This story is an alternate history, written for the "Maglor throughout History" Silmfics challenge. Thanks go to my beta-reader Maia, whose help with this story was invaluable.

Disclaimer: Maglor is the creation of J. R. R. Tolkien; I am merely borrowing him. The other major characters in this tale belong to themselves, and now to God; no disrespect to them or to their families is intended.

Chance's Strange Arithmetic

By Ithilwen

Chapter 1 - The Scholar

Shall they return to beatings of great bells In wild trainloads? (The Send-off)

She found him in the study.

Ever light of foot, she'd entered the room so quietly he failed to hear her, and for a long moment she stood silently in the doorway, watching him. Trying to drink in this ordinary scene: her husband sorting through his books, picking up first one and then another, opening each volume and scanning through it quickly before snapping it shut again, lovingly caressing the cover as he set each in turn aside. A scene she'd witnessed so many times before, a researcher sorting though his references, looking for just the right quote to cite...

A part of her trembled at the thought that this might be the last time she'd view this sight. So many young men had already gone away, never to come back. You've already taken so many, she silently pleaded, please, God, don't take my husband as well! But aloud she merely asked, "Have you decided yet which ones you wish to choose?"

He turned around, surprised, and smiled when he saw her standing there. "You must think me terribly foolish," he said lightly, "to fuss so over such a simple decision! I'd take them all if only I could. But since I can't, I had better choose wisely. It may be a long time before I will be able to return home and select another book to read."

If you return at all, she thought in despair as she saw him standing before her in his still-immaculate uniform, but did not say it aloud. What good would it do, burdening him with her fear as well as his own? For she was certain that behind the brash exterior he cultivated now for her sake, he was apprehensive, if not so frightened as she was. "You'd better make up your mind quickly, though; we need to leave now if you're not to miss your train," was all she said in reply.

"In that case..." His hand still rested on the last book he'd considered, a tattered thing bound in faded red leather which he'd recently picked up at a second-hand shop for a shilling. Written in some sort of strange script he'd been struggling to decipher, it posed a challenge any philologist would find irresistible. And being of little value, it would be of little loss should the worst happen to him. "I think I'll take this one." He picked up the book and walked over to his wife. "Shall we go?"

She nodded silently, and he reached out and gently caressed her face. "I'm sorry, Edith," he said softly. "But I have to do this; it's my duty. Try not to worry too much about me." He did not say I'll be all right, for they both knew that might prove a lie. The Hun had more fight in him than his countrymen had ever anticipated; with two bloody years of war already behind them, there remained no end in sight.

She nodded, and took his free hand in hers, and together they left the study behind. In less than an hour, he would be on board a train, the beginning of a long journey that would carry him to the bloody slaughterhouse of France and an uncertain destiny.

Chapter 2 - The Private

Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold. (Insensibility)

The assault was heralded by explosions and followed by a soft hiss, as the enemy's shells landed in their trench and began to discharge their toxic contents. "Gas!" the sentry's cry sounded, and all around him he heard the frantic scrabble of sleepy men desperately struggling to pull on their gas masks before the fumes could overcome them. The first faint acrid whiffs reached his nose: not sickly-sweet phosgene, but chlorine this time. For a moment he considered not donning his mask. Perhaps it would be best to do nothing and allow the harsh vapors to claim his life. He had no particular fondness for it, after all. But as the cloud of acrid gas began to thicken and he started to choke, he discovered that living had become a reflex of sorts, for he pulled the mask on almost before he was aware of his actions. Then came the shelling, and the rush of troops heading across No Man's Land towards his company's position, and there was no longer any time for thought.

Then suddenly Morgoth sent forth great rivers of flame... and the Mountains of Iron belched forth fires of many poisonous hues, and the fume of them stank upon the air, and was deadly. Thus Ard-Galen perished, and fire devoured its grasses; and it became a burned and desolate waste...*

He'd wandered through this land many times over the course of the millennia, returning again and again to the Sea that sundered him from his now-forgotten kin. It was a beautiful land once, green and fertile. Now, rent as it was by pits, trenches, and craters, covered in barbed wire, and seared bare by the flames of his foster-children's mechanical dragons, it could have passed for the Anfauglith. He remembered fighting there, a lifetime ago; though the weaponry he now held in his hand was different, the butchery its use inflicted was the same. And so were the screams of the wounded, muffled only slightly by their gas masks, who lay shattered by the lethal rain of machine-gun fire and were left to die slowly in agony as their compatriots rushed ahead, pressing on with their assault, desperately trying to reach the cover of the trench ahead before their enemy's fire tore them to pieces, too.

