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silwritersguild2006-05-02 12:21 pm
digdigil.livejournal.com) wrote in silwritersguild2006-05-02 12:21 pm
CHALLENGE ENTRY FOR MAY
Here is the first chapter of a story for the May challenge on the 'twist' theme. My premise is "what if Fëanor had been resurrected at the same time as Glorfindel (I am assuming that to be Year 1200 of the Second Age) and was sent on a specific mission to help the Elves deal with the growing strength of Sauron?" I don't want to give away too much now because this is destined to be a long story and in the first chapter we see two Elves trying to deal with the situation that has just occurred for them and it will take them (and us) a while to come to terms with it. Poor Maglor knows nothing yet and I don't want to give away too much, too soon.
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
digdigil
STORY TITLE: I COULD NEVER SEE TOMORROW
CHAPTER TITLE: RESURRECTION
RATING: NC-17 for whole story eventually, PG-13 for now.
WARNINGS: Will be slash, although not yet.
CHARACTERS: (This chapter) Maglor and "Feanor
SUMMARY: In his wanderings Maglor meets someone he does not expect.
This is unbeta'd.
For more than an Age Maglor walked the cliff-tops of Balar after Maedhros threw himself into the fiery chasm. The thin, dark minstrel had finally rid himself of one of the things that had helped bring madness and death to them all. The manifestation of evil pride that had cursed his parents, his brothers and his uncle and cousins—all but his mother gone—all long dead, the Silmarils were finally out of their lives.
He felt free, but he felt no happiness. How could he? He thought about his family—but mostly he remembered his father. ‘Atar,’ he thought, and then, more longingly, ‘Oh—Ada—how I miss you.’
He remembered once, when he was just an adolescent, he had thought his father was disappointed in him for pursuing music, when Fëanor would have preferred him to learn the skills associated with the forge. On one occasion, his father had discovered Maglor working late at night in the music room on a sonata he was writing, and had become angry, accusing his son of shirking his other responsibilities in order to waste time on ‘frivolity’. He had said, “Macalaurë, staying up all night will cause you to sleep all day, and then what good will you be to me?”
“What good will you be to me?” Those words echoed in Maglor’s ears as if he had just heard them.
But then Fëanor had forced him to learn sword-fighting. Fëanor himself had taught his sons how to fight. It was considered quite new and somewhat daring for Elves to learn how to use weaponry. It was not at all approved of by the Valar, but Fëanor instructed his sons nevertheless. Although Fëanor was, himself, not a very proficient swordsman, he determined that all seven of his sons were to learn this new skill. Macalaurë was not expected to excel at it either, but he proved all of his detractors wrong, and in the end, he and his older brother, his beloved Maedhros, had become two of the best swordsmen among the Noldorin warriors of later years.
Maglor reminisced about his early sword-practices with Fëanor. ‘The first time our blades touched—there was resistance to each other—at first—but the steel slid together again and again, shining brightly as one instrument when we thrust at each other hard, our sweat dripping down our backs, our long and unbound hair falling in our eyes. We were like savages—two wild, beautiful creatures that everyone came to watch, their prurient interest peaked by our practiced savagery. We must have been stunning in our pas-de-deux, our ritualistic dance, our symmetry a thing of wonder. Both of us used our individual special skills to try to best the other. Mine was the art of anticipation and Atar’s was his deftness of hand. But we were too equal and our play-skirmishes always ended in a draw.’ He smiled at the recollection.
On this particular night that Maglor wandered, it was cold. So cold that each breath took on the appearance of a white specter as it flowed upward and outward from his open mouth. He tried to sing and play but his sensitive fingers almost froze upon the harp-strings and he had to tuck his instrument away under his cloak.
The moon was only a waning gibbous, but the sky looked dark blue streaked with grey—clouds—he thought. That could mean a cold, rainy day tomorrow too. He wrapped his cloak tighter about his lean form, holding first one hand under his opposite armpit and then the other, in an attempt to warm them.
Maglor smiled when he remembered his father, despite his gloom and misery. Striding along the cold, rocky coast, he stopped when he came to a large flat rock and sat upon it. After searching in his pockets for a flint and finding one, he attempted to start a fire before the rains came. He went about gathering twigs and branches for his fire, and found several large ones thick with leaves, to use as a shield for the fire against the impending rain. Soon he had quite a nice flame started and it was not long before the bonfire grew and he was warm.
