The Mighty

 

 

‘…and thereafter he wandered ever upon the shores, singing in pain and regret beside the waves.  For Maglor was mighty among the singers of old, named only after Daeron of Doriath; but he came never back among the people of the Elves’

The Silmarillion, JRR Tolkien

 

Chapter One:  A Memory

 

He had lived these many years along the shores of the continent now called Europe, seeing empires rise and fall, and watching as new ones took their place.  He had seen endless wars and invasions, both by Men against Men, and even Men against his people, the Elves, before all had left for the Undying Lands.  He was the last; that he knew.  It had been two ages since he had encountered any Quendi, and those had been leaving as well. Wearying of mortal lands, they forsook them, and only he held their memory.  He knew that he could not go back; his doom was to wander and fade.  For so he had been; he no longer had the power and glory of old that had once been a trait of the Noldor, not least the sons of Feanor.  It had come swiftly, as a result of his deeds and his short possession of a Silmaril.  It had burned him then, as it still did.  The scars were etched into his hands, as was the blinding brightness in his mind.  And so, the holy jewel, held by one who had, by regaining it, committed much evil, had hastened his fading.

 

Now, Maglor, son of Feanor, the greatest of the Noldor, was no stronger or more powerful than a child of Men.  He had wished for death, many times, and had even sought it.  Fighting in the wars of Men, from the invasion of the Romans in Gaul to the Napoleanic Wars, and finally to the Great War, he had helped his adopted children in their struggles, all the time hoping he would be killed among them.  But it had not been so, and he had long known that even if he died, he would neither escape the circles of the world nor the doom that awaited him in Mandos.  And so he lived: now isolating himself from the world, now coming to the aid of Men.  This time, he was among them again, fighting against a horror he had known only twice before; most recently, during the Great War, and in an age beyond memory, at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

 

*****

 

Anne had been writing quietly in her room all day, ignoring her parent’s whispered argument in the next room and her sister’s constant pleas to talk.  It had been almost two years since they had gone into hiding, and Margot was bored.  Anne couldn’t blame her: having to be quiet all the time; constantly learning about things that didn’t interest her in the least, much to father’s contention; seeing the same people day in and day out; and playing the few games they had a thousand times over had taken its toll on all of them.  Anne was reflecting on this as well as many other things. 

A memory had startled her the night before, and she was recording the many thoughts that flowed from it into her diary.  She paused in her writing to ponder what had surprised her about that particular memory.  It seemed ordinary enough, one of her walks to school before the war began.  Encountering the neighbors along the way, all going about their daily business, she had started crossing one of the bridges above the canals of Amsterdam, when she had noticed one man in particular.  She could see him now in her mind’s eye: tall and handsome, with long black hair.  He was dressed in the fashion of the day, which was unremarkable in itself, but it was his face that had drawn her attention, for he seemed otherworldly, although she could not explain how.  He was gazing over the bridge at the canal with immeasurable sadness; Anne had seen it in his eyes.  She remembered wondering about those eyes, for in that brief moment, she realized he was older than he looked, and the wisdom and sadness etched into his soul was reflected though his eyes.  It was that idea that was bothering her the most now, for she couldn’t remember much more, only being a small child at the time.  How old had he been?  What had happened to make him so sad?

 

Anne thought about this for a while, then, as she could remember nothing more, nor draw any conclusions from it, sighed and turned back to her diary.  She hadn’t recorded this memory, and was strangely compelled not to until she had thought about it more.  Slightly unsettled by this, Anne quickly finished the entry with a brief account of all that had been happening in the Annexe for the last two days, put the book away, and went to look for Margot.