He aimed his weapon and fired, not at the oncoming soldiers (who were welcome to kill him; his life, he knew, was not worth even one drop of their spilt blood) but at the sky over their heads and at the spaces between their bodies. It was the act of shooting that mattered; so long as he continued to fire steadily, no one would question his aim, certainly not during the press of battle. Let my foster-children kill their brothers if they wish, he though wearily as he watched the slaughter unfolding before him, a massacre lit only by the brilliant flashes of artillery shells exploding. The yellow-green mists of the chlorine wafted all around him, mercifully obscuring the stars overhead and lending a surreal ambience to the night. I no longer care, and by what right does a dead soul interfere with the choices of those still living? I would not stop them even if I could. But I will not abet their butchery, either. He continued to methodically fire over the heads of the attacking troops, awaiting the inevitable end of the assault.

Thus the great fortress upon the Hill of Himring could not be taken, and many of the most valiant that remained... rallied there to Maedhros, and he closed once more the Pass of Aglon, so that the Orcs could not enter Beleriand by that road.*

And as suddenly as it had begun, the attack was over. He watched with weary eyes as the last of the onrushing men was shot down. How many had come charging out of the German trench - 30 men? 40? He doubted more than a handful had survived. So much blood spilled, on both sides, and nothing had been gained by it. The endless stalemate still held.

He tried to remember how he'd allowed himself to become trapped in this nightmare. His memory played tricks on him, the passing days blurring one into another; it was hard sometimes to think. I must have let myself become too close to them again, he realized. But I cannot help it; they are my foster-son's distant children, after all, my adopted kin. Wander though I may, I have always returned to them in the end. I am so lonely, and they are all I have left to me. And who else is left of my kind to watch over them? They must have asked me for my help, and so I agreed to give it. How was I to know that the monstrous enemies they were so desperate to fight were not Orcs, but their own sundered people?

The last of the chlorine had drifted away; beside him, others of his company were removing their masks. As he pulled his own gas mask off, his nose was again assaulted by the ever-present reek that hung in the air of the battlefield. Rotting flesh, urine and shit, lingering traces of poisonous fumes, the musky odor of unwashed bodies, the damp smell of earth - all mingled together sickeningly to form a stench that made his senses reel. The Aftercomers seemed to grow used to the odor in time; though they blanched and shivered when they first arrived at the trenches and caught whiff of the smell, this reaction passed. After a few weeks, they seemed oblivious to the odor. But his own senses never adjusted to the foulness, and each time he removed the gas mask and breathed in the unfiltered air again, the impact of it was doubled. Unable to stop himself, he leaned over and retched, then sank down, exhausted, into the slime at the base of the trench.

I cannot endure this! he thought. I am dead inside, yet I still feel pain. Perhaps if I plead, my children will let me go. Or I can steal away unnoticed in the night; I have faded, yes, but I think I still have power enough in me for that, for such a simple glamour, surely... For a brief moment, hope flared in his heart as he imagined walking away from this horror, washing the filth from his body in the clean waters of the Sea. Then he remembered the penalty for desertion, and his own weakness when the chlorine had washed over him, and he knew he would not try to leave. No longer was he one of the mighty of his people; he had dwindled over the course of innumerable centuries of suffering. Even his voice was reduced to a whisper, all its once-famed power gone now. He could not hope to leave unnoticed. And to be caught deserting was to risk being executed. Though he was dead inside, he was afraid to stop breathing and be dead outside, too. He was hopelessly trapped, by his own weakness and by his fear.

He curled into a ball, letting his head fall onto his filth-encrusted knees, and silently wept.

Chapter 3 - The Lieutenant

I have perceived much beauty In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight; Heard music in the silentness of duty... (Apologia pro Poemate Meo)

Lieutenant Owen did not know what to do about his newest private.

