eärvanwando (he who is sea-lost) by softmoonlightmelody  

eärvanwando

He’ll certainly sing that the day was overcast, had an almost black sky. Maybe it will be a cloudy night, or a rainy day.

The truth of it is this: the dawn has just come, bright and beautiful, and the sky is blue the day his brother kills himself.

As they left the camp, the sun’s rays bloomed in the sky, and Maglor first felt the pain of the Silmaril. Evidentially, the holy light condemned Maedhros more, because he cried in pain.

As the sun painted the sky in beautiful colours, Maedhros found himself a deep ravine, and as Maglor watched, he jumped in. Maedhros did not even look back.

(Maglor has never been able to figure out if Maedhros thought of him and didn’t care, or if Maedhros didn’t even think about him, before he jumped, or if Maedhros thought of him and expected that he would follow. He’s not sure which is worse. That Maedhros didn’t care, that he didn’t remember, or that he wanted him to follow.)

(But in the same, it’s almost pathetic how Maglor felt nothing but cool relief that his brother was dead. To this day, he does not know why. Or, well, he supposes he was relieved that he no longer had to care for Maedhros, or that he no longer had to follow Maedhros.)

Maglor also remembers the silent expectation, for him to follow Maedhros and jump into the blue, blue sea, letting the waves condemn him.

But Maglor has spent most of his life following his father and brothers as they are led to terrible actions. To Alqualondë, to Losgar, to Doriath, to Sirion. He gave his life for them, his morals, his damned goodness.

They are not owed his death, too.

(He was at fault, too. But if not for his family, he would not have done any of that at all.)

Perhaps he will sing it this way: the sky is blue when Maglor finally decides that he will leave his family, and not follow them unto the world’s end with follied reasoning. Perhaps he will sing it this way: the day he decided, all too late, that his father’s legacy and his brother’s deaths do not mean his doom had a blue sky that was as brilliant as the day his grandmother went to sleep in the gardens of Estë.

Maglor is a poet, a minstrel, a songwriter, a composer. If naught else, he knows how to dramatize a scene.

So perhaps he will tell it this way: the last three remnants of Laurelin and Telperion - the sun, the moon, and the Silmarils - are met with a blue sky and sapphire sea the day that Maglor realizes none of them are worth it, and they never were.

But all the beauty in the world Maglor can sing has nothing on the darkness he created; there is nothing but hot regret pooling in his stomach like a roiling sea under a storm.

Perhaps it is cowardly, when Maglor decides to wander and sing to the waves.

(His mind conjures up why he should stay, from Elrond and Elros to his father. Maglor, this time, does not listen.)

He was lost forever, the stories say. That is a comforting lie. He was lost for twelve thousand years, or so, before he woke up and realized that no one remembered him.

All the elves were gone. Only Maglor remained, and if there were any left, none of them were eldar and none of them would know anything about him. Certainly he was the last Calaquén in the East, the light of their eyes a prophecy of doom.

And so Maglor told himself that if he were to be Doomed forevermore, a little bit of life would not be kept against him.

If given the chance, he will sing it this way: the sky was blue, and the sea too, the day he took back his life. The day he decided the regret would do him nothing.

The truth is much different: the sky was gray, but not raining, the day Maglor woke up, the sea reflecting its colour and the earth was dark and gray. There was nothing different about that morning, other than that Maglor realized the truth of it. Self-punishment had no purpose, and it had been many yén (he did not know how many until much later), and no one would remember him.

(Isn’t it funny how morning and mourning sound the same?)

And so he decided that there was no point in starving, no point in self-exile. None knew the name of once-feared Maglor Fëanorion. None even knew the name of resplendent Galadriel, or kind Elrond.

There was no point to it, and so Maglor found himself sick of wandering and sick of singing, and so he went into the world and found it anything but familiar.

And so Maglor tells it like this, to people who think it a tragedy, a story instead of a history: the sky was black, but with stars. It was midnight, and the stars shone, especially Gil-Estel. The earth opened up, a fiery chasm below, and the older brother Red jumped in, the impossible light in his hand, for it pained the unholy so.

The younger brother Blue instead traveled to the ink-black sea and threw his impossible light into the gloomy depths, and wandered the shore forevermore.

But forever is a long time when you’re immortal, even if almost-forever is less poetic.

And so Maglor… wanders, the earth solid beneath his feet. He never stops - the Edain now rule the world and will get suspicious if he spends too much time in one place - but he finds solace in it now. No longer punishment, no longer condemnation, just living. Enjoyment from wandering rather than hurt.

Maglor doubts he will cease wandering, for now, even though his mother may be in the West, and even though his brothers will not tarry in Mandos for all ages, Maglor does not want to Sail.

It is a sharp realization. It was a starry night, all of Varda’s stars visible, the milky swath across the sky bright, the sea dark as burned wood, the earth a plunging black when Maglor realizes that he was happy. His wandering is no longer of self-punishment or because he is unable to go West. It was because he loves the East.

Maglor thinks he will sing it as it is: the stars are out, and there is nothing but calm darkness and the sea in front of him, and he has found happiness in the East.