Walking Home - Lethe
300 words.
Lethe asked for Fëanor and Maglor to meet long after Fëanor died.
***
“Walking Home”
He walked patiently up a hill to a hamlet in a fold of aspen. He had sung there before for the price of a meal. They stank, these tarmac paths that ate the country. Mandos’ doom had for him meant life…
He sat on the green and played while people stared. A few threw cents. He sighed. Times had changed. Vagrant singers were no longer invited into homes to eat.
Better Europe than America. The relationship that brought him here had been a rare one. He had stayed on. The French liked buskers, though his long hair drew eyes askance.
***
Paris shone by night. Stars were rare here. He missed stars and Lórien and lanterns hung in strings from trees. In the deep countryside away from lights he grew hungry.
The Seine drew him. Gulls swept and called, skimming the bridges on their way to the sea. He followed the river. The boat-folk liked music, he found. And fed him more happily than the house-dwellers. The gulls led him on north and cried over Le Havre, ecstatic at the stink of fish, of diesel. Dip and steal and fight before the coastal path north-west led him out of concrete deserts.
***
The gulls circled and landed in the mud. In the fishing smack sat a tall, brown-haired figure, simply garbed in a fishing jumper and canvas trousers. He had grey eyes. The boat rocked as he waded ashore.
Quiet words spanned Ages of the World. “My time with the Lord of Shadows is done. Will you leave these shores? Will you come home?”
The boat sifted the Channel traffic lightly. Ireland fell behind, and in time other Emerald Isles saw her skirt their rocky fringe.
The gulls cried amnesty. Fëanor and Maglor accepted the hardest part of the long road home.
Lethe asked for Fëanor and Maglor to meet long after Fëanor died.
***
“Walking Home”
He walked patiently up a hill to a hamlet in a fold of aspen. He had sung there before for the price of a meal. They stank, these tarmac paths that ate the country. Mandos’ doom had for him meant life…
He sat on the green and played while people stared. A few threw cents. He sighed. Times had changed. Vagrant singers were no longer invited into homes to eat.
Better Europe than America. The relationship that brought him here had been a rare one. He had stayed on. The French liked buskers, though his long hair drew eyes askance.
***
Paris shone by night. Stars were rare here. He missed stars and Lórien and lanterns hung in strings from trees. In the deep countryside away from lights he grew hungry.
The Seine drew him. Gulls swept and called, skimming the bridges on their way to the sea. He followed the river. The boat-folk liked music, he found. And fed him more happily than the house-dwellers. The gulls led him on north and cried over Le Havre, ecstatic at the stink of fish, of diesel. Dip and steal and fight before the coastal path north-west led him out of concrete deserts.
***
The gulls circled and landed in the mud. In the fishing smack sat a tall, brown-haired figure, simply garbed in a fishing jumper and canvas trousers. He had grey eyes. The boat rocked as he waded ashore.
Quiet words spanned Ages of the World. “My time with the Lord of Shadows is done. Will you leave these shores? Will you come home?”
The boat sifted the Channel traffic lightly. Ireland fell behind, and in time other Emerald Isles saw her skirt their rocky fringe.
The gulls cried amnesty. Fëanor and Maglor accepted the hardest part of the long road home.