He'd only just assumed command of the 2^ndManchesters; at first, the unit had been filled entirely by fresh men, like himself all recent arrivals from England. But the inevitable losses of combat necessitated transfers; after his former platoon's near-annihilation in an ill-timed assault on the enemy's line, Private Maglor had been reassigned to Owen's command. Lieutenant Owen was still new to command, but it took little experience to see that the addition of this particular man to his ranks had created a major problem which he would have to solve somehow for the sake of his unit's morale. For Private Maglor was apparently going mad.

Lieutenant Owen's newest soldier generally stayed apart from the other enlisted men, scarcely speaking to another soul except to answer a direct query. But that did not mean that he was silent, for often he whispered to himself. Strange, meaningless sounds would slip from his lips, words from some secret language of the soul. Rarely he would tremble and rouse himself, and at those times his eyes were filled with a disturbing fire. But that brief spark of life inevitably faded quickly, and he returned to his usual expressionless countenance, retreating into insensibility. Clearly Private Maglor was losing his grip on reality, and he no longer had the ability to disguise his deteriorating condition behind the facade of normality the platoon's other soldiers still managed to erect.

Owen pitied him; he was no physician, but even he could see that Private Maglor was suffering from the onset of shell-shock. Maglor's platoon had nearly completed their front-line assignment, and had been scheduled to assume support duties shortly before the assault that had devastated it. Unfortunately for Private Maglor, that fact had not been taken into account when he had received his new orders; Owen's platoon was just beginning its time in the trenches. Unless Owen could get Maglor reassigned, the hapless fellow would have to endure another full tour of duty in the filthy trenches of the Somme. And although Lieutenant Owen doubted the man was up to it, he doubted even more his ability to successfully petition for his new private's transfer to the rear lines. He was only a second lieutenant, and an inexperienced one at that; his words would carry little weight with his superiors at this time when as many bodies as possible were needed on the front. Somehow, he would have to find a way to help Private Maglor endure, or barring that, at least find a way to minimize the effects his odd behavior was having on the morale of the other men in the unit.

It was a pity he hadn't the slightest idea how to achieve that end.

* * * * * * *

It was words which separated Private Maglor most obviously from his fellow soldiers: his odd mumbled nonsense phrases so disturbing to his fellow brothers-in-arms. How ironic, Owen later though, that words of an altogether different sort provided the key to bridging the gulf between the isolated private and the rest of his unit.

The Sentry We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew, And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell Hammered on top, but never quite burst through. Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime Kept slush waist high, that rising hour by hour, Choked up the steps too thick with clay to climb. What murk of air remained stank old, and sour With fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den, If not their corpses. . . . There we herded from the blast Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last. Buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles. And thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came thumping And splashing in the flood, deluging muck -- The sentry's body; then his rifle, handles Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck. We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined "O sir, my eyes -- I'm blind -- I'm blind, I'm blind!" Coaxing, I held a flame against his lids And said if he could see the least blurred light He was not blind; in time he'd get all right. "I can't," he sobbed. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him there In posting next for duty, and sending a scout To beg a stretcher somewhere, and floundering about To other posts under the shrieking air. Those other wretches, how they bled and spewed, And one who would have drowned himself for good, -- I try not to remember these things now. Let dread hark back for one word only: how Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps, And the wild chattering of his broken teeth, Renewed most horribly whenever crumps Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath -- Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout "I see your lights!" But ours had long died out.

"You are a poet?"

Startled, Lieutenant Owen looked up from his notepad and found himself looking into Maglor's pale face. Owen had decided to take advantage of this rare moment of calm to retreat into the relative sanctuary of the officer's mess in order to do some final polishing of several awkward lines. Belatedly, he realized he must have been speaking the words aloud, the better to check their cadence.

"Yes. Yes, I am." He'd not spoken of his avocation to any of his fellow officers or to the men under his command, preferring to keep it secret for the moment; little privacy was afforded to any man in the trenches, and what small portion he could snatch he was determined to hold onto. But something in his private's strange grey eyes caused him to waver in his decision. After a moment of hesitation, Owen asked gently, "Are you interested in poetry, Mr. Maglor?" When the man nodded silently, Owen, sensing an opportunity, handed him his notebook.