Maglor continued to ponder upon his lost loved ones before sinking into a welcoming, refreshing sleep inside a lean-to shelter that he built. He was awakened by the dawn’s light beginning to rise, orange streaks across a now purple sky. Drops of the awaited rain were falling upon his head, and he pulled his hood up and snuggled inside his makeshift shelter, intending to try for the bliss of unconscious sleep again, but he saw a dark figure approaching from afar, silhouetted against the dawning brightness in the sky.
‘Amaurea’ we used to call the dawn in the old language,’ he mused, half asleep, peering at the figure with curiosity. ‘How it used to be a welcome thing, a beauty to embrace that began each new day, but now I dread it for it brings with it another day of cheerless hopelessness.’
He continued to peer at the figure, expecting it to disappear, turn away, or take another route on another path to a different place, and not come to him, destroying his loneliness. But it did come to him.
He sat up straighter, keen eyes fixed upon the approaching silhouette. ‘Who is this interloper?’ he thought in irritation. ‘Who comes to disturb my thoughts? No one has been this way in countless years. They have all moved away long ago.’ Still the figure approached.
As it came very close to him, Maglor’s interest and curiosity grew. It was a male Elf by its size and shape: taller than a human, and of perfect form, Maglor could tell, even before he could distinguish its features. This strange Elf was dressed in a filmy robe, transparent in the falling rain, and his hair, black as night, billowed about his upper body in an unbound mass of shimmering silk, as if this unnatural hair was not wet with rain.
When the Elf came very near, Maglor could see that the strange being was in possession of nothing. He carried no weapon, no satchel, no belongings of any kind. And there was something disturbingly familiar about him, yet he was completely different from any being Maglor had ever seen.
The Elf held out his hands to Maglor in a gesture of supplication. His thin robe was sheer as glass. Maglor could see every line, every detail of his body. His mouth gaped open. This Elf was flawless. And yet he looked like—no, it couldn’t be! It wasn’t possible!
Maglor almost could not look at the strange being’s face. But the Elf came close, took Maglor’s chin wordlessly in his hand and gazed directly into his eyes. The minstrel raised his dark orbs and gathering his courage, looked this strange being full in the face. And he gasped from the shock of sudden recognition.
“Atar!” he cried. Then, “Ada,” he whispered.
This Elf was so unlike his Atar of old that he was confused and fearful, and did not know what to think. “Is it really you?” he asked, his voice trembling, staring into the eyes that no longer burned with the spirit of fire, but were aglow with a blue-grey luminescence showing an expression of love and peace.
The ethereal being that did not seem real but like a living, breathing piece of flawless statuary, leaned forward and gathered Maglor into his arms. His body was warm, inviting, his breath invigorating upon his son’s hair. “Macalaurë,” said Fëanor, his arms enveloping Maglor like a warm shelter from the rain. “Melda yondo.” (Beloved son.)
“Atar, how can this be?” asked Maglor, disbelieving his eyes. He took a step back to look at this specter of his father. “Ná sina ólor?” (Is this a dream?)
Maglor’s hand reached out involuntarily to stroke the vision’s hair, still raven-black but fuller, silkier, more radiant. His eyes shone with a loving innocence. His form beneath the transparent, filmy robe was of perfect sensual beauty..
“But from where did you come?” asked Maglor.
“I have been resurrected. I have newly escaped from the Halls.”
“Escaped? An mana?” (Why?) asked Maglor. “I do not understand, yet I am grateful.”
“Let us sit,” said Fëanor, “and I shall tell you about it.”
Maglor ushered him into his shelter, a small lean-to resting against the massive trunk of an old oak tree. There they sat, Maglor’s head resting upon his reborn Atar’s shoulder, while Fëanor told his story as the rain fell softly about them.
“Manwë reconstructed me,” Fëanor explained, “more or less as I was, though my body of old had been wholly destroyed. It has not been remade, but from a tiny bit that was left of my spirit, a new body was formed.”
“You do not resemble yourself, except as a likeness of sorts. But you are young—younger than me, by appearances,” said Maglor. His hand inadvertently reached out to touch Fëanor’s skin through the filmy robe. “Oh, I am sorry. Forgive my impudence,” said Maglor, withdrawing it as soon as his fingertips touched the fair skin.
