Work Text:
”He wearied of it, too,” he begins his account. ”He gave up on the Oath, eventually.”
He laughs a little, voice hoarse from previous unuse. In his eyes, tears glitter at the memory.
”I had grown so very jaded by it, long ago. It seemed so... fruitless to me. My brother, he was more resolute with holding on to it, to the oath of our father but I could see how much it gnawed at him, too. It weighed him down like lead but he did not know how to stop. I could tell he needed my push to let it go. So, I begged him to let it go, and he did. I do not think he would have been able to do so, had I not fallen down to my knees, pleaded with my whole soul. But he did it for me, my clever fox. Together, it was possible for us to let go.”
He meets the eyes of his listener.
”It means that in the end, our father's gems of radiance of pure light were returned to the West, all three of them, allowed by our good grace, my brother’s and mine,” he says, raising his hands in the image of a benevolent saint. ”The two eldest sons of our father, the two sons remaining in exile in the land of the forsaken ones.” Then, as if on cue, his blissful look turns into something more resembling a smirk. ”I suppose, then, you will want to know what happened to us. I am certain you are curious of what we did afterwards, my brother and I.”
He pauses for a while, sighs happily.
”We decided to live by the coast. We still reside there. Our cottage is not too long from where we are, did you know that? It is a simple dwelling but it is enough for us. We lead a simple life now.”
”We married, too, you know. The way our kin does, over the sea. We may not be wed in the eyes of the holy ones, not truly, but we are by the customs of their blessed ones. Now that it is just us, we were able to do that. It was of importance to me that we did so. It always felt to me like there was a piece missing and I do believe marriage was that piece. I believe that now we are whole, now that we are as one.”
His expression darkens, a little.
”Naturally, it is not always easy, to go on with the kind of burden that we carry. Especially him, my brother, my husband. I know he never quite recovered from his years in captivity. I know that now. We pretended otherwise—very well, I will admit it, I did. I am certain he was better aware of it than I was. But you know how I could be, at times. A little lost on reality. I know my brother had less nice ways of putting it, turns of phrases he kept to himself. I can only imagine what they were.”
He lets out a wistful sigh.
”Reality is easier to bear, now, though. I am sure my love will agree—that it is easier, now, that I am doing better. We are doing better. I do believe that time will heal us, wash us clean of all oaths, aside from the one we swore to one another.”
”So. Now you know what became of us. And I should get back to our cottage, anyway. My love has been hunting. I hope he has caught rabbits. I do very much like rabbits. I did enjoy this little chat, however. I hope you did, too.”
The seagull tilts its head, stares at Maglor. He turns his gaze into the distance, to the sea, whose waves threaten to march over him, pulse by pulse. The seagull flies off, bolts to get out of the way of the rush of water, but Maglor stays. Covered in sea-weed, sand, sea-moss, salt.
He has not moved in a thousand years.
**
”Let it go, I beg of you,” Maglor had said. On his knees he was, hands clutching his brother's cloak. He was afraid, so very afraid. The glint in Maedhros's eyes terrified him, the pull of the Oath terrified him, the power of the valar terrified him, the thought of having to face anyone who had once known him terrified him.
All he could do was beg but it was not enough. It was not enough.
Nothing would ever be enough until they would hold the silmarils in their hands, or perish trying, it would seem. Maglor hated it but that was the way of the world, it seemed.
(What an awful word, what a cruel world. And if the world was Ilúvatar’s creation, how cruel and awful must he be? How could he allow his children to be capable of such? How was he supposed to put his faith in someone like him? Or the valar, Manwë above all, who was put up on a throne by someone so cruel?)
But. Despite his terror, despite his loathing. Still.
The thing was—after all those years, Maglor would still do anything for Maedhros, so he followed him, did as he was told. If Maedhros was still pulled forward by the Oath, Maglor would be, too.
If Maedhros devised a plan to creep up into the camp of the army of the valar and steal the silmarils, Maglor would be right there beside him, as his right hand, no matter what it would take.
No matter what it would take.
At first, all went according to plan. They proceeded unseen, made it quite far amidst the tents. They were like wraiths, Maglor thought, like mere shadows. Harbingers of doom and death and bloodshed. They proceeded in silently, and Maglor listened to the chatter coming from inside the tents.
How strange, how jarring, was it to hear quenya spoken out loud, by someone other than Maedhros and himself. The quenya of Valinor, no less. Every time he heard the lilt of a vanyarin accent, he felt like suffocating.