Private Maglor accepted the proffered gift, and spent a long moment silently reading. To Owen, it seemed as though a shroud had suddenly fallen from the private's form to reveal the Lazarus beneath, for when the man looked up again his bearing was subtly different, and there was a light in those grey eyes that had not been apparent before. "You have some talent, Lieutenant," he said quietly when he finally handed the small volume back to its owner. "But why do you write of war? It is not beautiful, war. Is it not a poet's duty to bring beauty into the world, instead of simply adding to its ugliness?"

"You may feel differently, Mr. Maglor, but I've always believed that the true beauty of poetry lies in its unsparing truthfulness." Owen realized, when Private Maglor did not answer immediately, that he'd spoken a bit more sharply than was wise. The man would doubtless crawl back into his shell, now that his commander had chastised him so -

"So, you are a true poet, Lieutenant Owen, and not merely a shaper of pretty verses. I cannot remember the last time I spoke to one such as you; it's been so very long... Most people only wish to create sweet rhymes, as insubstantial as sugar candy, which melts when the first tear touches it, but you desire to kindle a fire in your readers' hearts, even at the risk of scorching them. A fire even tears cannot quench. I envy you your desire, for mine was taken from me long ago."

Prior to this moment, Owen had not heard Maglor utter more than a handful of words at a time; to hear this lyrical speech from his taciturn private was a shock, and he had the strangest feeling that he'd passed some sort of test in Maglor's eyes. Had the man been an artist, possibly even a poet, before the war? Owen wondered. "Have you ever written any poetry yourself, Mr. Maglor?"

"Poetry of a sort, I suppose; I created songs. But then I held Truth in my hands, shining bright, and it burned my music away, and now there is nothing left inside but emptiness." And suddenly Private Maglor looked as though he would weep. "I no longer have the gift, for I was unworthy of it. But I appreciate it when I see it in others."

Speaking sense at first, but then slipping back into strangeness... But perhaps I can use his music to help anchor him in reality, and break down the barrier between him and the other men, Owen thought. It's worth trying, at any rate. "I would like to hear you sing your songs some time, Mr. Maglor."

Private Maglor merely shook his head. "I fear I have faded too much to sing them now. There would be no beauty in them."

"If they were beautiful when you wrote them, Mr. Maglor, then they will be beautiful now. You said it yourself: 'A fire even tears cannot quench.' True art cannot fade. And I think your fellows would appreciate some music now and then. Do it for their sakes, if not for mine."

"Very well, sir," Maglor replied sadly. "For my squadmates' sakes I will do as you order, and sing."

"It wasn't an order, Private, just a request. And I'd appreciate your comments on my poems, if you would be willing to read them over and critique them," Lieutenant Owen answered. Surely I can tolerate some bad poetry criticism, if it will keep him from slipping back into his strange fantasies...

"I told you that my gift is gone now; but I would enjoy reading the rest of your poems, sir. But that will have to wait until later. Sergeant Hotchkiss asked me to find you; a messenger from Captain Albertson has just arrived..."

So much for my hopes of finishing these revisions today, Lieutenant Owen thought as he reluctantly placed his notebook aside and rose to follow Private Maglor out into the filthy trench once more. But duty must come first. War first, art later - assuming of course, that I survive the night.

* * * * * * *

To Owen's surprise, Private Maglor's commentary on his poetry was actually helpful, and he began to look forward to his chats with the man. And Maglor seemed more grounded somehow, less inclined to slip into his own private dreams (although he never completely lost the habit of muttering in that strange private language of his). Perhaps it wouldn't be necessary to seek a transfer for him, after all.

After a bit more prodding, Maglor finally agreed to sing on occasion. He had a light, pleasant voice, and had obviously had some musical training. A would-be vocalist, Owen speculated when he first heard the man singing, whose youthful dreams were crushed when someone finally told him the truth: that he simply does not have enough talent to sing professionally. A pity, for some of his lyrics are rather nice. Even the harshness of battle pales at times next to the ordinary harshnesses of the world.

Chapter 4 - The Sum of the Equation

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? (Anthem for Doomed Youth)

The odd book had proved a puzzle indeed. Rarely had he found himself so engrossed.

