One in the Deep Waters by Isilme_among_the_stars  

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Pain and Sorrow

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The earth groaned and shrieked as great sheets of rock shifted against each other. Maglor cried out too, though amid the tumults of the earth, he didn’t heard his voice. A great rumbling from below set the ground quaking. If he had not already been on his knees, it would have driven him onto them. It wasn’t safe here. Of course it wasn’t. That was precisely why Maedhros had come, was it not?

He should leave, Maglor knew. He should crawl away from the chasm until the ground beneath him was steady enough to stand upon and then run far, far from this place. He could not bring himself to move, nor draw his gaze away from the point Maedhros disappeared below.  The abruptness of his brother’s leap had bound Maglor to a place between past and present. An impossible place that at once curbed all possibility of catching his brother’s arm and hauling him to safety, and left him unable to think beyond doing so.

They had fought for years. Against Morgoth. For the Silmarils. Until suddenly two were in their grasp, and the hosts of Eonwë would fight them no more. Then Maedhros had run from the victor’s camp, and Maglor had followed, as he always had done. They had run until to the very edge of the precipice, and his brother had kept running.

Had Maedhros meant for Maglor to follow him even into the cracks of the earth?

In the wreckage that was his family, Maglor was now utterly alone. Was it any wonder he could not move? The jewel still burned in his hand, but it was, in that moment, as nothing compared to the splinters that pierced his heart. Fury and sorrow so sharp that it hurt to breathe. Then, just at the point he thought he might break apart, a presence drew close, burning fierce and bright, like a beacon in the darkness.

Maedhros.

Maglor bent his mind toward it, desperate for the warmth it shed. Its shape, oh so familiar, was love, shared sorrow, and steely grey eyes he would never look into again. Maglor swallowed anger that came unbidden and found at the heart of it was sadness. He knew Maedhros should go, that he must council him to journey to Mandos as the Valar intended. Yet when his brother delayed, clinging to Maglor as if their fingers twined together, he was glad. He was not alone. Not yet. With his brother tucked close he could breathe once more. Maglor lifted his chin, and still crouched close to the shuddering earth, took a faltering step forward.

What remained of Beleriand unclaimed by the sea was near unrecognisable. Eonwë had achieved in fifty years what the combined might of the exiles and their allies had been unable to in five hundred, but at a terrible cost. Locked in a devastating struggle, their minds set only on each other, Morgoth and Eonwë had wounded the earth beyond repair. Morgoth had torn great fissures in its skin then sent boiling rock and noxious clouds roiling through the land. Eonwë had started the floods, changing the courses of the rivers to put out the fires. Forest came crashing down amid both. The lands had become treacherous to traverse and were dangerous still. Though for most part, they had at least stilled, no longer as changeful as the sea. Trees had begun to grow again.

Maglor drifted through the ruined landscape, heedless, not knowing where he should go, only that if he stopped walking fury and sorrow would overwhelm him once more. Amid the young forest, where saplings pushed up between the trunks of fallen giants, it was as quiet as the chasm had been loud. Eärendil looked down as he journeyed, the brightest of the stars that shone through the thin canopy. Mocking him perhaps, Maglor thought, as pain, magnified by silence, lanced up his arm and took up residence in his shoulder.

How much longer can I hold it?

He dared not put the jewel down, so he kept walking. Solace came only from the steady beat of his feet against the ground, tramping down pain, and the anger that still threated to well up and spill over. If only Maglor could keep the beat, focus on it to the exclusion of all other things, perhaps he could hold it forever. 

The beat went on, and time went on, day, night, sun, moon and sun again. Time and distance blurred into one endless, monotonous song, punctuated by the beats of his feet. Maglor did not know how long or far he walked. Only with the sounds of waves came the realisation that he had turned West. Their melody, a lullaby of tumbled rocks cascading in the shallows with every outbreath of the sea, drowned out all else. The beat was not needed anymore.

Maglor stopped.

Such was his relief that as he sat on the rocky shore easing his aching feet, a laugh burst forth. Gazing toward the bright horizon, Maglor untangled Maedhros’s awareness from his own and gently sent him forth. Sorrow flooded him once more. He joined his voice with that of the sea. The more the pain grew, the louder he sang. When he could sing no longer, he paced the shore, and when he could walk no longer, he sang again.

“Maglor!”

The familiar voice echoed across his awareness; another ghost come to haunt him. Was it Elrond, or Elros? He couldn’t be sure. Both had joined with the hosts that marched on Morgoth and should be with them still. Neither could be here, could they? Maglor let the sound fade away without acknowledging it.

“Lindelíso!”

That was a name he hadn’t heard for some time.

Elros had chosen it. “Beware of that one,” he had whispered to Elrond as Maglor lead them, singing as he did so, up the Sirion river, “his song is like honey, but I see his sting.”

Elrond had first called him by it in desperation, disrupting a verse to ask for food. Maglor remembered two important things at that point, that small boys could only go so far without sustenance, and that he had neglected to properly introduce himself. Though he had quickly remedied the mistake, Lindelíso had stuck, and both had called him by it for many years hence.

