to all things housed in silence by queerofthedagger  

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Maglor

Valinor

Many people, then and later, call Valinor paradise. Some do so with wonder, some with awe, some with envy. Some with scorn, a sneer curling their mouths. Many—most—say it with at least a hint of disbelief and doubt in the substructure of the word.

Not so Maglor. Not in hindsight, which makes it easy to see what one has lost. Not when he is still in the midst of it, basking in Laurelin’s light, the world laid at his feet.

Maglor loves Aman. Loves the art and skill that may be found everywhere, anywhere—large, boisterous stages that put on plays and concerts with countless nights of practice behind them. Spontaneous singing in the streets, in the kitchens, at work. The festivals, the beauty, the jewellery, Alqualondë’s gleaming, glittering beaches.

He loves the adoration. Prince of the oldest House of Finwë, most skilled of his craft. Makalaurë is indulged, revered, loved wherever he goes, and he knows how to live off of the attention, the wonder—how to soak in the laughter, the applause, the delight on people’s faces. How to wrap glances following him around himself, carry them with him.

He loves, he loves, he loves—the richness, the excitement, the heavy potent wine and how, no matter how often Maitimo might roll his eyes in affection, none of the consequences ever last for very long. A broken heart here, a shed tear there, but what does it matter—every day is as the other, and so, what to do but to bask in it? Than to take the little changes, the chances, and let them carry him like the song that is woven into everything?

Nothing matters but to learn, to shine, to rise, to love—and oh, how Makalaurë loves. How he is loved. It could have driven any person to madness, that kind of veneration.

Exile

Where Tirion and its crowds and feasts are the light, tinkling notes of flight and excitement, the foundation on which it all rests is his family.

Maglor knows this, has always known this. People think him heedless, intemperate, but the truth is that Maglor is only ever so in a way that is still charming. It is an act, the way any good performance is.

Sometimes, the curtain must fall, though—even Maglor knows it. His sanctuary is family, is Maitimo in particular. Ever the immovable rock unshaken by Maglor’s tempest, and so, ever where Maglor keeps his roots.

He knows of loyalty, of faith; it is merely a matter of knowing, too, that few people are worthy of that kind of consideration.

Always, without hesitation, his family is among those—Maitimo, first of all, but his parents, his siblings, their grandfather, too. They may drive him to tears of rage, his younger brothers in particular, but what they never seem to understand is that it is just another iteration of rapture. It makes him feel, makes him shake with life, and song, and emotion—why, then, would he ever turn his back? No other could drive him to such madness, after all. They may not understand how much he loves them for it, but he does, he does.

It is no question, then, that he removes to Formenos.

Maitimo may be concerned, may be sternly disapproving of their father’s actions, but Maglor, well. It is all exciting, all change, and chance, and newness. What could possibly come of it, after all? In Aman, all waves return to still waters eventually, as even the most violent of symphonies must find its ending notes. This will be no different.

“A fortress,” he says to Maitimo, laughing, the night before they are to leave Tirion. They sprawl on the divan in the empty living room, a bottle of wine between them. Maitimo’s house has been packed up, furniture covered, the kitchen emptied.

Maglor has never kept his own fixed residence, moving between places too often. It makes for light packing, and he does not quite understand the pre-emptive nostalgia already making a home around Maitimo’s eyes.

“Do you not think it thrilling? We have not been up north in years, and I have ever loved the winters there.”

Maitimo raises a brow and tugs lightly on the silken robe Maglor is wearing. “You spent any winter complaining about what the cold was doing to your vocal chords, your skin, your hair—“

“I always complain,” Maglor says, waving a dismissive hand. “It is an art form—I have learnt it from Atar, as you should know.”

At the mention of Fëanáro, Maitimo’s expression tightens. Maglor sighs and drops the cheer.

“It is twelve years, Russandol. We will have some time to roam about and be stupid as if we were still children. Atar will hopefully calm down a little, and at the end of it, all will be well.”