He'd struggled for weeks before he had managed to finally translate the first page. Deciphering the strange flowing script had been relatively easy; not so mastering the hitherto-unknown tongue those graceful symbols encoded. An apparent member of the Indo-European language family, highly inflected, with a complex case structure - oh, the language was a lovely thing! But utterly unfamiliar; it did not seem closely related to any particular modern tongue. Where were its speakers now? What could have befallen them, to erase any trace of their speech so thoroughly from history? The language remained a mystery, even though he could now haltingly translate it.

And as he read further, he discovered to his delight that the puzzles the language itself posed were matched by the ones the book's subject matter raised.

For the book contained a collection of fantastical stories. Tales about an immortal people who lived in a city lit by glowing trees, who sailed across the sea in defiance of both the Gods and Fate itself to fight a demon. Dragons and other fantastic monsters, heroic warriors struggling against Doom, unbreakable oaths and cursed objects: the elements of these stories were common to most old European mythologies. But not a single mythology he was familiar with combined those many elements in precisely this way. The tales themselves were not clearly identifiable as Norse, or Celtic, or Germanic, despite sharing some common elements with those cultures' mythic stories. Had the writer of them been influenced by the Eddas, and Beowulf, and the Kalevela? Or (and he hardly dared imagine it could be possible; surely the little volume couldn't be that old) had the influence gone the other way? Could these wonderful stories represent the original proto-European legendarium, from which the later tales grew? They somehow seemed much more vivid than the sagas he was now so familiar with!

He hadn't known exactly what he'd been hoping for when he first set out to unveil the mystery of the old tome - but he knew he'd never expected to find something so captivating. And there was still so much more to study, so much more to read; he'd finished a bare third of the story so far -

"Lieutenant Tolkien? Sir, the supplies are in order; we're ready to leave for the front at any time now, sir."

Tolkien closed his book and sighed. He had other responsibilities now that took priority over intellectual pursuits, no matter how compelling these odd tales might be. Well, he thought, we still have a week on support duty before we're rotated back to the trenches - I'll have time enough to study this later. Assuming, of course, that the Hun's aim is poor tonight.

He looked up at the sky; the sun hovered near the horizon, casting a long golden light over the stubble in the fields. "I think we should wait another half-hour, Corporal; I don't want to chance our arriving before full dark."

"Understood, sir. No point in making Fritz's job any easier! I'll tell the men we'll leave at 1600 hours, sir."

After the corporal was gone, Lieutenant Tolkien resumed his study of the strange little book. A philologist these days, he mused as he started to read, must settle for whatever scraps of time he can find between shellings. I find the heroics of war are far more entertaining in rhymed meter than when experienced first-hand.

* * * * * * *

Lieutenant Owen wanted him to sing tonight.

He knew his music no longer had the power it once possessed; he could not shake people's hearts to their very cores as he had a lifetime ago. But his foster-children seemed to find his faded voice pleasant anyway, and to his surprise Maglor had found great comfort in singing to them. He remembered singing little Elrond and Elros to sleep so long ago, when the children awakened from nightmarish dreams sobbing in terror. He'd sung then of simple things, the glimmer of starlight on the water, the beauty of the woods and fields, the slow dispelling of night's shadow by the rising sun - images of beauty to chase the terrors away. It had worked, and the boys had slipped back into peaceful dreams again.

What was the war that raged around them now, if not a nightmare of another sort? Maglor knew this evil dream was beyond his power to dispel permanently, even had he still possessed his gifts of old. But for a time, while his voice floated on the filthy air, both he and his adopted kin could forget its horrors.

And sometimes when he sang, he felt the faintest stirring in his heart, and almost, almost he could believe he was still alive inside.

The western sky was splashed in blood; above it hung his father's star, burning fiercely. He'd seen so much blood during his lifetime, sacrificed to that terrible star; he did not want to think about such things now. Nor did he want to remember the endless years of wandering and pain, the loneliness that had shadowed him wherever he had roamed. Tonight, Maglor decided, he would not sing any of the usual love ballads or stirring victory hymns his foster-children so adored. No, on this night he would sing of other things far dearer to his heart: a city sitting on a hill, its white walls gleaming in the silvery light, with a high tower facing out towards the quiet sea. A mountain, its peak shining white, reaching up to pierce the clouds. A garden filled with fragrant blossoms, in which a woman he once loved danced in time with his harping...