Of course, their luck in that regard ran out, eventually. Of course, they were detected by someone, eventually.
And, in a cruel joke played by fate, the someone had to be someone they knew.
Maedhros halted, in a jolting motion, and Maglor gasped, slightly behind him.
Panyarë.
She looked lovely in her gilded armor, Maglor had to admit. He could remember, now, what had pulled him to her in the first place. Her effortless sort of beauty and grace, the way she could take up any spot and make it seem like she belonged.
Her armor was spotless, though, aside from some minor specks of grit. It felt sort of fitting, that she was here but had not seemed to face true battle. She was no warrior, after all. No matter what she had been made to believe, when she had been recruited to the cause.
She did not seem surprised to see them, either. She nodded, ever so slightly, and rectified her stance. To someone else, she might have been perfectly comfortable in her skin, in the situation, but Maglor could see the tiniest tells of fear, and uncertainty.
”Eonwë suspected you might come,” were her words of greeting. She was looking at Maedhros, at the front of their little leaguer, and Maglor could not blame her. It made it all so much easier, to direct her words at Maedhros.
Maglor, perhaps, should have addressed her, or Maedhros, should have done something, anything, but he felt completely and utterly frozen in place.
”Panyarë,” Maedhros said, sorrow and anger in his voice. ”Please, get out of my way.”
”You know I cannot, Nelyafinwë. Hanno.”
Maglor could tell what she was doing, he knew Maedhros could, too. But the appeal to his brother’s goodness, compassion, benevolence, it did not work. There was only the Oath, now. Maglor watched as Maedhros charged forward, towards his wife—how odd, how distant the word, the very thought of her felt, though he did know he had loved her once, in a way—and she had not budged, had not stepped out of the way.
Swords clashed, blows were exchanged and their blades sang but of course, Panyarë had nothing on Maedhros. She was no fighter, no matter what righteousness and belief in the cause the ainur had cast in her. She may have had spirit but nothing like the slow fire burning inside of Maedhros, fueled by his wretched oath.
Panyarë had time to cast one last look at Maglor, and had dared to make it one of pity. In his current state, it made Maglor feel nothing but he knew that once upon a time, it may have filled him with anger. He could sense that it did so to Maedhros, at least.
Then, as Maedhros’s blade found her neck, slashed her jugular, Maglor watched her eyes go dark as her body crumpled onto the ground. Idly, Maglor supposed it must be what shock felt like—a numbing hollowness, the dreadful lack of fear and guilt.
Maglor had just stood there. Maedhros had cast a sword through his wife's neck, and he had just stood there.
**
”We have them,” Maedhros kept chanting, then wailing, then croaking as the silmaril in his hand burned. Maglor felt next to nothing nothing in his shock and some part of him wantsed to tell Maedhros to shut up. It was all going sideways and Maglor had no idea how to fix it. In truth, he suspected they had reached a point of no return, a point where nothing could be fixed, anymore.
”It burns, Káno, it burns,” Maedhros screamed, or tried to, the fire burning his throat, now. He must have been in great agony, as should have Maglor.
He looked at the silmaril in his hand, the other one that they stole, that Maglor took from the tent as Maedhros took the other, as they had slain all the guards. The hand holding it was scorched black, and shook like a leaf. He blinked, wondered why he cannot feel it.
”What have we done, Russo?” Maglor asked, his voice hollow.
”Oh, Káno,” Maedhros whimpered. ”It burns, it burns, it burns…”
”What have we done?”
”It burns, it burns, it burns…”
After Maedhros threw himself into the chasm, screaming and eyes unlike anything Maglor has ever seen, Maglor began running. He ran until he reached the sea. He did not quite expect to find comfort there—he understood then that he was beyond such things—but it felt like the only place to go to.
He sank into his knees on the sand, and understood that he was all alone. Maedhros was dead, and he was all alone. There was no going back. Never again. Slowly, then all at once, the weight of it all hit him. The horror, the regret, the crippling comprehension. Tears started falling from his eyes, along his chin and along his neck and down, down, down. His hand was turned to something thin and horrific that resembles a scorched branch all the way to his elbow, at that point. Somehow, he was still clutching the silmaril.
When the tears hit his hand, it stung. The pain came. He screamed, bewildered, and flung the silmaril to the sea. The aquamarine waves glittered magnificently as the jewel sank.