“No,” said Fëanor. “You may touch me.” He stood and removed his thin scrap of fabric until he stood fully nude in front of Maglor.
Maglor took the robe and hung it carefully from a branch so that it could dry. He turned to look at Fëanor. His skin was smooth, unscarred. He reached out again in wonder and touched it, his fingers trailing over the unmarked flesh and flawless contours of his ribs and stomach. “Your wound—your dreadful final wound—the one that ended your life—is gone—there is no trace of it,” he whispered.
Fëanor laughed, a quiet sound, barely heard amid the falling rain. “This is not the same old body. This one has not received any wounds as yet.”
Maglor regarded him curiously. “You are my father, yet at the same time you are not.”
“Exactly,” said Fëanor. “In some part of my mind I am still your father. But in most of it, and in my physical form, I am not him.”
“Why did this happen, Atar?” asked Maglor. He blushed. “Or should I call you something different?”
“Why do you not just call me ‘Fëanor’,” said Fëanor. “Our lives are different now. In a sense we are no longer father and son. And for why this happened, let me say in a few words that there is a reason for me to be here. There is a mission on which I was to be sent to attempt to fulfill.”
“What mission?” asked Maglor, intrigued.
“I cannot do what I was asked, yet I wanted to be resurrected to walk the lands I never saw. So I escaped wearing only this flimsy garment and came to you. You were meant to be involved. They told me where I could find you,” said Fëanor. “You must help me.”
Maglor was overwhelmed. He could only wipe his brow with a trembling hand and ask,” In what way? Where are we going? What were you to do?”
Fëanor took a step to the entrance of the lean-to and looked outside. “The rain has stopped,” he mused. “And there are two people in the distance. They will be here soon.”
Maglor stared at him in horror. “Who are they?” he asked.
Fëanor turned to Maglor. He was calm but looked poised to run. One hand was pressed against the edge of the timber at the lean-to’s entrance. “They are likely to be one of the Maiar and another Elf who was resurrected also and who was to help me on the mission,” said Fëanor. “Come. Let us leave quickly, before they find us.”
“But your clothes—“, cried Maglor, as Fëanor left the shelter naked.
“It has stopped raining”, said Fëanor. “I shall not need clothing for now. Hurry.” He began walking east, toward the Mouths of the Sirion which lay in a deep valley. “We must fly,” he said, and began to run, keeping under cover of the trees, which grew thick in Arvernien.
AUTHOR:
digdigilSTORY TITLE: I COULD NEVER SEE TOMORROW
CHAPTER TITLE: RESURRECTION
RATING: NC-17 for whole story eventually, PG-13 for now.
WARNINGS: Will be slash, although not yet.
CHARACTERS: (This chapter) Maglor and "Feanor
SUMMARY: In his wanderings Maglor meets someone he does not expect.
This is unbeta'd.
For more than an Age Maglor walked the cliff-tops of Balar after Maedhros threw himself into the fiery chasm. The thin, dark minstrel had finally rid himself of one of the things that had helped bring madness and death to them all. The manifestation of evil pride that had cursed his parents, his brothers and his uncle and cousins—all but his mother gone—all long dead, the Silmarils were finally out of their lives.
He felt free, but he felt no happiness. How could he? He thought about his family—but mostly he remembered his father. ‘Atar,’ he thought, and then, more longingly, ‘Oh—Ada—how I miss you.’
He remembered once, when he was just an adolescent, he had thought his father was disappointed in him for pursuing music, when Fëanor would have preferred him to learn the skills associated with the forge. On one occasion, his father had discovered Maglor working late at night in the music room on a sonata he was writing, and had become angry, accusing his son of shirking his other responsibilities in order to waste time on ‘frivolity’. He had said, “Macalaurë, staying up all night will cause you to sleep all day, and then what good will you be to me?”
“What good will you be to me?” Those words echoed in Maglor’s ears as if he had just heard them.
But then Fëanor had forced him to learn sword-fighting. Fëanor himself had taught his sons how to fight. It was considered quite new and somewhat daring for Elves to learn how to use weaponry. It was not at all approved of by the Valar, but Fëanor instructed his sons nevertheless. Although Fëanor was, himself, not a very proficient swordsman, he determined that all seven of his sons were to learn this new skill. Macalaurë was not expected to excel at it either, but he proved all of his detractors wrong, and in the end, he and his older brother, his beloved Maedhros, had become two of the best swordsmen among the Noldorin warriors of later years.