Tonight he would sing of home.

Maglor closed his eyes and tried to remember Tirion.

"There is a city that far distant lies
And a vale outcarven in forgotten days ..." **

And as his voice began to swell, he unexpectedly felt a touch of his old power running through him, and silently wept in gratitude.

* * * * * * *

They heard music as they approached the front lines; strangely, for once the night was not riddled by explosions and rattled bursts of machine-gun fire, which would normally have drowned out the tune. A battlefield truce, apparently, Lieutenant Tolkien marveled; apparently, even the Hun was too busy enjoying the singing to shoot. He'd heard tales of such temporary cease-fires occurring, but had never actually witnessed one. Doubtless it would end as soon as the singer finished his performance, so he and his men needed to move rapidly, taking advantage of the precious lull to reach the shelter of the trenches. Once there, they could quickly unload the supplies, and with luck head back to their camp in the rear lines before the would-be Caruso concluded his song and the shelling began.

"Bloody opera! Why doesn't he sing something good instead of that foreign gibberish?" Tolkien heard one of his men mumble. Until that moment, he'd been too preoccupied with his own plans to listen closely to the music. Now, he noticed for the first time that the haunting melody was in a strange key, and the lyrics were not English - or any other language he recognized. Surprised, he listened more carefully, but he still could not identify the language, although something about it seemed oddly familiar.

They'd reached the trench and Lieutenant Tolkien had taken up a sentry position, watching for any signs of enemy activity while his men hurriedly began lowering the bulky crates down to the soldiers waiting below, when images began to form in his mind. As he listened to the music, he slowly began to see visions of a city forming before his eyes. A white city, with a great tower soaring heavenward, the walls lit by a strange shimmering light, sitting on a hill in a gap flanked by enormous mountains. The streets and gardens were filled with beautiful people, grey-eyed and raven-haired and tall...

It was, he realized with a shock, the same city portrayed in the book he had been reading earlier.

The descriptions in the odd little volume matched exactly the visions now swimming in his head. Had the singer read the same tales? What other explanation was possible? Perhaps the musician would know something more about that mysterious book's origins. He had to meet the man!

With an effort of will, Tolkien forced himself to see past the wondrous sights the music was evoking in his mind, and began to look about for the singer. Where was he? The music was coming from his left, but in the darkness it was hard to see anyone hidden in the shadows of the deep trench. Well, I will just have to inquire as to his identity once we're finished, he finally decided. We're running a bit ahead of schedule; I should be able to manage a quick chat with the fellow before we must depart. With that comforting thought, he relaxed and gave himself over to the pleasure of the music once more. And as soon as the last crate was lowered, he hopped into the trench.

"Lieutenant?"

No! Tolkien wanted to shout, not now! But he bit his unvoiced protest back; as an officer, his official responsibilities took priority over speaking with that unknown musician. Reluctantly, he turned around and found himself facing a strange corporal. "Are you all right?" the man asked, a quizzical expression on his face. "You seemed a bit dazed."

"Yes, quite all right," Tolkien mumbled. "Just a touch distracted by the music. Tell me, Corporal, who is the singer?"

"Private Maglor sure does have a good voice, sir, no mistaking that. Pity he decided on opera tonight; I can't say I've ever cared much for it. Now his usual songs are first-rate! Maybe you'll hear them the next time you come." The corporal pointed to a tall man pressed up against the dark earthen wall of the trench; at the same moment, the man turned towards them, and Lieutenant Tolkien was able to see him clearly.

The singer had a narrow, angular face, and wisps of dark hair peaked out from beneath the edges of his helmet. Against the dark background of the trench wall, the man's pale skin almost seemed to be glowing. An eerie otherness, the likes of which Tolkien had never felt before, clung to this soldier; when he met the man's eyes, Tolkien shivered at the radiance he saw in their grey depths. Not human, he thought dimly as the strange man continued to sing and images of the white city filled his mind once more, can't the others see that he's not human?

Noldor. They call themselves Noldor...

And that city, those fantastic tales - not myths, but history? The history of a Faerie folk?

The Noldor sailed eastward across the sea to fight a great battle, long ago...

"Nice enough chap, but a bit touched," the corporal prattled on. "Too long in the trenches, is what I think. Now come on, sir. Captain Albertson has a message he wants you to take back to headquarters with you when you leave..."

