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endless_natteringsDay 3 Prompt: The Dead Marshes
Summary: The marshes are not a place for the living. Still, there are candles lit amongst the will-o-wisps and the ghostly faces.
Characters: Maglor (going by another name at this point in his life)
Warnings: Mentions of dead bodies. Implied depression. (If I'm missing any warnings do let me know)
Author's note: I feel that if Maglor was still wandering the beaches we would probably know more about his whereabouts/what he's doing (if only to have confirmation that everything remains the same), so hiding out in a place like the marshes would be something he'd at least consider at some point. He's referred to as crow/raven in Sindarin in this.
The dead belong to no one. No matter what kind they are, no matter who they once were sworn to, the moment their consciousness is gone, their body is left an empty shell for the world to claim.
Except, in a place such as this. There is no claiming to be had in the marsh, no slow decay into the earth. The peat and silt preserve the flesh, as though it were frozen in time. The marshes, therefore, chiefly belong to the dead; the only ones who, willingly or not, would deign to make a home here.
And yet…
Craban had likely been called something else before this, something better suited to a child meant to grow into a person with loved ones to call out for him. But now, Craban suited the few interactions with the living he still had, and all life before this had been too long ago for any other name but this one to sing true to him. It is not as though the dead he keeps mind either way.
It is not too long past dawn when he wakes, skin warm and clammy from the humid heat in the room. The air around is always too wet, and he runs cold enough in his sleep to have the bad habit of leaving the fire burning a bit too strong overnight. But he lives alone, and the dead do not complain.
His routine is simple; starting off with a wash by the old copper basin resting on the table near the bed. The water carries the same milky gray film the pools outside do, but it does its job well enough. Then he breaks his fast, a small meal of dark bread and dried leathery fruit.
His clothing follows the same plain trend. An undyed woolen tunic and the hose to go beneath. His boots are worn but sturdy, the sort of soft leather that molds itself to your feet; and then the gloves, those are important, to hide his hands and the fright they give people at times.
Finally, he dons a thick hooded cloak, to guard off both windchill and unwanted stares. Not that there are many who dare wander through these parts.
Tools in hand, Craban steps out the door. He does not lock it behind him nor does he take care to see that it closes well. There is nothing in his hut worth coveting or stealing after all. And it is not as though his neighbors are the visiting sort.
He starts his rounds in the north-east, clearing dead leaves and fallen reeds with the sun rising at his back. It’s monotonous work, the sort of tedium that repeats itself day in and day out. Sometimes, he stops to try and brush the hair out a floating face’s eyes, it does not matter that he fails.
The only truly delicate part of his chore comes after; made difficult by the flat, windy nature of the marsh, and the absence of good beeswax or cotton anywhere to be found. But what he lacks in resources he makes up for in practice and patience. With careful, steady hands he lights the candles dotting the paths. All one thousand seven hundred and twenty nine of them. By the time he’s done the sun has sunken into the horizon. Shortly he’ll head back to his hut, and sleep before starting his work anew.
But first, he sits on an old moss ridden stump, and watches the sky and how his own candles mimic the stars above. Sometimes he laughs, sometimes he tells old stories he cannot quite remember where he first heard them from.
Sometimes he sings. On those nights he can almost hear the dead sing back.
Those old bodies who belong to no one and nowhere anymore, someone ought to tend to them. And, if it would not be too prideful of him to admit, most days he believes he does the job well enough.
It's honestly a bit of a struggle to reread older stuff (even if it's not even a year old) because I keep having to stop myself from editing to change it to how I would do it now. But that would defeat the purpose of archiving things.The dead belong to no one. No matter what kind they are, no matter who they once were sworn to, the moment their consciousness is gone, their body is left an empty shell for the world to claim.
Except, in a place such as this. There is no claiming to be had in the marsh, no slow decay into the earth. The peat and silt preserve the flesh, as though it were frozen in time. The marshes, therefore, chiefly belong to the dead; the only ones who, willingly or not, would deign to make a home here.
And yet…
Craban had likely been called something else before this, something better suited to a child meant to grow into a person with loved ones to call out for him. But now, Craban suited the few interactions with the living he still had, and all life before this had been too long ago for any other name but this one to sing true to him. It is not as though the dead he keeps mind either way.
It is not too long past dawn when he wakes, skin warm and clammy from the humid heat in the room. The air around is always too wet, and he runs cold enough in his sleep to have the bad habit of leaving the fire burning a bit too strong overnight. But he lives alone, and the dead do not complain.
His routine is simple; starting off with a wash by the old copper basin resting on the table near the bed. The water carries the same milky gray film the pools outside do, but it does its job well enough. Then he breaks his fast, a small meal of dark bread and dried leathery fruit.
His clothing follows the same plain trend. An undyed woolen tunic and the hose to go beneath. His boots are worn but sturdy, the sort of soft leather that molds itself to your feet; and then the gloves, those are important, to hide his hands and the fright they give people at times.
Finally, he dons a thick hooded cloak, to guard off both windchill and unwanted stares. Not that there are many who dare wander through these parts.
Tools in hand, Craban steps out the door. He does not lock it behind him nor does he take care to see that it closes well. There is nothing in his hut worth coveting or stealing after all. And it is not as though his neighbors are the visiting sort.
He starts his rounds in the north-east, clearing dead leaves and fallen reeds with the sun rising at his back. It’s monotonous work, the sort of tedium that repeats itself day in and day out. Sometimes, he stops to try and brush the hair out a floating face’s eyes, it does not matter that he fails.
The only truly delicate part of his chore comes after; made difficult by the flat, windy nature of the marsh, and the absence of good beeswax or cotton anywhere to be found. But what he lacks in resources he makes up for in practice and patience. With careful, steady hands he lights the candles dotting the paths. All one thousand seven hundred and twenty nine of them. By the time he’s done the sun has sunken into the horizon. Shortly he’ll head back to his hut, and sleep before starting his work anew.
But first, he sits on an old moss ridden stump, and watches the sky and how his own candles mimic the stars above. Sometimes he laughs, sometimes he tells old stories he cannot quite remember where he first heard them from.
Sometimes he sings. On those nights he can almost hear the dead sing back.
Those old bodies who belong to no one and nowhere anymore, someone ought to tend to them. And, if it would not be too prideful of him to admit, most days he believes he does the job well enough.
