolen stone in Doriath.
I cannot hold them. I can keep my own hands clean, but I will
not. Because I cannot save them, can
only join their damnation, I will not stand apart. They are my brothers and I love them.
Maglor
You are requited, brother,
and I am punished, for failing you before.
Before Doriath, when I did not join you in opposing
the assault, but held my silence. I know well why you would not leave
us, and for that reason I cannot leave you now.
Submission might buy me
but a short peace, yet I long for even that.
I do not wish to leave my sons.
If I chose to go to Eonwë, you would not prevent me. But I cannot leave you to do what you intend
alone. For you are my brother,
and I love you.
The folk
of the halls of flowering stone to ride at our call (to ride against Angband).
The alliance with the Hidden Kingdom to add to our
strength (our strength against Angband).
And the style and the
crown of a king, and the wide lands to replace the lands lost (and the warriors
that died defending the land at my call).
And who to make a better king, indeed?
And the honour of our
House that was lost, and the hope of a dead Father’s
vengeance, and the Oath at last fulfilled.
But I did not want my
cousin dead.
He loved me best, but he
loved in me the echo of himself, the mirror of his face, the legacy of his
gifts, the skill in hand and in study of tongues. He loved me best, and I would do anything to
keep that so, but at the end he loved his Jewels and his vengeance even more.
My son has my face, my
skill, my love of craft, but not my nature.
And because I love him I am glad.
I will not bind him to our Doom.
Because I am not my father I will let him go.
Plain for one of our folk,
ungracious in manners, unremarkable, unskilled: I loved not those like
myself. I did not love the Naugrim, ugly
and unmannerly, harsh in their bartering, without loyalty I thought: they
proved me wrong. I did not love the
Aftercomers, drab creatures without brilliance, without strength or virtue
either, so I thought: they proved me wrong.
I thought to learn, to
have learned, when the new folk came. Unlovely, but hardy.
In friendship with the Naugrim, fleeing westward, like the folk of
Haleth. I welcomed them. Rough-hewn but honest folk, I thought.
They proved me wrong.
For the fierce rock crags
and the trees that grew before the sun.
For the warm grass, and the flowers that live until night. For the running of the deer
and the delving of the badger, the curve of the swallow, the song of the bee
and the grey of the wolf. For
setting sun and rising moon, and rain in the wind. For the running rivers and the deep mist and
the dry, bare uplands.
For the wild, fair, free
lands that are worth the loss of the West.
For these (not for the Jewels), to march on Angband.
Amras
For the dullness of the
stars, the fear of the dark and the pain of the light. For the stench in the
night, and the silence of the songs.
For the curses of the beasts, the poison of the waters and the silence
of the trees.
For Orc-work we cannot halt,
as much as for the Doom we cannot flee. For the madness that follows and the death that we see. For the curse that we brought,
and the love we found for all we have doomed.
For an
ending, for good or ill (for ill), to march on Sirion.
Celebrimbor
There are some still who
murmur as I blaze the Star of Fëanor upon Eregion. There are some who wonder,
knowing I disowned my father and he me.
I know the dark deeds of
my line as well as any. Because, and not in spite of that, I use their
sign. For what use is it, to hate my own
blood? In Aman the name will ever be a
curse, but here in marred Middle-earth I can redeem our name with my
skill. Here the great works of my hands will
make the Star a thing again admired, and loved.
I did not resent his
greatness, nor did I want his place.
I wanted he would love me,
as a brother should. He was the glorious
prince, the bright flame of the Noldor.
How could I not admire, not wish to follow, not long for his acceptance
if he would not give his love?
But he wished I did not
live.
Wounded I gave back
wounds, anger I repaid with anger, pride with pride. Yet still I was eager to forgive. I wanted to
be free to love him, as a brother should.
He hated me the more for
it.
The plans are yours,
cousin, the work of alliance, yet I know we are right to risk so much. You mean to win, and will fight as long as
you have strength, yet I could sway you to a longer war, in hope to strike and
strike again. By nature you are no
gambler, yet caution has served us ill for long enough.
So let us pour all into
hope of utter victory. Let us make one
stand now, and never need do so again.
If we lose, all will be
lost. But we will win, cousin. We will win.
