The Striding Place Angel, by Narya.
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leetoltreatexTitle: The Striding Place Angel
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Characters: Maglor, Eönwë
Words: 1650
Rating: Choose not to rate
Warnings: Choose not to warn
No-one has ever survived falling into the deadly Bolton Strid...or have they?
Appletreewick
Yorkshire, England
1922
“Me Dad reckons it were an angel.”
“Don’t be so soft.”
Andy Cartwright took a long, slow swallow of beer. “It had wings, he said.”
“Aye,” laughed Tom Barrow, “and I bet it glowed and sang Glory Be and Peace On Earth and all.”
Such was the talk in the Craven Arms as dusk faded gently into night. Three days ago, Lettie Cavendish had slipped into the Wharfe while playing with her cousins at the Abbey. Someone had leapt in after her – a man: all versions of the tale were agreed on that, though whether he was a groundsman or a visiting relative or a passing tourist was less clear. He’d got the girl to safety but had been unable to save himself. The children, their nanny, and the assembled staff had feared the worst as he was pulled under the water and into the deadly Strid.
“And then – POOF.” A few tables along from Andy and Tom, Rob Roker spread one hand and puffed pipe smoke into the face of his companion. “Out he flies in the arms of this great winged creature, and they both vanish into the wood.”
Andy looked back at Tom. “See?”
Tom Barrow was almost laughing. “You’re all daft. Lass saved herself, I bet. Grabbed a rock or a branch or some such. No-one with a brain would jump in that water.” He swallowed the last of his pint and wiped his mouth. “And if owt ever came out, it wouldn’t be no bleeding angel.”
*
When sensation returned, the first thing Maglor knew was that he’d been tied down. His breath turned cold. How – who – ?
“Gently, now.”
He exhaled in recognition. Of course.
“Please forgive the bindings; I didn’t know how you’d be when you woke. I didn’t want you to thrash about and make things worse.”
As if on cue, pain seared through his right arm and leg. Maglor hissed.
“I know. Here.”
A cup was held to his lips; he tasted willow bark and cloves, and something sharp and strange and ancient that had no place in modern day Yorkshire. “How bad?” he managed to ask.
“Bad enough. More bones broken than I’d care to count.”
The drink was working on him already. Maglor felt his mind sliding downwards into sleep. “Let me go.”
“Cut you free?”
He tried to say “yes”, but the word came out slurred and unconvincing.
“As you wish.”
*
When he next woke, he realised with surprise that his bonds had been cut. Gently, he shifted on the bed, and regretted it the same instant.
“If you don’t keep still, then I will tie you up again.”
So it had not been a dream. He opened his eyes and took in the being that sat beside him – a man, most would assume at first glance. An unusually beautiful man, with alabaster skin, and hair a startling shade of gold. “Eönwë.”
The smile his companion gave was enchanting. “You do know me, then. I wondered.”
“You are not subtle. Your kind never are.”
A laugh; a shake of the head; a shivering in the air behind him, as though something moved there which the eye was not meant to see. “How do you feel?”
Maglor attempted a withering “marvellous” – but it died on his lips.
“Very well. Stay where you are.”
“No more medicine.”
“What’s the matter, Makalaurë? You do not trust me, though I’ve nursed you these three days?”
Maglor looked around. The room was simple, but comfortable; the sheets and pillows were of good quality; the air smelled of fresh flowers. “Where are we?”
“I rented a cottage near Barden Tower when I realised you intended to stay in the area. I brought you here after I pulled you from the river.”
“The child –”
“She’s perfectly alright. And now she has a wonderful story to tell her friends.”
Maglor thought back. He remembered the river pulling him under – and the songs of all those ghosts, trapped in the shelves of rock along the channel where the river narrowed and deepened. It had seemed fitting, somehow: death by water, for the failed, wandering son who had cast his father’s soul into the sea…and yet he had not died. There had been strong arms, a rush of air, a sweeping crack of wings… “The girl – the other children – the woman they were with…they saw you in your true form?”
“Something close to it.”
“What were you thinking?”
“I could ask the same thing of you. Why were you there at all?”
Maglor opened his mouth to reply, and then changed his mind. “You’ve been following me for months. You must have some idea.”
To his astonishment, Eönwë touched his cheek – very gently. “Rest a while, now. I’ll prepare us some dinner.”
*
“Tell me why you’re here.”
Maglor was gratified by the look of astonishment on Eönwë’s face as he looked up to see his patient at the top of the stairs. “You should not be out of bed. Certainly you should be placing no weight on that leg – let me help you…”
He accepted Eönwë’s assistance down to the living room and into an armchair by the fire.
“You do not change much, Makalaurë. You were always stubborn.” Eönwë seated himself in the rocking chair opposite. “All of you were.”
“I want you to tell me why you came here. Why you followed me. And then you will let me go.”
“You are not my prisoner. Once you have healed, you may go where you wish. Until then I will care for you – and if I have to tie you up again to achieve that, then so be it.”
Maglor was surprised by his own barking laugh. “Goodness. You truly care what becomes of me?”
“Why should I not?”
“Are you not here to drag me back to Valinor to beg forgiveness?”
Eönwë looked at him sharply, then went to the dresser and poured two glasses of rich, ruby wine. “Tell me, Makalaurë, did you want to die when you leapt into that river?”
Maglor accepted the wine. “No. I wanted to save the child. But if my death was the consequence, well…” He shrugged, carefully. “I have lived for a very long time.”
