Lenwë Calmcacil, Lord of Sêmyon Mûr – Part 3: Maeglin Calmcacil

by Mar 28, 2003Stories

Maeglin Calmcacil, son of Lenwë Calmcacil, unsheathed his sword, Tathar, and his beloved white elven blade, Rúmil. His elven ears pricked up at every slight vibration in the air of the pleasant forest of Turgon Mûr. His fifteen opponents lay around him in every direction. Hearing the drawback of a bow, he raised Rúmil just in time to parry a blow inteded to pierce his heart. This was all Maeglin needed. Launching himself into the air, he hurled him towards the direction of which the arrow came. Driving Tathar into the bush in which his opponent was hidden, Maeglin heard and felt the clash of steel-on-steel. Knowing that his blow was parried, he leaped onto a nearby treebranch. Another arrow was shot at him, and another. He dodged the first arrow but had to swiftly spin around to block the other one. Losing his balance momenterily, he fell backwards off the tree. Quickly judging his surroundings, he aimed Rúmil at the branch he had just been upon. Clinging on to the mithril dagger, Maeglin was assaulted by three opponents. Using his 3,000 years of learning to his advantage, he parried all the blows launched at him with ease. Dropping to the ground, Maeglin received a small graze from his attackers missed bow shot. Seeing one of his attackers running towards him, Maeglin drew Haldamir, his throwing dagger, and hurled it. Aiming not to kill, the magical dagger sliced through its victims cloak and clung it tightly on to a tree. With his opponent stuck, Maeglin threw four hard blows at him with Tathar. Holding his hands up, his victim surrendered.

“Childs play,” Maeglin smirked.

“Maeglin!” a voice shouted.

“Yes father!” he answered, obviously recognising the voice.

” Your training is over for today!” Lenwë shouted.

“Yes father!” he replied. Leaving the training grounds, he joined his father for lunch. upon entering, he saw two strange men sat at the table.

“You must be Maeglin!” one said, with a strange accent.

“Who’s asking?” he replied, rudely.

“Maeglin!” Lenwë said, sternly.” these are our guests, not our servants.They come from the west of Middle-earth.”

“Where’s Gwindor?” Maeglin asked, after all, Gwindor was his younger cousin.

“I have exiled him,” Lenwë said, slowly and harshly.

A feeling of nostalgia and sickness came across Maeglin’s stomach, and slipping away from concioucness, fell on the floor, longing for his life-long friend.


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