I thought to keep my
people from the war would keep them safe.
I thought to keep my sister safe.
She died before my eyes. I
mourned her.
I thought to keep my
people safe. I would not aid my kin when
Morgoth assailed them. My cousins
died. My father, when he could no longer
bear the losses, died. His ruined body
was laid at my feet. I mourned him.
When my brother asked for
aid I gave it. My brother died. My people died. I mourned them. I gave no more aid.
Now there is no-one to aid
us.
They said the choice of
the Eldar is never wrong.
Is this then the Curse?
He said his love would
never put bond or restraint upon me.
Is he beneath the Curse as
well?
I said my heart would not
change.
I did not think to curse
myself for fickleness.
My son says if we reach
Gondolin, he will never wish to leave.
He says if his father loved, he would let us go. He says if my brother loves me, he will
receive us well.
For once I find I
pray. Let my son be free of the Curse!
Idril
I know your mind,
love. I know you do not wish me to see
you fail and fall, into the doom that seems crueller than death. I know what you propose, my love, to sail
alone and leave me free to take another if I choose.
But I will not have it so,
my love. I will not abide here,
solitary, grieving for home and you. I
am not Lúthien, and cannot give up my own nature. But I will cleave to you, Tuor. And perhaps we may find the isles of legend,
where those who set foot sleep forever.
Did she need to shun me?
I did not hope for
marriage. I knew their laws. (Fine laws: that Turgon made and unmade at
his will! But I knew also I was not
their king and he would not break his laws for me.)
I could have been content
with her kindness. But she had to shun
me.
Did she think I took my
father’s doom, my mother’s murder, lightly?
She knew nothing of my nightmares.
How should she, when she was so eager to know nothing of me.
None of that excuses. The failure in the end was mine.
Eärendil
None can know, who knows only the field and the wood, only the house
and the tame inland water. They cannot
know the cold of salt-air, the sharpness of the sea-wind, the harshness of the
wave. The fearful
frailness of the warped wood, the power of the road of gulls and whales.
They do not know the call
of the Sea, of the wave-play, the wind-laughter, the sun upon the endless
waters. They do not know the life found
in storm and calm, in struggle, venture and boundless horizon.
They do not know why I
must return to the Sea.
I miss you, my brother,
but it is not my nature to look back.
There is so much to be done now: a folk to make one, a land to make
ours, to plan, to build, to grow, to look forward.
Too much for even my
mortal life, but I would not have it other, would not see the work finished,
would not wish for a time when there is no more to do. I am mortal at heart and not for biding in
Arda.
It will be for you to see
the future of Númenor. I can but hope.
Do not believe I do not
weep, Elendil. Do not believe that I,
who chose the Eldar kindred, do not understand your grief.
I loved my brother. Loved him with a bond more than that of
twins, the bond of the displaced, whose world was never certain, whose
conflicts no others shared. I loved my
brother, although neither of us could choose otherwise, and I miss him still.
And I grieve for his
fallen children, for Númenor the lost.
Grieve for his children’s children as though they were my own. Even in their fall, I loved them. I still do.
The love of city and
people came to me late. My love was for
those nearest in kin. I needed and asked
for, no more.
With so much lost I wanted
only to grieve; yet the Valar made me a king. Slowly I learned, with
reluctance, for even in Aman love had bred chiefly pain. (And did again when I
must lead my people out to war and see them die. Then I first knew the strength
of the love I had learned.)
Now as I look on land and
folk I know I am at last my father’s son.
A mortal has come who
would dare all for love. Their lives are
so short, yet they dare more than we.
My brother did not
dare. In honesty? I advised him not to dare. He knew so much less of mortals than I. Such unions should not be, said I, save for
some high purpose. Yet how could I know
there was no high purpose? I wished to
spare him the pain I foresaw.
Now he is dead, and I fear
I was wrong. He was not spared.
So I will help the mortal.
For my oath? For my brother.
Our line
are not lucky in love.
So many
have lost: to death, to separation on the hither shore, to a love not returned
or turned to hate. So many have lived on
alone: I wonder at my good fortune, each time I take my wife in my arms.
What fate lies on our
line, the true Doom of Finwë to lose where we love? Only my father and I have not lost (if in
truth he has not, I can never know)
Now as I take her in my
arms I fear.
