| Heartstrings |
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| 10:12pm 25/06/2003 |
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mood:  artistic
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I wonder what my people would think of my....collection. Certainly it might be called grotesque...but I will never see them again, and what little that remains....is precious.
The most precious, of course, are the lyre strings...those, given freely in love by she who bore me, are beyond price. And though the instrument itself has been injured and replaced many a time, the strings remain...her locks woven into love for me. Some few I have had to repair with the fine strands Maedhros gave me for that purpose - but those sing the sweeter.
Ai.
The others are far more....grotesque. The Healers cutting away Father's hair from his matted scalp, trying desperately to heal him when, truly, he continued to live only by his own bloody-mindedness....I remember that, and remember twining a piece again and again in my hands, trying to face the reality of his death, and the grim fact of Maedhros' capture. By right I was King of the Noldor, though even then most would not follow me.
It was a sobering thought.
The years go by faster and faster...my three brethren dead in the cavernous halls...another braid. Out of Amros' long locks...Well. I will not speak of that.
It is only of Amrod that nothing remains for me, except my mother's last gift in the high white tower. Sometimes I wonder if she meant it for me.
I close my eyes, remembering -fire-. My sure fingers thread the small needle with what little of Maedhros' tresses remain - and I attack the hauberk and the gleaming white threads already deftly sewn into place, binding it to the vision of my Art. And I laugh, as I begin to sing - of each of the proud sons of Finwe, and their sons, and the fates of each...a bitter jest, and I pour that too into the Art.
Soon, I am finished, irrevokably invoking my history and rights...but I am not done. I flip the coin in my hand and smile bitterly. Minted in high Hithlum for trade with the Dwarves ere Men ever came over the mountains, it is beyond priceless. But I have many such heirlooms from throughout my travels - and this one will serve a better purpose.
I dip the needle down and pass the eye effortlessly through the gold coin...for I am singing of the Nirnaeth, and the swift fall of all the glory it once knew...and a single captured shimmering strand follows after...for this is a use fitting of its dignity. And I bind this too into my working, as I broider...and as dawn approaches from the east, the winged sun shines as I hold the surcoat to the dim half-light.
Aure enteluva, I say solemnly, in consecration. Perhaps I even believe it, this time.
And when I leave, it is wearing the arms of Finwe King...emblazoned beneath seven stars. |
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| Dooms |
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| 11:48pm 21/06/2003 |
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mood:  cynical
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He is not my brother.
He is a mere Man, grasping frantically at a legacy that is crumbling about him, desperately trying to mold his successors into what he cannot be himself.
And he seeks my aid? Or rather demands it. Hah. I fought his battles long before he was ever born. But...yes, his words do sting.
But one thing is not said...that we shall suffer from cowardice, from cravens or the fear of cravens...
Let it not be said now - I will not be the only proud son of my father to dwindle and fade away - and the younger son...he has Elros' eyes - or Minyatur, as they call him now that he has passed forever.
On the House of Feanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the west unto the uttermost east...
I know they are not my children. But I will never be a parent...and the urge to leave some mark on the world that -will- endure is not solely a trait of Men.
Though surely, they are better at it.
He is not my father.
It would be a fallacy to say that lords of Men are all the same...in all of my travels each seems to be different - and yet after the same mold. And in them I see the madness of my father's eyes.
Cold reflection and hard experience has taught me the Powers enjoy nothing more than poetic justice.
His will find him.
To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well...
...and in this no less, I judge. I suspect Lord Denethor will find my aid a two-edged blade. |
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| Ghosts |
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| 01:14am 18/06/2003 |
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Always, there are the memories. In his eyes I see the elder son, but he reminds me more of the younger, for all his frail years and slight knowledge. I feel his gaze upon me...and my shrouds fail - all the art that I spend to hide -what-I-am- from the eyes of the Wise...
And I am not less than a master in that art...for in song was the world created, and my songs still have power. I feel their eyes upon me, and I evade...whether it be the great Eye in the east, or lesser powers, or my youngest cousin, or foster-son...or foster-son's children, who I feel no less a bond to.
I tried to explain to him - but how can any explanation hold without the Truth that I keep and have kept? Miriel's hands upon her loom do not weave me, nor my lady Mother espy me in her endless vigil at the Master Stone...and to all lesser powers I am less than a ghost. But there are gazes I cannot avoid - the considering eyes of the Holy Pair on high Taniquetil.
Do they grieve for me as for my father?
And last, on his bright ship, the reason why I will not return, even if I could, and cannot return even if I would...for I would cast his ship into Everlasting Darkness if I stepped upon that Furthest shore, and naught would keep Doom at bay...I have Seen it, or dreamed it - I know not which. Am I mad?
Their oath shall drive them and yet betray them and the world with us, I deem.
Sometimes I wonder what inspired my lady mother to gift the Men of high Westernesse with the works of my father's hands - each once held by one of her lost sons, though she keeps my father's for her own. I was there when she gave them, saw her copper head on the last boat...though I made certain that I was not seen in the crowd. I sought the blessings of anonymity - and I have mutilated -that-which-I-am- to avoid her. They still speak to each other, and dimly I hear them in my dreams speaking with my brothers' voices...
Maedhros cast down in fiery ruin and drowned beneath the river's wrath...Caranthir that was born in fire quenched in icy ruin, and Amras with him...Celegorm and Curufin bent to dark purposes and fell ends, murmuring to each other as they ever did, though other minds direct their converse...mine that ever looks sadly back across the sea and last, ill-starred Amrod, who stirs now in the high tower, and ever dreams of consuming flame...these the last echoes of my mother's proud children, who scorned her for anguish and death and despair, before the Sun ever rose over the Guarded Realm.
And yet she still loves me, and ever will, and I know this...and I am broken, for this fell fire still burns in me, and binds me ever more to his will.
Is it a sin, to love one's father more than the gods themselves? More than the world?
Only Russandol and I saw him before some Sight of the One came upon him - for only he could save the Light...was bright enough...for his craft was not only in the body of the work, but also the very fire within, as he poured himself in, as all great artists do...but for elves it is not a figure of speech. And all that was great and glorious, high and valiant, what his mother had died for and his father cherished - all that was poured into the work of his hands, for the Light would suffer no impurity. And what was left was...a husk, consuming itself for the lack of what it had sacrificed for the good of the World, hungering ever for what it had lost - but the light was more glorious for it, for this sacrifice.
Ever after did he seek to bind us to his will, to keep safe what he felt was his - for he could not take back what he had lost. And the sons of Indis, for all their wisdom and glory and kinship to those called noblest of elves did not understand...
But I still loved him, and loved what he had given, that burned in the heart of his jewels - and followed him to my Doom.
For there raped in the dark was my father's pride...and in the all-consuming night, there was fire, and burning, and the smell of blood, swords clashing and arrows singing...
Tears unnumbered shall they shed... |
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