west of the moon, east of the sun

let ruin end here

let him find honey
where there was once a slaughter

let him enter the lion’s cage
& find a field of lilacs

let this be the healing
& if not   let it be

- “little prayer” by Danez Smith

I don’t know where you’re going
But do you got room for one more troubled soul?
I don’t know where I’m going
But I don’t think I’m coming home
And I said, “I’ll check in tomorrow if I don’t wake up dead”
This is the road to ruin and we’re starting at the end
- “Alone Together,” Fall Out Boy

.

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
- “When I am Among the trees,” by Mary Oliver

.

Music was Maglor’s first love, but when he had decided to learn to make his own instruments, he had begun with wood—and had fallen in love with that, too.

Grandfather Finwë had been his teacher; he had a small workroom tucked away behind the palace, almost entirely hidden behind a grove of cherry trees. The first time Maglor had visited it they had been all in bloom, the flowers’ sweet fragrance mingling with the scents of sawdust and the oils Finwë used for final polishes.

Fëanor had been a great teacher, with many students coming through his workshops over the years, but he was always thinking of a hundred things at once, and moving from one thing to another too rapidly for Maglor to keep up. He had despaired of himself as a student before going to Finwë, who was far less prone to distraction. He was slow and patient, and as gentle with the wood as he was with Maglor himself.

“Not everyone is suited to your father’s methods,” Finwë had said that first day. “Many are, but some of us need a slower pace. Now tell me what you know already about these different kinds of wood.”

Now, Maglor wandered the shores of Middle-earth, the last of his house. His last harp he had thrown into the sea after the Silmaril, thinking then that he never wanted to play another song again—thinking that surely the tide of grief and guilt would overwhelm him, and he would leave the world for either Mandos or the Everlasting Darkness.

Neither thought turned out to be true.

So he started to gather driftwood. After the War of Wrath whole forests had washed up on the shores, great trunks like beached whales lying dark and dripping on the broken stones. Now the beaches had been worn into soft pebbles and sand, and the driftwood was only branches, water-worn and misshapen, but beautiful in their own way. Tools he made of wood and stone, after the manner of his ancestors at Cuiviénen (this, too, Finwë had taught him—an exercise in curiosity and history more than anything else). And, slowly, he moved from tools to things made just for the sake of making, and for the sake of beauty. A comb of pale wood to finally ease the snarls out of his hair, and then small wooden beads carved with designs of shells and leaves, to weave into his braids so that they clicked together pleasingly with every movement. He made a series of flutes, each one sounding a little better than the last as he remembered where best to place the holes, and how thick or thin to carve the wood. He worked slowly, savoring the task, and the memories it conjured.

Sometimes he made sculptures, fitting pieces of wood together in ways that he thought his mother would like, suggesting an image while not being true to life. Some looked like nothing at all except a mess of wood that was pleasing to Maglor’s eyes. These he left among the dunes or on the beach to be found or to succumb to the winds and tides and time. He marked them all, just in case they were found by some other lonely wanderer—but not with his father’s star. In Middle-earth a many-rayed sun had become the symbol of Finwë, but in Valinor Finwë himself had always carved the two Trees—a quick and simple depiction, but unique, and fitting for a woodcarver. This Maglor carefully etched into all of the things that he made, just in case other eyes found it. Even if no one else knew what it meant, at least this small piece of his grandfather—the maker, the teacher, rather than the king—would live on.

I think that man hath made no beauteous thing
More lovely than a glorious melody
That soars aloft in splendor, full and free,
And graceful as a swallow on the wing!
- “To Melody” by George Leonard Allen

It is well known that Psamathos does not leave his cove. He does not like to get his feet wet, and prefers to spend his days dozing under the sun.

What is known, however, is not always true. It is true that Psamathos’ long ears are often mistaken for sticks jutting out of the sand by passersby, but it is also true that sticks are, sometimes, only sticks.

The house of Roverandom’s family is not the only one close to the beach, and among the neighborhood it is known that sometimes little sand figures appear, decorated with seashells and seaweed, and sometimes even pearls. They come in many forms: mermaids and fish, and whales; sometimes castles like nothing any land-dweller has ever seen before. Once a miniature dragon coiled around a miniature mountain made of sand, a perfect rendering of the Great White Dragon on the moon, though of course only Roverandom recognized it.

It is considered good luck to find such a sand-sculpture in one’s backyard, and not without cause. Illnesses are known to get suddenly better; colicky babies find sudden comfort; gardens suffering from pests begin to flourish. If one is lucky enough to find a pearl, it is always a very valuable one. Fishermen take the bits of seaweed with them as talismans, and find good catch and good weather to bring them home again.

Of course the sand-sculptures are temporary. A high tide will come and wash them away, or the wind will blow them back into the dunes. But they are beautiful while they last, and as he dozes beneath his own dunes in his cove, Psamathos smiles to himself.