Of the Coming of Men

In the days of old there were three houses. The Noldor, disciples of glory and doom: it is their story we hear, for it is thanks to them there are stories. The Teleri, inheritors of longing: yearning for the sea is their greatest gift. The Vanyar, the people of unity and peace: the people history would love but could never know. And then the first men came into the west, and Finrod found them as they camped at the foot of the mountains and felt love stir in his heart. But he bade his time awhile, and watched from the shadows as they made camp.

They laid their harp by the fire, and surrendered their big, cold thoughts to its crackling. And the elf walked into the company of these men whose dreams were so much younger than his own. His dreams were wrapped in twilight thunder and the shade of silent woods, and he loved this people with their stars of ideas, whose dreams were clean as swords.

***

I am a Noldo, and I have held my sword to the stars and sworn its keenness to their light. Ours is a song of the night, a symphonic loneliness that each of us inherits and makes his own. We are disciples of glory and doom, and we have given our lives to fate and song. I have slept evenings beneath the spray of stars, and woken to the flickering emptiness of nights. While somewhere beyond the smoke-clad trees… Where is the day? We knew not the happiness of a peaceful dawn, but we have burned with a splendid fever, and kindled the waiting dreams of fate to song and flame. Could anything be too high a price to pay?

I am Telerin, and I have walked wrapped in the blue thunder of thought by anxious seas, steeped in their silent sheen, seeking to learn what it was I longed so deeply for. I have cast my eyes on distant shores, and turned from my past and my land: I have sighed for the ineffable and sought to weave the infinite music of the waters into the earthbound strings of my harp. I do not seek myself any more, for I have no self: it was lost amid the gleaming waters long ago, and I am not certain how to find it. What name, what certainty could bind you together against the sweeping waves? How do I proffer my sword to any cause or any truth when I have known how little all our truths are before the beauty of that infinite we cannot know? And so I am drawn to the littlest things, that need not flee before the greatness of the great because they do not seek to stand ahead of it: the warmth of silent rocks and the grace of white ships, the immortal dances of words and the silent pressure of a hand. I cannot drink of the oath-cup with my brothers, but I shall stand with my brothers and wish that I knew how to fall with them.

I am of the Vanyar too, and I have known the calm of silent mountains and warm dwellings untouched by the fever of exacting dreams. I have known what it is to know and be glad, to lay doubt aside and take comfort in companionship and song. But I have moved far from that land, and now I cannot know that rest. My soul was forged in pride and loneliness and doubt; they are the strings to my harp, the keenness of my sword, the flame of which I light my song. I would wish my destiny on no-one else, but it is irrevocably mine and I would wish myself no other: I cannot live within the light. But I know it is there, and my heart is glad to know it: I would swear my smoke-tinged sword to the service of that peace, though it is not mine.

***

And the first men stirred to the sight of Felagund with his song of dusk and his clear northern eyes. Felagund, who had known the grinding ice and the first light, the silence of the first stars and the despair before the coming of the sun. Felagund, who wove three songs of conflict into a harmony of difference, and drew them with every note from his harp into the song that they had not known could be theirs too.

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