My line
are not lucky in love.
I should have told her the
truth.
She deserved that much of
me. I told myself better not, that if
she did not know she would take another and bear children. I did not tell her I loved her. I left, and she dwells alone.
I was a coward. It was my heart I wished to spare, both in my
leaving and my silence. I could not
think why a love so doomed should be. (But why not? What
should I, or we, expect in Arda Marred?)
I could still go back and
tell her.
I am still a coward.
They think I stooped. Proud Lady of the Noldor,
taking the hand of the Grey Elf of Doriath to bind myself in marriage. For all you are of Thingol’s kin, and my kin too, they think I stooped.
You do not think it
so. In your eyes it is your pride that
bent, it is you that stooped: to wed with an Exile, to love one who followed
Fëanor the Kinslayer. You forget the
ties of kindred out of love.
And because I love you, I
accept it. I wed the one Elf who
believes he stoops to love me.
I never asked for
kingship.
I was made for king’s
service, for loyalty, valour and commands obeyed. I was proud in all things to do my king’s
biding, but I did not wish him bid me take his crown. I was not made for these choices; I do not
trust my own wisdom, the king who knew me so well, could he not see this?
Did he not love his
people, that he betray them to my care? Was the mortal’s quest worth all the lives of
Nargothrond? Tell me, beloved liege
Finrod, which of us made the worse king?
Finduilas
Ride now to war with my
love, almost I would I had the skill to ride with you. Ride now, and bear with you our pride and our
courage. Ride, and though I fear for
you, I would not have you stay, for it is you who carry the standards of
Nargothrond, that without you would not be borne this day in the teeth of
Morgoth’s host.
Ride now to the gathering
my father still refuses, and though I will not speak against him, know my mind
rides with yours in this. Ride Gwindor,
and know I await your return.
Gil-galad
King of the Noldor: fine
name but ill omen. Our poets tell over
the fates of our kings! Their crowns lie
lost or looted, our scholars argue their errors, and still, sometimes, when
poets sing our people weep.
A small
people enough now, what need of a king? Yet a king they
will have, and a king I am named. So for
this I was spared, and for them I will serve and find joy in the serving. Do not think it an ill thing, to love a whole
folk.
Yet still I do recall: our
kings are not well-fated.
My daughter’s eyes hold
betrayal. She is sheltered still.
My sons’ eyes hold
bitterness, but not for me. Torture
destroys: that is its purpose. Food has
no savour; the air has no sweetness; rest is not, not for me, not here.
My husband instructs me to
go, for this is beyond his healing.
Better to leave now than to corrode, become a shrieking hag without
love, without compassion. Better to go
than be devoured alive by Morgul poison. Elrond knows
there are things worse than dying.
Arwen alone sees weakness. She will not forgive. I am glad.
She is sheltered.
They think we ride out for
vengeance.
They are right only in
part. Glorfindel looks disapproving:
vengeance, he says, devours the avenger.
Our father says nothing.
We desire to avenge: but
we ride out for other causes. Here is
life, in the speed of the horse, the strength of the sword, the sing of the
bowstring and the tracks of the prey.
True life is on the edge
of dying. Elven, we can find it only
here. Yet to die, now, elven, would be
to remain bound.
The hobbit rambles of
Escape from Deathlessness. I feel our
father watching us.
The elves think us
strange.
‘Elves’ I say as though we
were not of them. But we are not. We love change too well, find all grows stale
and sated too quickly, hanker after we know not what.
It is the mortals who seem
like kin, the men of the west we fight with, not the elves who dwell in the
hidden valley.
I try, haltingly, to put
this into words. My sister’s eyes are
uncomprehending. My brother does not
need words. My father shakes his head.
“You are like Elros,” he
says. Then, “At least you are as one.”
Cold is the ground in Lorien the faded. Cold like my courage, to face the Doom of Men. Now I understand the harness: the dread there
is no life beyond the Circles of the World or but a life to be feared and fled
from.
I can give back the Gift,
as he did, at any time of my choosing. I
am too afraid. Though I long to see him
again, I am afraid.
He had such trust at the
end, how can I fail him now? I must
follow where he led. Ah, Estel, give me
hope once more!