Silhouettes of Doom by Ecthelion  

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Maglor

Maglor knew precisely where his elder brother would not be—Maedhros would not remain in the blood-soaked halls of Menegroth, sifting through the carnage in search of a Silmaril.

The echoes of slaughter still rang in his mind, a brutal, maddening refrain. Blood had seeped through his armor, soaking his garments—cold, clinging, and foul, its touch stirring revulsion deep within him. Yet, strangely, he did not feel sickened. His insides seemed to have turned to stone—numb, unyielding.

This time, it was not the Teleri but the Sindar.

The tragedy of another time and place rose unbidden in his memory, the players and stage hauntingly alike: Teleri and Sindar, Alqualondë and Menegroth.

If we are cursed, what of them?

He did not linger on the thought; he knew no answer would come.

The winter snow crunched under his mechanical steps, yet he did not look back at his own footprints. The path ahead told him all he needed to know of their color.

He recognized the tracks before him. Only one person could take strides so long, the distance between the marks unmistakable. Yet, as he followed them to the clearing and caught sight of the familiar copper-red hair, a shiver coursed through him. Amid the stark whiteness of snow, the deep blacks of shadow, and the cold greys of stone, that vivid red blazed like fire—like blood.

He recalled how Maedhros had once braided that striking copper hair, much like their cousin Fingon, who had fallen at the Nirnaeth. But after Thangorodrim, Maedhros had abandoned the practice—braiding required two hands. Proud as he was, Maedhros could not bear to display such helplessness before others. Since then, those rare and splendid locks had simply fallen loose over his shoulders.

Maglor halted at a respectful distance. Maedhros, undoubtedly aware of his presence, neither moved nor spoke to acknowledge him.

Does he already know? Maglor wondered. Yet the answer mattered little—his duty was to report, even if none of what he carried could offer a glimmer of hope. He hesitated, words eluding him as the silence between them deepened, pressing heavily upon his heart. At last, unable to endure its weight, he found his voice.

“Maitimo, we have not found the Silmaril.”

Maedhros gave no response. Then he already knows, Maglor thought. His brother’s stillness was too absolute, his composure too impenetrable.

“Dior is dead,” Maglor continued, his tone dry and brittle. “He killed Celegorm, and Curufin killed him.” Only as the words left his lips did he realize he had spoken their Sindarin names. The old, affectionate nicknames felt impossible to utter now. Every syllable would summon memories too vivid to endure—voices and faces once so familiar, bright as yesterday, now fading into the abyss of silence.

“Nimloth, wife of Dior, is also dead. She slew Curufin with a dagger forged by our father.”

At last, Maedhros stirred, the smallest movement disturbing his stillness. Maglor braced himself, wrestling to maintain his composure beneath the weight of his own words.

“Caranthir fell in the chaos as well. The Sindar fought fiercely.”

As he gazed at the figure before him, seemingly turned once more to living stone, Maglor felt his words harden in his throat, each one a struggle to force into the silence.

“And the Silmaril… its whereabouts remain unknown. Dior’s three children are missing, and it is reasonable to assume they have fled with the Jewel. Celegorm’s herald, Lachodir, is searching for them and will report to me as soon as there is news—”

“I will see to it myself.”

Maedhros turned abruptly, cutting him off. His face, pale as snow, bore streaks of dried, darkened blood. Yet his eyes burned with an unnatural brilliance, as though the fire within him had broken through the fragile shell of his flesh, its searing heat and piercing light almost unbearable in their intensity. Beneath that blazing, icy gaze, Maglor could only nod, though a question rose unbidden in his mind: Is the Silmaril all you care about, Maitimo?

Whether Maedhros read his thoughts, Maglor could not tell. He had made no effort to guard his mind, though he doubted his brother had bothered to probe it. Maedhros spoke again, his voice so calm it bordered on apathy:  “Is there anything else?”

Do you truly mean that? Anger surged in Maglor’s chest, his blood roaring in his ears. For a fleeting moment, he nearly succumbed to the impulse to seize his brother and shake him violently. Perhaps we came for the Silmaril, but after such bloodshed, is the Jewel truly all that matters? You can disregard the fallen Sindar in Menegroth, but what of our kin—our brothers? Do their lives mean nothing to you?

