Song of Sorrow by Adonnen Estenniel

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          He woke in a cold sweat, as always. His mother's savage scream echoed in the darkened chamber, and he shivered. To endure through such pain had been hard; to relive it in dreams and memory was anguish. And still his spirit pressed on.

          Next to him in the bed they shared, his brother lay quiet, peaceful in slumber. The agony of the past did not plague him in the same way. His nights were not filled with deathless cries and trails of gore; his days were not troubled by thoughts of darkness. His grief was of a different sort; it did not manifest itself in constant agony, though it was no less severe. In that his brother was blessed.

          Ice-fingered, a wind filtered through the open doorway. Its curling tendrils crept across the floor and to the bed; they pervaded his still-troubled spirit. As it moved the wind created a harsh discordant note, and it rose toward Elbereth's light, tainting the ethereal purity it found there.

          Drawn as ever by the great beauty wrought by the Kindler, he slipped from the high bed to the silver-lit terrace beyond. Without, the wind tugged in cruel gusts at his night-clothes, and its dissonant song became loud to his ear. It fused with the now-fading reverberation of his mother's terror, creating a music that filled his spirit with dread. It was a raucous, inelegant noise, and he longed to drown it out.

          A silver harp, left perhaps by Maglor, gleamed in the night. He laid his cold hands upon the instrument, stroking the marvelous engravings. Cautiously he ran his fingers over the strings, and a pure sound rang against the wailing winds.

          He sang then, in simple words than befit his tender years. His voice rose and fell as his fingers strummed the silver harp, and a single tear shone in his grey eye. Of his mother, her beauty and tender hand; of the distant Sea, where perhaps his father now dwelt; of his own fear and despair. The melody spoke not in recrimination toward his captors, nor did it praise them. Instead it told of conflict and pain, and in spite of the singer's turmoil, it was more beautiful yet than any music before. Grim and haunting were the notes, and still they wove together in marvelous splendour.

          His song filled the chill night, and when at last his heart could hold no more, he stopped. There, beneath the pale and distant light of stars, the Peredhel slept, unaware of the tortured ears which listened to his words and the bleak eyes that beheld his small form.

          And alone, plagued by the echoing remnant of song, Maglor wept.




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