Chapter Text
“Uncle seems awfully pissed for having gotten what he wanted,” were the first words Maglor spoke once his gag was removed.
Finrod, who had entered the dark little room alone and stared at Maglor for several long minutes before deciding to remove the gag, merely sighed.
Maglor still wasn’t certain why he was on the boat. That the Valar would let him return at all seemed suspect, although, it seemed fitting that they were letting him return when he finally had a reason to stay.
“I promised Elrond I wouldn’t leave him!” he had shouted when Eonwe had told him that the Valar’s offer of a second chance wasn’t optional. It seemed Maglor’s uncle had gotten involved, and convinced the Valar that, as Maglor’s kin, the Feanorian should fall under his jurisdiction. Maglor had no idea how he had convinced the Valar or even why since Arafinwe had only looked at him once, with barely restrained hatred.
Finrod seemed hesitant to explain. Of Maglor’s few remaining relatives, he was the only one who still spoke with the Feanorian, even if it had only been a quiet “Hello Kanafinwe” when he had been dragged onto the ship. Even Finarfin had refused to speak to him, looking straight past Maglor and telling Finrod to tell Maglor to behave. Since Finrod had passed on the message, no one had spoken directly to him and he had been left in the damp room by himself.
Until the door had opened and Finrod had stepped inside, as beautiful and pristine as he had ever been in Valinor. Bound and gagged before him, Maglor had felt tainted. Even with the gag removed, because his song magic had never worked properly on Finrod, he still felt tainted.
“He wanted to help you,” the prince said finally. He pulled a chair close to Maglor’s narrow cot and sat, staring at the Feanorian with an unreadable expression.
Maglor sneered. “Well, I didn’t want it.”
Finrod glanced away for a moment, back toward the door he had just entered. “He feared they would kill or harm you, after you took the Silmarils,” Finrod explained. “He bartered with Lord Manwe, saying that he wanted you to return with him as the Valar’s thanks for his help in defeating Melkor.”
Maglor snorted, trying to imagine anyone - let alone his uncle - begging Manwe for his life. Maglor certainly wouldn’t have begged for his own life. “I imagine that was embarrassing.”
“It was only after they agreed to pardon you, that someone told him he should have asked for my sister’s pardon instead.”
Maglor froze.
Finrod’s eyes shone with worry and perhaps a few unshed tears. “He was so worried about what was going to be done to you, that he didn’t think to ask about her.”
“She loves Arda-” Maglor began.
“They may never let her return, you know.” Finrod’s sapphire eyes shown with concern. “They say she was too eager to leave, too hungry for power.”
“We all were!” Maglor shouted.
“I wasn’t.”
“Well we can’t all be perfect!”
For a moment, the cousins sat in silence. The boat swayed and the voices above them continued on, blissfully unaware of the princes’ argument.
Then Finrod said “Don’t shout, Kanafinwe,” and stood, moving slowly toward the door.
Maglor, attached to the wall by one wrist, watched him go apprehensively. The room he’d been taken to was dark and damp, and he was chained to the wall and completely defenseless if anyone else were to come looking for him. At least Finrod wasn’t liable to hurt him. He deserved to be harmed, but that was a guilt he wouldn’t wish on anyone else. Of course, he had been alone before Finrod had entered, but that didn’t mean he wanted a repeat.
“I am not leaving you,” promised Finrod. He opened a chest beside the door, removing a smaller wooden box from it and then approaching Maglor. He placed it in front of Maglor, then pulled a chair toward the Feanorian, sitting in front of him. “Let me see your hand.”
Maglor nodded to his right wrist, twisted awkwardly above his head and secured to the wall. “There it is.”
Finrod smiled, but it was cool and had too many teeth to be truly reassuring. “Your other hand.”
They’d only bothered to chain one of Maglor’s wrists, despite the presence of two manacles, because when the guard had tried to touch his left wrist he’d screamed in pain and Finrod had ordered the man to stop. Maglor had tucked his burned hand deep into his robes and tried to pretend it didn’t exist.
The pain made that difficult, and the thought of Finrod touching it again made his stomach churn.
