Memorial

Canon-compliant.  Because the Noldolantë was hardly finished on the docks of Alqualondë or the shores of Losgar.  It went on much, much longer.  Quenya names used (Maglor = Makalaurë).  This takes place during the Third Kinslaying at the Havens of Sirion in the Third Age.  Some introspection, but not a lot.  There are italics, though, LOL.  And just in case, Noldolantë = Fall of the Noldor.

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion

Pairings: none

Characters: Maglor, Elrond, Elros, Maedhros (mentions of other elves, mostly dead elves)

Warning: canon-compliant, semi-explicit violence, lots of blood, self-hatred/punishment, thoughts of child-murder, premeditated homicide, mentions of insanity

Song: Diary of Jane

Words: 1,044
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
memorial (noun): serving to preserve remembrance: commemorative
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/memorial

He named it the Fall of the Noldor.

Chronicles of sins, of the murder of innocents and the ravaging of purity and goodness, of curses wrought through oaths and the tragedy of sullied hands, that was what it comprised, all that it encompassed.  None could hear it without weeping, that none could bear the tone of despair and self-loathing without the weight of all their evil deeds crushing down upon them until they sank to the earth on their knees and wept.  This Makalaurë knew.

This he had intended.

As a shrine, a gift and a curse all wrapped in the same divine package, a melody and a harmony woven into perfect dissonance until all the world trembled at its foundations.  None who heard it could ever forget.

And they shouldn't.  How dare they push those memories away?  How dare they look past the evil things that had come of their own two hands?

In a way, it was a punishment.  For himself.  For his people.

Makalaurë never wanted to forget.

But more so, it was a never-ending memorial, built upon blood and screams and unnumbered tears.  No matter how many years passed, the construction never ended, was never finished.  Makalaurë would sing until his voice was raw and hoarse, until his fingers bled upon his lyre, but it was never long enough to recall every pale face frozen in shock and terror, never long enough to recount the wildness of their killers' eyes, the madness of their souls.

Never enough to revisit all the tragedy.

And even as he moved, a new chapter was being written.  Even as his blade swung in an arc of deadly sunlight and cleaved through muscle to bone, it continued on from his lips, new words ringing in his ears, demanding his attention, locking his pitiful reality into his mind, branding it to the backs of his eyelids so not even the darkness they offered would be a safe-haven from sin.

"Makalaurë, the house!" It was his brother's voice.  From the corners of his eyes, he saw the scarlet of a tattered cape mix with the vibrant fire of untamed curls.

His feet carried him, and all before him fell at his hand and the steel of his sword regardless of their innocence, regardless of their age or sex, regardless of whether their faces were contorted in fury and betrayal or in horror and terror at the sight of him.  Crimson soaked into his boots, splattered on his face, stained his clothing, dripped down the silver inscriptions of his sword, turning the words red to reflect the carnage.

Those words--other words--were upon his lips, a melody singing in the core of his being, lamenting bitterly as he gutted another elf, a woman, unarmed, begging and pleading for his mercy.  Her face stared up at him, empty, and he was across the threshold of the house.

When would it end?  When would it end?

The inside was clean and quiet, lifeless.  Elwing had fled, and he was not surprised.  Nevertheless, he stepped farther into the domain, searching for survivors.  If there was one thing he had learned, it was to never give the enemy the chance to live and thrive, to stab you in the back.

It made him sick.

Empty rooms were opened.  They were lived-in, well-worn and loved.  Tapestries, hand-woven, hung upon the walls.  Paintings adorned the hallways, images of the calm open sea and the peaceful sunset.  Portraits of a woman and her husband and her two young children with rosy cheeks and shy smiles.

His eyes settled upon them, the pair of identical young faces, and the melody struck a sharp note, stabbing inwards and leaving him breathless.

When would it be enough?

There were whimpers in the last room, and he knew what was coming though his stomach rolled over with nausea at the knowledge of what would soon take place in this nursery.  Two more faces, eternally youthful and round-cheeked, streaked with tears and filled with fear, would be added to the Fall, to the tragedy, remembered for their sacrifices to lust for revenge and insanity.  But these thoughts did naught to quiet the weeping in his soul as the door creaked open and parted the shadows.

They hid in the closet, curled close together, shivering as the light spilled down on their huddled forms and the hinges squealed in protest of movement.

Tiny, helpless, innocent, sweet, a young melody like the spring and a harmony of the deep earth.  Silenced.  Makalaurë felt his eyes burn as his blade rose, aiming for the back of an exposed neck.  It would be clean.  Almost painless.  Fast.

Would it ever be enough?

But he could not do it.

They were weeping and hiccupping and staring up at his silhouette with terror-stricken countenances.  And he was so tired--so, so tired--of slaying and murdering.  His arm strained from the weight of steel and then fell, the sword slipping from limp fingers and clattering to the floor.  His fist clenched and relaxed.  Freedom from that weight was like freedom from heavy chains, chains of the cursed fate of his people.  He felt his knees crumble with relief beneath him.

"Do not cry," he crooned before he could stop himself. "Do not cry.  I will not harm you.  You are safe.  Safe.  I promise."

He knelt before them--what a sight he must have looked, smeared in the life blood of their kin and other unpleasant, unknown things!--and such relief was in their faces as they embraced him and curled against his shoulders that Makalaurë did not care for the consequences of his actions.  Beneath his breath, he hummed a lullaby of his childhood, a new soft strain to weave into the Fall, a new layer of their never-ending tragedy.

No more blood today.  Not by his hands.  The noldo bowed his head and wept.

Because when would it be enough?  When would enough blood be spilled, enough bones be broken, enough souls be sacrificed to finish the towering memorial, the reminder of their Fall, so that none could ever forget the pain wrought by arrogance and vengeance?

He embraced the children tightly.

Would it never end?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm sorry that I can't write happy stories about Maglor.  Forgive me, but he simply is not a happy person.  We musicians are delicate, emotionally sensitive creatures, and let's face it, Maglor wasn't made for war.  I always imagine him to be the gentlest in personality of the seven (except when someone screws with his music; do not touch the composer's masterpieces unless you want to lose important body parts!)

The song I was listening to (am still listening to) is Diary of Jane by Breaking Benjamin.  I found this song yesterday and am addicted to it completely.  To be honest, it shouldn't be that addictive; it's a pretty repetitive piece, but the passion in it and the lyrics please me greatly.   It can be interpreted in so many ways and in so many situations, and every time I hear it I come up with a new idea about the connotation and message of it.  Not to mention there's something about the chorus' harmony that gives me shivers.

And a picture: Noldolante by =Gold-Seven on dA.  Lovely interpretation, reminds me of her old portrait of Míriel Serindë.  Worth looking at if you've got time.