Reluctantly, Lieutenant Tolkien allowed himself to be lead away; by the time the captain had finally finished with him the first hint of dawn was starting to kiss the eastern sky. There was no longer any time for him to speak to that unhuman private; his men dared not be caught traversing the open ground near the front lines once the sun started to rise. The covering night stripped away, they'd be easy targets for snipers. He had no choice; they had to leave now if they were to return in safety.

Fortunately, we still have a week of supply duty ahead of us, Lieutenant Tolkien thought as he and his men slogged their way back through the thick mud towards the rear lines. It's likely I'll be returning here soon; perhaps then I will have the chance to speak with Private Maglor. There's so much I want to ask him, so much I wish to learn! It's the opportunity of a lifetime, one I won't squander...

* * * * * * *

The orders had arrived yesterday; they were going over the top tonight, in yet another attempt to force an opening in the German line. An intense artillery bombardment would proceed their attack; the high command was confident that this would weaken the German defenses enough for a sudden, sharp assault to break through.

The men in the trenches feared otherwise.

They waited, huddled deep in the protective embrace of the earth, listening to the concussive blasts of artillery shells, dreading the moment when the guns would fall silent and they'd be forced to leave the sheltering confines of the trenchworks. But when the time finally came and the order was issued, they did not hesitate, but launched themselves over the edge of the trench and began racing across the desolate waste of No Man's Land.

And then the enemy guns opened fire, and the men of the 2^nd Manchesters began to fall.

Hotchkiss went down first, struck full in the face by a jacketed round, his suddenly limp form falling into a line of barbed-wire fencing where it hung suspended, a gruesome sigil of combat. Then Archer, and Richland, and Bradfield... But there was no time to mourn, no time to even register the deaths; to stop, even for an instant, was to die. As he ran, Maglor heard the moans of his dying children, left behind by their compatriots, and the whine of bullets passing by his head, and the incessant gunfire. The smell of blood and cordite quickly overwhelmed the other noxious odors drifting on the night air, and the darkness of the moonless night was pierced only by the bright flashes of muzzle fire that issued from the German machine guns.

The strength and terror of the Great Worm were now great indeed, and Elves and Men withered before him...***

It seemed to Maglor in that moment that even the carnage of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad paled against the devastation his foster-children were now wreaking on each other in this war with the aid of their new mechanical dragons. How could this conflict end before every man on either side was slaughtered? His children's apparent joy in murder surpassed his ability to comprehend, even stained as his own hands were by the blood of countless innocents slain during his own pursuit of folly so many millennia ago.

Ye have spilled the blood of your kin unrighteously, and have stained the land... For blood ye shall render blood... †

Tears unnumbered shall ye shed... †

Something broke inside of him, and Maglor felt himself slowing, watching with indifferent eyes as the others of his platoon rushed past him in the night. His voice was drowned out by the chaotic sounds of the battle raging around him, lost to all ears but his own.

He'd barely begun the second verse of the Noldolantë when he felt the first bullet strike him.

* * * * * * *

The only music that greeted Lieutenant Tolkien and his men when they returned to the forward position held by the 2^nd Manchesters was intermittent bursts of rifle fire, tapping out a light cappella in the night for his platoon to dance to. They somehow managed to reach the cover of the trenches without taking a loss, but it had been a close escape. Obviously the battlefield truce that had previously held here was over. While he and his men worked, Tolkien tried to spot the strange soldier whose song had so bespelled him on his first mission to this spot. He saw no sign of him, and his heart was uneasy when he asked the officer who was assisting him, "Where is that chap who sang so well? Private Maglor, I think his name was?"

"Dead," came the subdued reply. "Along with a third of our forces. All killed two days ago when the damn fools back at headquarters ordered yet another frontal assault. We didn't last ten minutes under those guns before I was forced to sound a retreat; it's lucky Fritz didn't press us hard afterwards or this whole line might have been breached. As it was, all that blood was spilled for nothing - we're in exactly the same position we held before the attack, a stalemate."