“Shall I fetch a guard to restrain you?” Finrod wasn’t joking, his eyes narrowed slightly. Apparently Maglor had no say in any part of his fate anymore.
Slowly, Maglor removed his hand from his robes. The flesh of his hand was charred and blackened, he could no longer move his fingers, and they curled slightly inward, as if still wrapped around a ghostly Silmaril. But it had been wrapped carefully, by someone who loved him, and he loathed to see the work undone.
Finrod winced sympathetically.
He carefully took ahold of Maglor’s arm, several inches away from his wrist, and pulled his it into his lap. “I need to clean this.”
“Give me something to bite on.” The last thing he wanted was a broken tooth from gritting his jaw, or for the elves outside to hear him screaming and think Finrod was torturing him. As much as Maglor knew he would deserve it, he didn’t want to harm Finrod’s reputation anymore than he already had.
Finrod gave him a sedative, despite Maglor’s belief that it wouldn’t help a cursed wound, and then offered him a thick leather glove to hold between his teeth.
Then he poured liquid over the burn.
Only his shackled arm stopped Maglor from fleeing from the pain.
His uninjured hand clenched and he threw his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. Short, rapid breaths neither dulled the pain nor provided him with enough oxygen, and soon Maglor was light headed.
The world seemed to spin around him, both too loud and not loud enough, and it took a very long time before he realized that his hand was once again tucked on his chest and there was a hand on his cheek, the glove having been pried from his mouth. “It did not need much,” Finrod was saying, cupping Maglor’s sweaty cheek. “Someone bandaged it well.”
“Elrond.” His voice was a rasp, barely audible above the creak of the boat. “Elrond bandaged it- I- I must go back to him, Findarato. Please-“
Finrod hushed him with a finger pressed to Maglor’s lips, changing the subject quickly. “Let me brush your hair,” he said quietly. “You’ve got twigs in it, cousin.”
Maglor panted as he leaned against the wall, although his hand hurt much less than when Finrod had attempted to clean it, it still ached.
And tears threatened the corners of his eyes, a lump in his throat making it still difficult to breath.
He didn’t hear the rattle of keys, or feel Finrod’s hand on the manacle. As his wrist was released, he fell into a slump.
Finrod sighed and pulled him upright, turning Maglor to sit in front of him and face away. A comb began to run through his tangled hair. “Don’t tell father I unchained you, he seems to be of the opinion you’re like a rabid dog. Or, that is what he is telling everyone, anyway. I doubt he truly believes it.”
“I promised him,” Maglor whispered.
Finrod paused. “Promised father?” he asked, sounding tired. “What did you promise my father, Kanafinwe? Stop promising people things and swearing oaths, damn it!”
“Elrond,” Maglor whispered and Finrod sighed. “I have to go back- Fin- I have-“
“You cannot go back,” there was a bite to Finrod’s voice, something that was so unlike his patient cousin. “You are to sail with us to Valinor and this time, Kanafinwe, you are staying in Valinor.”
“He is my son-“
“You kidnapped him,” said Finrod firmly, his hands moving briskly through Maglor’s hair, not pausing when he hit a tangle or ripped a strand from his scalp.
“I love him.”
“Then let him go. He will be better off starting anew, away from you.”
Away from you.
A handkerchief was pressed into his good hand, but he didn’t move. Finrod sighed and wrapped his hand around Maglor’s lifting it to the Feanorians face and gently wiping at his tears.
Maglor hadn’t even noticed that he had begun to weep.
There would be no escape, he realized, no way to run back to Arda. The Griding Ice, he had been told, had begun to sink into the Sea, and the waters were too treacherous for any ship not blessed by the Valar.
A son of Feanor would never again walk the paths of Arda and Maglor would never again see his son or visit the graves of his father and brothers.
When he finally found his voice, it was little more than a whisper, “I’m alone.”
“You are not alone, Kanafinwe,” said Finrod, and a bit of gentleness returned to his voice. He stopped fighting with Maglor’s hair, instead placing his head on Maglor’s shoulder, pulling the Feanorian to his chest. “I will not allow that.”
Maglor said nothing, just leaned his head back and allowed his tired muscles to give in, going limp in Finrod’s arms.