8. Glass, Cut: VII
In the realm of eternal sight, there is always song.
Singing by the silver light, singing by the gold,
One soaring note by one, seven notes all told.
One for each son, laughs an irresponsible father,
But they know it is a joke, and grin.
A choir exults unto Ilúvatar (and itself) upon the green mound,
It’s voices fair as other worlds, matching swell
and dip. Tinkling voices, magic voices,
certain, positive, exactly voices.
Fingon listens, and his tears dry.
Which elf would not feel an epiphany
And Fingon is tired. His burden began
as a humming ‘please, Maitimo, please’ that transmuted
into ‘Eru told me’,
‘Eru asked me’.
Gospel sung as blind love.
Perhaps this is your song, Fingon.
Fingon is growing up,too, his valiance coming afore,
Seeking out his missing everywhere that he may go,
which is upto the borders of dusk
though not beyond,
Somehow, he is to be a saviour.
Through the magic drying tears,
there sounds a voice above voices.
A slow soft voice,
an unlikely voice,
a bloodful, smoking,
making blind love into gospel, the voice of,
the voice of
The voice of another saviour
With dark hair and dark eyes
Who sings to save Fingon’s falling world
-- not falling per se, it’s still paradise – but praying a prayer
that will live when all else dies
A prayer for amazing grace
that finds what is lost
and shows what is blind
(Melkor fears that song and voice, although he laughs yet at it, wondering
what little Makalaurë would know of blindness
It’s true; he doesn’t, it’s the herb talking.
But the song will live as long as he, Darkness,
who dimly knows this.)
So sing, Maglor, mighty bard,
of what happened next.
He laughs throatily out of the haze.
he came to me
and I knew what was and what wasn’t.
Bloody difficult to remember clearly, though.
Haven’t I said? Those were heady days,
The Leaflight made you real – warm. Slow.
Maitimo was ill like an echo then,
weak and worried,
and nervy when he wasn’t staring the ceiling into spots.
(Nervy! he snorted, years later. Nervy!
Whoever heard of a stunning bundle of nerves?)
When you first love, you realise, don’t you, every part of your body anew
And it is not your neck or your leg, but simply what the other touched.
It must have seemed like such a curse to him,
like some disease laid spawn in his flesh. Young lust is quite destroying.
The only thing worse must be old lust, though We, of course --
Mother was just tired, Father was wild,
And along comes this child.
Good family, moral background, Vanya Pride, we used to call them
in private political incorrectness,
My cousin Finny – chuckle – knight-errant.
Varda, but he was serious. He never did laugh too much.
I used to think he didn’t get our jokes.
I used to think a lot of things.
I used to be amused at those two,
but it’s really only God who can afford to laugh at things like that.
We’re all Fingon and we’re all Maedhros, in a way.’
Maglor gets ahead of himself
wanders into the nearest cloud,
singing scat, then soaring,
seeming to think everything futile, which it is
But Maglor, Maglor,
perhaps you don’t belong in your brothers’ songs,
because forget your madness and junkenness
and blindness and lost-ness, Maglor
golden minstrel, lasting lament
and eternal aria
crier for the Great Impresario In The Sky --
About what happened:
Fingon walked to Maglor in a daze,
(they were both in a daze)
knowing his mangled purity, and told him simply, ‘I must see Maitimo’.
Maglor of his mother’s spirit, smiled,
Wordless, led him home like a brother,
by the hand, and left him at the door.
Fingon turned the knob,
the smell changed
from vegetable dye and rolled leaf to
sheer, fastidious cleanliness
smelt utter white, too incomplete for joy.
He was sitting on his bed, looking out of the empty window.
He did not raise his brow this time,
he did not say I saw you come, nor
I was waiting for you
Instead again, out of the now-troubled depths, almost in sorrow
asked, ‘Why are you here?’
And Fingon did not run away.
His head did not spin,
his heart did not beat
when with the calm of a messiah he said,
‘To save you.’
On high, Himself squeezed His eyes shut
and made a mental note about the Literal Interpretation Of Prophecy;
but Maedhros believed it,
and fell to doom in his clear grey eyes.
‘God’, Maglor rasps suddenly,
‘has as many ways as He does children.
A Rúmil way, a Fingon way,
a Maglor way,
and the way of Fëanáro. Strangest, yet strongest. He,’
in danger of incoherence, but only just faint,
‘hated Fingon. But he had sharp eyes.
Never said a word.’
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.