Maitimo exhales, a long, tired sound. “Would that I had your confidence, Laurë,” he says, and no more than that.

Maglor is not sure it is hope so much as that there is no other way. It must, for how could the alternative, that looming disharmony, be where the piece is taking them?

And yet, and yet.

For many years, it is as he said, that last night in gleaming Tirion.

Living with all their brothers once more is as aggravating as it is delightful. Maglor regularly wants to wring all their necks, and simultaneously mourns the day when they will all go their own ways once more already.

In fairness to Maitimo’s pessimism, it would be a lie to say that Fëanáro has done anything as reasonable as calming down. In truth, it rather seems to be getting worse, but they are also all good at ignoring it by then, as best they might.

Except Curufin, but then, that is more inexplicable choice than a lack of skill.

At least, removed up north, there is little harm their father can do beyond tirades at the dinner table.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

When the darkness comes, it is Maglor who senses it first, a descending scale of discordant notes that sets the air alight. It is Maglor who ushers them into the fortress, who meets Finwë’s eyes across a bustling corridor and knows, and knows, and knows—

The very air brims with malice and death. Maglor can feel it penetrating the walls, the stone, the earth beneath them. Can feel it in his bones, notes twisting in ways he had not thought possible, and once he feels them, cannot understand how he could ever have mastered his craft without noticing the massive, glaring blind spot in it.

When he keeps Atyarussa from running after Maitimo by melody alone, he knows that no song will ever leave him the same. Something may have been learnt, but something bigger has been taken. He has sung his brothers many lullabies, but never before has he robbed them of their will.

He ignores Atyarussa’s outrage, his youngest brother laughably unaware of what Maglor has truly done.

He himself would ruminate on it more, but the sudden absence of sheer noise leaves him light-headed. He still tastes death in the air, but the relief is intoxicating and almost euphoric—all he can think is that darkness came, and he made it out on the other side of it. For now, that is enough of a victory to sweep him along.

Tirion is a current, a cacophony, is madness and thrill and terror that sings in Maglor’s blood.

His father had ever known well how to strike the notes of the world’s Song. Maglor has ever been best-skilled at meeting him, at letting it propel him higher and higher, until he stands amidst his brothers, sword raised, and adds his own voice to the apex.

It would be easy to say in the aftermath that he had not known what he was doing, bacchanal ecstasy of orchestral voices and oaths rousing him into action.

It would be a lie, and an insult also. Maglor is a master of his craft—never would he lose himself in it so utterly that he does not know what his most beloved instrument is producing.

And oh, Makalaurë knows the weight of words, of their power. How they can thrill, and bleed, and sing.

But Finwë is dead, and the darkness still resonates within the marrow of his bones. Aman is shaken, ruined, dark—no artistry, no self-indulgence, will ever change that fact.

And at last, well—no great story has ever been written by those who stayed behind at their hearth. Maglor watches the torches washing faces into sharp-drawn things, and already tastes the thrill of invention, of making, on the tip of his tongue.

And so he raises his voice, joins it to his brothers’—neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin. Weaves his own notes into it, the notes of the world around them, until it echoes through their bones, into the earth, up to Varda’s stars. Our word hear thou, Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth. On the holy mountain hear in witness, and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!

He wishes that he had faltered at Alqualondë, but he does not. He is no longer sure that he knows what he is doing, firmly in the midst of the current now, but there is blood on his hands, and death on his tongue, and madness is singing, singing, singing—

He listens to Ossë’s song of rage as they ride along Aman’s coast. All is dark. Beneath the rage—Ossë’s, his father’s, his own—the sorrow cuts bone-deep.

And yet, and yet, and yet—

Maglor finds himself prodding at it, turning it over and over. He thought, out of all his family, he would be most intimate with feeling, with all the emotions one could plunge themselves into.