Eönwë nodded, settling himself back into the rocking chair. “Then what were you doing, waiting by its banks?”
“Listening.”
“For what?”
Maglor lifted his eyes and held Eönwë’s gaze. “Sometimes, in places like that – where the water is dangerous and wild, where it has a life and will of its own – I fancy I can catch an echo of it.”
“Of what?”
“Don’t play the fool; it doesn't suit you.”
The outline of Eönwë’s form rippled. “The Silmaril of the Ocean is beyond your reach.”
“Oh, I know. And it is not comforting, to hear its whispers, to wonder at its whereabouts, to doubt whether my senses tell me the truth. Yet I find that I cannot help it.”
Eönwë nodded, slowly. “To answer your question – I was sent. I was asked to locate you. To see what you are now. To understand why you have not faded, as so many have.”
As far as he was able to without aggravating his injuries, Maglor sat up. “And what have you deduced?”
For a long moment, Eönwë was silent – then he smiled, and lifted his glass. “That you are stubborn. And strong. Stronger, I think, than I realised when I let you leave with those jewels all those Ages ago.”
“They are more than jewels. You know that. You all did.”
Eönwë bowed his head.
“Did you know what would happen, when you let us take them? Did you know they would burn us?”
“I suspected something of the kind.”
Maglor shook his head and took a deep swallow of wine. “I hated you for a very long time.”
“Yes, I imagine so.”
The fire crackled and leapt as wind hissed over the chimney. “What will you do now?”
“Once you’re well, I will return to Aman and make my report. And then you will be left alone, if that is what you wish.”
“Do I have other choices?”
“Of course.” Eönwë tilted his lovely head. “You could return with me. So much time has passed. You could live quietly, and in safety – perhaps with your mother, or one of your cousins.”
Slowly, Maglor turned his wine glass between his fingers. “My father. My brothers. Where are they?”
“I do not know.”
“They are not reborn?”
“No.”
“And they are not in Mandos?”
“I cannot say.”
“You will not say, you mean.” Maglor drained his cup, suddenly exhausted. “Well, then I have my answer. And I thank you, Eönwë – truly. Even had I made it out of the river, I’m not sure I would have survived without your care.” He managed a teasing smile. “I heal fast – but not usually quite this fast.”
Eönwë laughed, and he got up to fill their glasses. “I have certain gifts at my disposal, it’s true. But having met you again, Makalaurë, I will say this much: you do yourself a disservice.”
“In what way?”
He handed Maglor another glass of wine. “You have lived for all these tens of thousands of years, through wars and famine, and the breaking and remaking of the world itself. That is not down to mere luck.” His fingers closed over Maglor’s. “Child of Fëanor. Singer of the Song. You were meant to survive.”
*
Bolton Priory
Yorkshire, England
2022
“…and if you follow the path through the woods, past the Cavendish Pavillion and the sulphur well, you’ll come to the famous Strid.” The tour guide looked up at the group and smiled. “But keep well clear of the edge. As far as we know, no-one who’s gone into that water has ever come out alive.”
A polite chuckle from the group. Maglor raised his hand.
“Yes, sir?”
“What about the Striding Place Angel?” he asked.
The guide gave him a curious look. “It’s an unverified account, but yes – there is a local story that a man went into the river to save a drowning child, and in turn was rescued by an angel, as payment for his good deed.” She shrugged, smiling. “It’s a nice idea.”
She moved on, talking about the foundations of the old chapter house, and the tour group followed her. Maglor, though, lifted his face to the wind, and gave the sky a silent salute.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-10 01:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-10-11 12:23 am (UTC)*snickers*
An unusually beautiful man, with alabaster skin, and hair a startling shade of gold. “Eönwë.”
Ooh, I love this. I had not thought about him at all.
and the songs of all those ghosts, trapped in the shelves of rock along the channel where the river narrowed and deepened. It had seemed fitting, somehow: death by water, for the failed, wandering son who had cast his father’s soul into the sea…and yet he had not died.
Goosebumps on my arms.
Maglor lifted his eyes and held Eönwë’s gaze. “Sometimes, in places like that – where the water is dangerous and wild, where it has a life and will of its own – I fancy I can catch an echo of it.”
“Of what?”
“Don’t play the fool; it doesn't suit you.”
The outline of Eönwë’s form rippled. “The Silmaril of the Ocean is beyond your reach.”
“Oh, I know. And it is not comforting, to hear its whispers, to wonder at its whereabouts, to doubt whether my senses tell me the truth. Yet I find that I cannot help it.”
This is fantastic.
Eönwë nodded, slowly. “To answer your question – I was sent. I was asked to locate you. To see what you are now. To understand why you have not faded, as so many have.”
As far as he was able to without aggravating his injuries, Maglor sat up. “And what have you deduced?”
For a long moment, Eönwë was silent – then he smiled, and lifted his glass. “That you are stubborn. And strong. Stronger, I think, than I realised when I let you leave with those jewels all those Ages ago.”
Love my stubborn Maglor.
“You will not say, you mean.” Maglor drained his cup, suddenly exhausted. “Well, then I have my answer.
That is more than reason enough.
He handed Maglor another glass of wine. “You have lived for all these tens of thousands of years, through wars and famine, and the breaking and remaking of the world itself. That is not down to mere luck.” His fingers closed over Maglor’s. “Child of Fëanor. Singer of the Song. You were meant to survive.”
Love this.
Maglor, though, lifted his face to the wind, and gave the sky a silent salute.
*tilts non-existent glass to Eönwë*
Thank you again, Narya!