His breath quickened, and this time, Maedhros noticed. Their gazes locked, and after a moment of silence, Maedhros’ lips tightened. When he spoke again, his tone had softened, a faint crack running through his iron restraint. “You misunderstand me.”

“What do I misunderstand?” Maglor’s retort burst forth before he could think, sharper and harsher than even he had intended. “You want the Silmaril, Maitimo, is that not it? All you care about is its fate! Then wait for Lachodir to bring you word, because I cannot give you an answer now.”

Maedhros’ jaw tightened. For a fleeting moment, Maglor thought he might erupt in fury, but the fire seemed to die as quickly as it had risen. The flame guttered, leaving behind only ash.

“I do not trust that servant of Celegorm’s to find those children.”

The statement was simple, yet each word struck Maglor like a hammer. He stared, speechless. To anyone else, the words might have seemed unremarkable, but Maglor knew his brother too well to miss the exhaustion and bitterness woven through them.

“As for the Silmaril—at least we tried.”

How could this be? Maglor wondered. Maedhros was their leader, the steadfast anchor of the House of Fëanor. Since his rescue from Thangorodrim, he had never shown even the faintest trace of weakness.

“At least we have learned,” Maedhros said at last, his voice hollow, “that the sons of Fëanor can die too.”

 

He could not recall how he came to be sitting; only that he found himself on a tree stump in the clearing, while Maedhros knelt beside him on one knee, his unmaimed left arm encircling his shoulders. To be fair, that arm was a little stiff—but that was to be expected. The eldest son of Fëanor was not known for tenderness.

Shame burned within him. Amid the carnage of the battlefield, with three brothers awaiting burial and two younger ones searching in vain, here he sat, his face wet with tears.

Am I too weak... too much a hypocrite? he wondered, trembling as he tried to summon the courage to face the truth. Had he grown complacent in the role of a follower, trading obedience for the illusion of peace, relying on others to shoulder responsibility? Only moments ago, he had burned with anger at Maedhros for his coldness and harsh decisions, casting blame as though he were a mere innocent bystander. But did he truly stand on the moral high ground? Could he even claim such a right?

The truth was always hard to confront. The blood of Alqualondë, the flames of Losgar... and now the slaughter of Menegroth. Perhaps he could argue that Alqualondë had been a tragic accident. But what of Losgar? When their father had ordered the burning of the Telerin ships, had he truly agreed? If not, what had he done? He could have acted, however futile it might have been—just as Maedhros had. If guilt had truly weighed upon him, why had his actions this time been no different?

The reality was inescapable: he, too, was a son of Fëanor.

Now he understood: Maedhros must wrestle with these contradictions even more than he. As the second son, Maglor could console himself with the excuse that he was merely following his elder brother’s lead. But Maedhros had no such refuge. The histories might claim that it was Celegorm who had stirred them to this course—but was that truly the case? Even if others believed it, would Maedhros believe it himself?

The burden of making decisions that shaped the lives of others was a heavy one, and Maglor realized that he and his brothers, knowingly or not, had always placed that weight upon Maedhros.

In that moment, he wanted to embrace his brother—not out of guilt or shame alone, but from a deep well of sympathy and understanding. But Maitimo would not welcome it, he thought. Maitimo never asks for sympathy or understanding. And yet, was that not another tragedy? That even between brothers, bound by blood, the pain and struggles they endured could not be shared—offered up instead to pride and dignity.

Perhaps... that was yet another layer of the curse.

“Let us go back,” Maedhros said at last, and for once, Maglor thought he heard something almost gentle in his voice. His eyes stung, and he bit his lip, nodding silently. As they began the journey back, he chose not to follow behind his brother as he always had, but instead walked beside him.

“Are you still writing that song?”

After a long silence, Maedhros spoke. Maglor glanced up, surprised, but Maedhros’ face had already returned to its familiar, stoic mask, showing no trace of emotion.

“Yes,” Maglor replied softly. “I am.”

Maedhros said nothing more, his gaze fixed on the distant edge of the forest. Beneath the blanket of snow, the frozen Esgalduin lay mute and still. Maglor thought they would walk all the way back to Menegroth in silence. But then, Maedhros spoke again:

“Then I suppose this place will serve as yet another inspiration.”

 

-End-

Chapter End Notes

The song, as we all know, is the Noldolantë.

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