Maglor reminisced about his early sword-practices with Fëanor. ‘The first time our blades touched—there was resistance to each other—at first—but the steel slid together again and again, shining brightly as one instrument when we thrust at each other hard, our sweat dripping down our backs, our long and unbound hair falling in our eyes. We were like savages—two wild, beautiful creatures that everyone came to watch, their prurient interest peaked by our practiced savagery. We must have been stunning in our pas-de-deux, our ritualistic dance, our symmetry a thing of wonder. Both of us used our individual special skills to try to best the other. Mine was the art of anticipation and Atar’s was his deftness of hand. But we were too equal and our play-skirmishes always ended in a draw.’ He smiled at the recollection.
On this particular night that Maglor wandered, it was cold. So cold that each breath took on the appearance of a white specter as it flowed upward and outward from his open mouth. He tried to sing and play but his sensitive fingers almost froze upon the harp-strings and he had to tuck his instrument away under his cloak.
The moon was only a waning gibbous, but the sky looked dark blue streaked with grey—clouds—he thought. That could mean a cold, rainy day tomorrow too. He wrapped his cloak tighter about his lean form, holding first one hand under his opposite armpit and then the other, in an attempt to warm them.
Maglor smiled when he remembered his father, despite his gloom and misery. Striding along the cold, rocky coast, he stopped when he came to a large flat rock and sat upon it. After searching in his pockets for a flint and finding one, he attempted to start a fire before the rains came. He went about gathering twigs and branches for his fire, and found several large ones thick with leaves, to use as a shield for the fire against the impending rain. Soon he had quite a nice flame started and it was not long before the bonfire grew and he was warm.
Maglor continued to ponder upon his lost loved ones before sinking into a welcoming, refreshing sleep inside a lean-to shelter that he built. He was awakened by the dawn’s light beginning to rise, orange streaks across a now purple sky. Drops of the awaited rain were falling upon his head, and he pulled his hood up and snuggled inside his makeshift shelter, intending to try for the bliss of unconscious sleep again, but he saw a dark figure approaching from afar, silhouetted against the dawning brightness in the sky.
‘Amaurea’ we used to call the dawn in the old language,’ he mused, half asleep, peering at the figure with curiosity. ‘How it used to be a welcome thing, a beauty to embrace that began each new day, but now I dread it for it brings with it another day of cheerless hopelessness.’
He continued to peer at the figure, expecting it to disappear, turn away, or take another route on another path to a different place, and not come to him, destroying his loneliness. But it did come to him.
He sat up straighter, keen eyes fixed upon the approaching silhouette. ‘Who is this interloper?’ he thought in irritation. ‘Who comes to disturb my thoughts? No one has been this way in countless years. They have all moved away long ago.’ Still the figure approached.
As it came very close to him, Maglor’s interest and curiosity grew. It was a male Elf by its size and shape: taller than a human, and of perfect form, Maglor could tell, even before he could distinguish its features. This strange Elf was dressed in a filmy robe, transparent in the falling rain, and his hair, black as night, billowed about his upper body in an unbound mass of shimmering silk, as if this unnatural hair was not wet with rain.
When the Elf came very near, Maglor could see that the strange being was in possession of nothing. He carried no weapon, no satchel, no belongings of any kind. And there was something disturbingly familiar about him, yet he was completely different from any being Maglor had ever seen.
The Elf held out his hands to Maglor in a gesture of supplication. His thin robe was sheer as glass. Maglor could see every line, every detail of his body. His mouth gaped open. This Elf was flawless. And yet he looked like—no, it couldn’t be! It wasn’t possible!
Maglor almost could not look at the strange being’s face. But the Elf came close, took Maglor’s chin wordlessly in his hand and gazed directly into his eyes. The minstrel raised his dark orbs and gathering his courage, looked this strange being full in the face. And he gasped from the shock of sudden recognition.
“Atar!” he cried. Then, “Ada,” he whispered.