Dead. The Faerie is dead! I came back too late! Tolkien thought, dismayed. The memory of that prior almost-meeting mocked him now. He'd come so very close to touching a mystery that night, but fickle chance had chosen to snatch his opportunity away forever. Now all that was left to him was the remembered sound of an intoxicatingly beautiful song and the vision of a glorious white city, both of which he feared would soon begin to fade, as dreams always do. Must even the memories of such magic now be lost? That even the mere existence of those people should now be forgotten is a monstrous wrong! Aloud, though, he only said, "I would have very much liked to have heard more of that fellow's songs. His voice was magnificent. What a waste."

"War is nothing but waste, in the end," the other lieutenant replied. "That's the truth of it. But most people prefer to prate on about 'Martial Glory', refusing to look at the graveyards that follow in Glory's wake. Private Maglor had a little talent; I'll always wonder what use he would have made of it had he survived this butchery."

"So will I," Lieutenant Tolkien replied sadly. "So will I."

* * * * * * *

The temporary respite of supply duty over, Lieutenant Tolkien returned to the trenches, and their filth and their vermin which inevitably bred disease. As he began to shake with fever, still haunted by the memory of ethereal music floating on the autumn air, he slowly fell into a delirium in which snatches of song and images of glowing trees and gem-paved streets intermingled sickeningly with visions of a pale, black-haired man lying motionless in the mud, staring at him accusingly with lifeless grey eyes. Will you let my people be forgotten? those eyes seemed to ask. Will you stand by silent and allow such beauty as I showed you to pass forever from the earth? "I cannot tell your tale properly, for I do not have your magic. Please, leave me alone!" Tolkien pleaded in the dead man's secret tongue; the hospital staff took his cries for raving and sponged him down with alcohol to lower his fever, but the dead man only continued to gaze at him with a mournful expression.

And then his fever broke, and he found himself in his own white city, a world of crisp clean sheets and starched nurses' uniforms and air that smelled of disinfectant rather than of corpses. Almost as soon as he could sit up unaided, he asked for paper and a pen and his shabby red book, that he might amuse himself during his recuperation. And picking up the pen, he began the arduous process of translation.

"High and white were its walls, and smooth its stairs, and tall and strong was the Tower of the King. There shining fountains played..." ‡

Such magic to move hearts as he could invoke with his mere words, he would. The war had already claimed beauty enough. Probably most readers would remain unchanged by what he wrote - but if even one person was stirred by the tales of the Noldor and their deeds, he felt he would have accomplished his purpose. Rest now, Maglor, he whispered silently as he worked. You and your people shall not be forgotten. I, at least, will weep for you.

* * * * * * *

But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns, That they should be as stones. Wretched are they, and mean With paucity that never was simplicity. By choice they made themselves immune To pity and whatever mourns in man Before the last sea and the hapless stars; Whatever mourns when many leave these shores Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of tears.

Finis

Author's Notes:

The meeting I have shown between J. R. R. Tolkien and Wilfred Owen in this story is completely fictitious. Both Tolkien and Owen did serve at the Somme during the First World War; however, Tolkien became ill with trench fever and was shipped back to England on November 8, 1916, while Owen did not arrive at the Somme until December 31, 1916.

All of the poetry in this story was written by Wilfred Owen. The Sentry is quoted in its entirety. The source for the lines at the beginning of each chapter is indicated below the quotation, in parentheses. The story's concluding stanza as well as the title of the story are taken from Insensibility. You may find all of these poems in their entirety at http://www.firstworldwar.com/poetsandprose/texts/Wilfred%20Owen%20-%20Poems.txt (courtesy of firstworldwar.com and Project Gutenberg).

* lines from Chapter 18 ("Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin"), The Silmarillion.

** First two lines of the poem "The City of Present Sorrow," found in Chapter 6 ("The History of Eriol or Ælfwine and the End of the Tales") of The Book of Lost Tales, Volume 2.

*** line from Chapter 20 ("Of the Fifth Battle: Nirnaeth Arnoediad"), The Silmarillion.

†lines from Chapter 9 ("Of the Flight of the Noldor"), The Silmarillion.

‡line from Chapter 15 ("Of the Noldor in Beleriand"), The Silmarillion.

If you are interested in learning more about either Wilfred Owen or World War I, I highly recommend checking out this excellent website: http://www.firstworldwar.com/.

This story was first published on April 11, 2003.