One In the Fires of the Heart of the World by Isilme_among_the_stars  

Relief and Regret

Maedhros had not expected the searing pain. The jewel branded him none-the-less.

Unclean. Evil.

Though weary and deeply regretful, he had never considered himself thus. Stained, perhaps. Broken, certainly. But not evil. There had been no comprehension of having sunk so low. Even after all that had come to pass, Maedhros still considered that at his core he was fundamentally good, even if it were buried under a multitude of sins. But the jewel burned, and the anguish of being unworthy of it was too much to bear. With no more illusions, no more purpose to fill, all that was left to him was despair.

The despair wasn’t new. He had lived with its shadow for an age. But now, stripped bare of all else that he had clung to, its black maw opened before him, drawing him inexorably in. He chose instead to be swallowed by flame.

What was a little more heat when he already burned? He hadn’t reckoned on its exponential curve of intensity. He had not known it possible for pain to so far surpass even that of hanging from Thangorodrim. Even his bones felt incandescent. He would have screamed had there been air in his lungs. They instead expanded with pure, molten heat. This unbearable brightness was far beyond agony.

Then suddenly, all stopped.

Awareness remained, softened but somehow unfathomably deep, now that the flow of sensation had ceased. And his awareness, awash in an encompassing sea of relief, resounded with one thought.

I am free of it.

The relief did not last long.

He no longer had eyes to see with, nor skin to feel, and yet he could perceive. What he perceived first, of course, was Maglor. His brother’s fëa was now jagged with pain and anger, rising in peaks above the dark waters of sorrow with an undercurrent of fear that ever had their home in his soul these past centuries. Once, it had been like a clear, melodious stream.

Images came to him, of his brother’s face cast in umber by the light that spilled from the crack in the earth. How at the last moment Maglor had thrown himself forward, arms out, too late. The wildness in his eyes, his hair tossed about by the rising heat in the air, was seared onto Maedhros’s soul.

Then came guilt and regret. For then he remembered Maglor had no one left to him in the world. Instinctively he reached out, just as he had done many times before. Without thinking, Maglor welcomed him.

His thoughts were not words precisely. But the shape of them was this: You are dear to me still. I do not wish to leave you alone in the world. I am sorry.

The tides of Maglor’s sorrow boiled and crashed, inflamed by fury. Yet tossed to the surface like seafoam there was still pity, and the shape of it was this: Go. I grieve the suffering you may find in Mandos. Yet do not linger, for perhaps by small chance, hope still there remains.

Mandos indeed already called him, a light yet insistent tug within.

To Maglor he conveyed assent, even as he anchored himself to his brother still a while longer with a firm yet warm thread of care. He tried to be stillness, the unmoving foundation of rock that he had been in earlier days. Maglor accepted this. He smoothed around him, as disturbed waters whose want is to return to stillness. The great burgundy towers of his anger sunk slowly below them, though Maglor was still shot through with bright, white, streaks of pain. When at last the waters becalmed, Maedhros realised they had travelled to the shores of the sea. His brother tasted salt and heard crashing waves.

The call of Mandos grew stronger.

From Maglor came the shape of a sad smile and his long, skillful fingers regretfully untying knots to release the thread of care that bound them. Then came a singular wave pushing him gently but firmly to the shore. Thus, Maedhros finally left, and allowed the summons to drag him down into the dark.