This Elf was so unlike his Atar of old that he was confused and fearful, and did not know what to think. “Is it really you?” he asked, his voice trembling, staring into the eyes that no longer burned with the spirit of fire, but were aglow with a blue-grey luminescence showing an expression of love and peace.
The ethereal being that did not seem real but like a living, breathing piece of flawless statuary, leaned forward and gathered Maglor into his arms. His body was warm, inviting, his breath invigorating upon his son’s hair. “Macalaurë,” said Fëanor, his arms enveloping Maglor like a warm shelter from the rain. “Melda yondo.” (Beloved son.)
“Atar, how can this be?” asked Maglor, disbelieving his eyes. He took a step back to look at this specter of his father. “Ná sina ólor?” (Is this a dream?)
Maglor’s hand reached out involuntarily to stroke the vision’s hair, still raven-black but fuller, silkier, more radiant. His eyes shone with a loving innocence. His form beneath the transparent, filmy robe was of perfect sensual beauty..
“But from where did you come?” asked Maglor.
“I have been resurrected. I have newly escaped from the Halls.”
“Escaped? An mana?” (Why?) asked Maglor. “I do not understand, yet I am grateful.”
“Let us sit,” said Fëanor, “and I shall tell you about it.”
Maglor ushered him into his shelter, a small lean-to resting against the massive trunk of an old oak tree. There they sat, Maglor’s head resting upon his reborn Atar’s shoulder, while Fëanor told his story as the rain fell softly about them.
“Manwë reconstructed me,” Fëanor explained, “more or less as I was, though my body of old had been wholly destroyed. It has not been remade, but from a tiny bit that was left of my spirit, a new body was formed.”
“You do not resemble yourself, except as a likeness of sorts. But you are young—younger than me, by appearances,” said Maglor. His hand inadvertently reached out to touch Fëanor’s skin through the filmy robe. “Oh, I am sorry. Forgive my impudence,” said Maglor, withdrawing it as soon as his fingertips touched the fair skin.
“No,” said Fëanor. “You may touch me.” He stood and removed his thin scrap of fabric until he stood fully nude in front of Maglor.
Maglor took the robe and hung it carefully from a branch so that it could dry. He turned to look at Fëanor. His skin was smooth, unscarred. He reached out again in wonder and touched it, his fingers trailing over the unmarked flesh and flawless contours of his ribs and stomach. “Your wound—your dreadful final wound—the one that ended your life—is gone—there is no trace of it,” he whispered.
Fëanor laughed, a quiet sound, barely heard amid the falling rain. “This is not the same old body. This one has not received any wounds as yet.”
Maglor regarded him curiously. “You are my father, yet at the same time you are not.”
“Exactly,” said Fëanor. “In some part of my mind I am still your father. But in most of it, and in my physical form, I am not him.”
“Why did this happen, Atar?” asked Maglor. He blushed. “Or should I call you something different?”
“Why do you not just call me ‘Fëanor’,” said Fëanor. “Our lives are different now. In a sense we are no longer father and son. And for why this happened, let me say in a few words that there is a reason for me to be here. There is a mission on which I was to be sent to attempt to fulfill.”
“What mission?” asked Maglor, intrigued.
“I cannot do what I was asked, yet I wanted to be resurrected to walk the lands I never saw. So I escaped wearing only this flimsy garment and came to you. You were meant to be involved. They told me where I could find you,” said Fëanor. “You must help me.”
Maglor was overwhelmed. He could only wipe his brow with a trembling hand and ask,” In what way? Where are we going? What were you to do?”
Fëanor took a step to the entrance of the lean-to and looked outside. “The rain has stopped,” he mused. “And there are two people in the distance. They will be here soon.”
Maglor stared at him in horror. “Who are they?” he asked.
Fëanor turned to Maglor. He was calm but looked poised to run. One hand was pressed against the edge of the timber at the lean-to’s entrance. “They are likely to be one of the Maiar and another Elf who was resurrected also and who was to help me on the mission,” said Fëanor. “Come. Let us leave quickly, before they find us.”
“But your clothes—“, cried Maglor, as Fëanor left the shelter naked.
“It has stopped raining”, said Fëanor. “I shall not need clothing for now. Hurry.” He began walking east, toward the Mouths of the Sirion which lay in a deep valley. “We must fly,” he said, and began to run, keeping under cover of the trees, which grew thick in Arvernien.