Swordthain of Makalaurë

DarkElf in the Age of Numenor


"Take this sword."

Maglor lays the weapon across my hands; the blade glints redly as it catches the falling rays of the drowning sun. I raise my eyes to his face that is streaked with tears he seems unaware of, but which flow unabated. Something hardens inside me while another part once frozen melts.

Softly, I say, "My lord, no... thou art ill and injured. Return with me to the harbour. Take back thy sword."

He does not take it back from me; he steps back two paces. "I will never walk among our people again. I will never again bear a sword-- look at my hand!" I could not look upon his injury; he had withdrawn his hand and arm beneath his tattered cloak, holding it close to his body. His voice is punctuated with anguish as he says, "I can not wield it."

"Thy brother lost his sword-hand and learned to fight with what was left to him," I argue, recalling bitterly Maedhros's efficency in Lothlim against my own folk.

Maglor is hunched over slighly, almost as if bowing. He smiles slightly as he says, "So too shall I fight with what is left to me-- but not with this sword. Take it back and lay it before Ereinion's feet. Tell him that the Oath is no more."

"Lord, come back with me," I repeat, but he does not hear me. His eyes drift past me unseeing, probing the sea that rolls up to our feet, grey as slate. His whisper is almost soundless; it comes to my ears as if plumbed from my own memories.

Footprints in the shifting sand
Words into the wind
Parchment curling in the flames
Tears in the rain
Things said cannot be unsaid
Memory immortal as stone
What good might have been done
Has been averted with the evils
And yet evil and good will yet be done
So it shall be until the End