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Of Hanging Trees and Gallows-Weed

Summary:

What are the mysterious gorcrows, mentioned in passing in the Red Book of Westmarch, and why does the poem have no author?

Notes:

Work Text:

“It's a fine collection; there's no doubting that.” Gently, Maglor turned the pages. The fire in Bag End's great hearth danced, and its smoke mingled sweetly with the scent of paper and ink. Outside, the wind sang through dry, bare trees – though its keening was cheerfully overlaid by the sound of the kettle coming to a boil. “Errantry...Oliphaunt...Perry-the-Winkle...” He lifted one page and held it up to the firelight. “What will you do with them all?”

“Oh, I thought to fit them into my book – perhaps as interludes, of a kind.” Bilbo looked up from his pipe to see which poem Maglor was examining. “That isn't finished. It's missing something – although I can't begin to think what.”

The Sea-Bell.” Maglor scanned through the scribbled lines. “I walked by the sea and there came to me, as a star-beam on the wet sand...

Bilbo waved his hand irritably. “Yes, yes, I know what it says.”

“This is very good.”

“I'm obliged you should say so. Although flattery won't get you out of helping me with tea.”

But a handful of phrases on the other side of the sheet had caught Maglor's eye. “What's this?”

“Hmm?”

'Sinking in slime'...'the rotting river strand'...this isn't your usual sort of thing.” Another word sprang out at him; Maglor's heart leapt coldly, and he fixed his gaze on his friend. “Where did you hear about gorcrows?”

“Where do I hear about anything? There's a silly old tale told in the Shire to frighten children, all about a murder” - Maglor's blood congealed - “of crows so wicked and vile that a great enchanter had to sing them out of existence.” Bilbo's eyes narrowed. “What's the matter? You aren't going to tell me that was you?”

Maglor exhaled, slowly, and picked up his brandy. Firelight danced through the curved cut glass. “As is often the case, your “silly old tales” don't quite have it right.”

“Gracious, Maglor, I was joking.

Maglor gave the grim laugh that Bilbo often likened to the bark of a wolf. “Shall I tell you what happened? Then you can decide how to fit it into your book – if you want it there at all.”

“I think so.” Bilbo sucked on the end of his pipe. “Yes; I think you ought to tell me.” At that moment the kettle whistled, and Bilbo got to his feet. “But first, the tea.”

 


 

Many a lay is sung of Doriath's fall. Less is told of the soul of that land, and the power bound into its earth trees by Melian, its Queen.

Much, too, has been said of the Oath of the Sons of Fëanor, that drove deeds of surpassing evil. The Oath, some say, was a fell, fey thing – that it lived in the brothers like a demon from the Worlds before Time; that it curdled their souls and twisted their minds, and all but wielded their swords. Others hold that the demons were flesh and blood, and went by the names of the seven sons, and their choices were all their own. Still others say that both versions are true.

I will not pass judgement here.

Whatever the truth, more linked the brothers that night than mere bonds of blood and cause. Their minds were aflame and their fëar entwined – whether by Oath, or Girdle's echo, or power unknown, I could not say. They felt every blade that pierced their brothers, perceived every wild, deadly thought. When Celegorm, fairest of the seven, slid his knife into Curufin's heart, he knew he was sparing his brother a long, slow death from his wounds – but his own heart and his mind were broken. He had ever had the gift of speech with birds and beasts; in a fury wilder than storm or sea, he called to the forests around him, and set the birds after his enemies to rip them with talon and claw and beak.

But Celegorm the Hunter could not control what he had unleashed. A magic older and greater than his still slept in that land, and would not so easily be turned against those who dwelt there. The birds attacked Fëanorian and Doriathrim alike, and all fled in terror, arms flung up against the jabbing beaks. Some hid, and cast protective spells of their own. Some fell as they ran, and their eyes were pecked out, and their bellies gored, and their guts were pulled out through the wounds.