“Elerondo?”

When Maglor looked up, the young man was kneeling before him, concern written on his face.

“Where is Maedhros?”

Maglor shook his head. He didn’t want to say it.

“I heard you talking. I know you wanted to submit. Why didn’t you? Why don’t you now?”

“It’s too late for that.”

“What will you do?”

Maglor didn’t know.

“I think you must give it up.”

“I can’t, Elerondo.”

“If you cannot, I think it will kill you.”

That may be true enough. The other had tormented his brother to the point of death, and Maglor was in too much pain to sleep, to think, or to eat. How had Morgoth borne it all those years?

“Lindelíso?”

“It may be that you are right.”

Elrond placed his hand over Maglor’s. He pressed his fingers, calloused and much stronger than they had been before he began wielding a sword, over Maglor’s long, thin ones, closing them neatly over the jewel. Elrond’s hand remained perfect and whole. Maglor looked up sharply, stared straight into the young man’s eyes and saw a flame like a candle kindled there.

“Do what you will, but I would rather you lived.”

Maglor nodded.

“Let go,” he said quietly, and Elrond did.

Maglor drew his arm back and threw. Both watched the arc of light the Silmaril drew in the air before it disappeared beneath the waves. Maglor shivered.

“How did you find me?”

Elrond began to tear strips of cloth from the hem of his tunic as he answered, “I know no one else who can turn keening sobs into hauntingly beautiful melodies. And not without cause did your father call you Kánafinwë. Your voice is carrying for miles up the coast. I would be surprised if any of our host failed to heed it. Indeed, some prevailed upon me to see if I could not quiet it.”

Maglor laughed weakly as Elrond took his hand and rinsed it with clean water. He winced as his foster-son wiped blood and grime from the raw skin with a steady hand.

“What of Elros? Did he come with you?”

Elrond swallowed hard but his hands did not falter.

“He is busy helping to build the ships. We were given a choice.”

“What kind of choice?”

“Whether to be counted among the Eldar or the Edain. Elros is to become king of the Edain who were faithful during the war. The Valar are raising an island for them out of the sea in the West.”

“And you chose to be counted among the Eldar,” Maglor said quietly.

Elrond nodded.

Maglor drew him in, letting Elrond press his face into his shoulder.

“Will you go with Eonwë across the sea?”

Elrond shook his head, “I already know that you will not.”

“Do not stay on account of me.”

“I stay because Gil-Galad stays. Many do not wish to leave. There is a part of Ossiriand that is still fair where we will settle. Will you come?”

Maglor became very still.

“Then the answer is no,” Elrond guessed, pulling back so that he could continue to wrap Maglor’s hand.

“I will remain here, at least for a time.”

“Then I will come when I am free to do so.”

“If Gil-Galad allows,” Maglor admonished.

“Let him try to stop me,” Elrond’s eyes flashed.

“There is a little of Turgon in you, I think. He was more stubborn than Maedhros, if that is possible.”

“I will not see him again, will I?”

Elrond suddenly seemed much smaller. The child who had lost too many loved ones ached piteously at the prospect of losing another, complex as their relationship may have been. Maglor’s heart pinched.

“No, Elincë, not unless by chance we have cheated the oath and he is not yet consigned to the everlasting dark. Still then, not perhaps until ages have passed.”

Maglor lifted Elrond’s chin, even as his own tears loosed. “You must hold your head high, son of Eärendil. There are greater things ahead for you. Leave us fools in the past.”

Elrond glared at him, “well that was Fëanorian sentiment, if ever I heard it. Always so black and white! I do not have to leave you behind to go boldly into the glorious future, you know.”

“But you will have to leave, and probably soon. No doubt you’re missed by now.”

“Gil-Galad bade me return in the morning.”

Maglor’s gaze turned ever seaward as the two gathered driftwood, unable to pull his attention away from the Silmaril that now resided in the depths, torn as he was with guilt for setting it there. In a cave above the tideline, made as comfortable as could be achieved with the little Elrond had brought, they spent the night, close beside each other for warmth. Eärendil’s star left a dancing reflection on the waves as they watched, each lost in their own thoughts.

Morning came all too quickly, bright and beautiful in the golden light of the sun. Elrond departed with warmth in his eyes and a promise to return ere long on his lips. Then Maglor was once again, alone. Beneath the ever-present tide of grief and pain, he felt hollow. 

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Chapter End Notes

The eagle-eyed may have noticed that Maglor and Elrond are using Quenya here, though the common language for everyday use at this time in Beleriand would likely have been Sindarin. The monikers they have given each other have the following meanings: Lindelíso = "song of honey", Elincë = "little star". Kánanfinwë, Maglor's father name means strong-voiced Finwë.

Quenya was in use as a language of lore and spoken between the high Lords of the Noldor, amongst themselves, including in Turgon's household. It was therefore, the childhood language of Eärendil, and cultural expression often being stronger amongst ex-pats, I reason he, along with Idril and Tuor, would have continued to use it this way, teaching it to Elrond and Elros. So when Maglor is singing away in Quenya as they walk, Elrond quite naturally interrupts him in the same language.