Crouched in a carven hollow in Menegroth's halls, Maglor felt it all, and he sang the enchantments to counter his brother's spell.

A touch on his mind like the fang of a wolf. What? Frightened, Makalaurë?

Fool, Maglor snarled back. Would you see us all dead?

In his mind he heard Celegorm's high, feral laugh.

Maglor closed his eyes and slid into the Song itself. Its chords tore through him like fire, and its strains shuddered with the flapping of dark wings – yet under that, Melian's magic still ran. Its silver threads bound each tree and animal and stone within Doriath's borders. It hissed with fury at Celegorm's spell, and it fought against it – but it could not contain it, try as it may. Maglor followed its strands through the Song's great web, finding each enchanted bird, and holding it fast with his music.

Celegorm's magic thrashed like a cornered beast. A breath; an emptying; a readying. Maglor let the Song burn within him, and he sent his command along Melian's own threads of power. ”Be gone.”

Silence fell. No wings were beating; no beaks stabbed and snapped. The birds had vanished, from the air and from the Song.

Maglor sank backwards, reeling. He felt cool stone on his skin, a scream of rage from Celegorm – and then, no more.

When he came to, the battle was over. There is no need to list the dead here, or proclaim the victors; that is all well-known. Of the incident with the birds, though, no records tell. Perhaps the strange alloy of powers at work that night caused Maglor's spell to do more than he meant; for many, the mere memory of the birds seemed to vanish, along with the birds themselves.

Still, when the survivors gathered to whisper their tales, some spoke of demons in the shape of shadow-birds, and a few of them murmured “gorcrow” – a word not found in any annal or bestiary predating Doriath's fall. But perhaps it means nothing – or perhaps it refers to the deeds of some who followed the sons of Fëanor. With rough hemp rope they strung their foes' bodies from trees, and left them for the crows to devour.

 


 

“Well.” Bilbo tapped the end of his pipe against his teeth. “I see.”

Do you? Maglor wondered. He leaned back in his rocking chair, and turned his gaze to the fire. The smell of cold tea rose from the cup on his left.

“Of course I knew most of the tales about Doriath already, from the archives in Rivendell.” A cloud of pipe-smoke puffed into view. “And from Elrond. And others. But I had not heard of the birds.”

Maglor said nothing.

At length, Bilbo spoke again. “Shall I tell you what I think?”

“I suspect that you are going to tell me, whether I will it or no.”

Bilbo chuckled. “You mistake me for Gandalf. I will keep my counsel if you prefer; I can hold my tongue, at need.”

Indeed you can, old friend. Maglor's eyes lingered on the top pocket of Bilbo's waistcoat, where the Hobbit's fingers often strayed. For a moment, something like recognition stirred in the depths of his mind – but no sooner had he tried to grasp it than it slid far away, like a laugh on the edge of the wind. “Speak your piece.”

“When I started this poem I was minded to set it in a kind of never-land – you see the names there, Mewlips and Merlock and Tode and so on? You won't find those on any map of Middle-earth, or in any bestiary either. I thought that perhaps I'd make out the enchanter had sent the crows on, and not entirely away, much as the Elves go on when they cross the Sea.”

“I can promise you that there are no gorcrows in the Undying Lands.”

“Yes. Well.” Bilbo reached for the kettle, and poured more hot water into the pot. “I shall include the poem, if you don't mind – the Mewlips and the gorcrows, and so on – but the never-land is where it all stays. I intend to be quite mysterious about it; I shall ascribe no author to the poem, and provide little in the way of explanatory notes. It would be a pity to include nothing, now that I know, but I've no wish to stir up old troubles that aren't my concern.”

Maglor smiled faintly. Outside there was a gentle tapping against the window. A bare vine clinging to Bag End's walls – no more than that.

“Now.” Bilbo poured out the tea, and straightened his sheaf of papers as though that put an end to the matter. “I believe we're both in need of something stronger than tea. I'll pour out more brandy – and then what say you we open some Old Winyards with dinner?”

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