It is a curious revelation that it is one thing to play grief on a stage, and another to feel it beneath his breastbone, impossible to shake. One thing to flash a dagger to an enraptured audience, another to press it through skin, tendon, bone. The blood will not come off, red-rimmed beneath his fingernails like expensive paint. He picks at it. Picks at his innards, horror and still, still, still curiosity like an insatiable beast at the centre of it.

He watches as the Eastern Shores rise up to meet them. Watches Maitimo’s expression, ever concerned and wary. Watches his father’s madness, the graceful arc of the first torch hitting the sail of the nearest boat, and oh, he wants to know how that feels, too.

Among his brothers, his family, his people, the collective charge of furious energy is irresistible. They will never be here again, it will never be like this a second time—any regret, much like Alqualondë, will be borne as it must.

He sets fire to the boats and lends his voice to the flames. When he meets Maitimo’s dark, judging eyes from afar, he thinks, for the first time in their lives, that he does not understand his brother at all.

Early Beleriand

The truth is—reality should catch up with him when his brother lies before him, unconscious and skin blistering. When Amras weeps and weeps and weeps, and Maglor has to sing him to sleep, because they are all terrified of what he will do to himself if he does not.

It should catch up with him when their father dies, yet another one of their family claimed by fire. Poetic justice, Maglor thinks, and feels the sting of conscience but not the remorse.

Not yet.

It comes when Maedhros looks at him and says, “No matter what happens today, Laurë, you cannot come after me. If I do not return, you must lead as I would.”

“But you will return. You—“

“Laurë,” Maedhros says, both hands coming to rest on Maglor’s shoulders. “Promise me. No matter what happens.”

And Maglor—Maglor knows the weight of a promise, what it means to give his word. Already, he can feel their Oath making itself at home around his shoulders.

But—but. Maedhros looks at him, imploring and unyielding. The weight of the crown already wears on him, no matter how high he holds his head.

We were never meant for this, Maglor thinks, and it is this, this thought, that brings forth memories of Aman—childhoods spent running through its endless wilderness, spinning, brilliant nights until Laurelin waxed once more, and the wine made them slow and tired, at last. Joy and light and beauty that felt like terror—and now look what they have come to. What they have made of themselves.

A grey land, an iron crown, and duty like a noose around their neck.

Maglor swallows and presses closer until Maedhros embraces him.

“I promise,” he says, the words like dragged from him. At last, then, in a dreary tent at the shore of a dreary lake, regret finds him, all thrilling novelty washed away.

Maglor ever hated facing the consequences of his own folly, but face them he must.

He steps back, raises his chin. “You will return,” he says once more. He refuses to let Maedhros’ lack of response shatter the last remains of his composure.

He will. He must. Maglor watches him go, and does not think of the last time he insisted such a thing—how it went, in the aftermath, his hands feeling like blood is still stuck beneath his nails.

The only thing that returns is Maedhros’ horse, lame and encrusted with blood and mud.

Once Maglor is summoned, he takes the torn reins. He ignores the stares and the whispers and walks into the makeshift stables they have built, by then.

The weather on these shores, they have found, is not nearly as forgiving as Aman used to be. Neither they nor their horses are used to it.

He removes the reins, the saddle. Celegorm appears in the doorway, Maglor knows, without turning around.

“Get out,” he says, voice like thorns inside his throat.

“Káno—“

“Get out.” This time, there is power to it. The horse throws its head, but the presence behind Maglor vanishes. He runs a hand down its neck, hums a melody beneath his breath.

His voice breaks. His fingers clench in the mane, chestnut strands stark against his pale skin.

Blood on his hands, a voice whispers in the back of his mind.

I promise, he had said. I promise, I promise, I promise. He leans his forehead against the warm flank and searches for anything inside himself that is not hollow.

“If we strike quick—“

“His forces have been overwhelmed the last time, too—“

“If we split up, attack from various ends—“

“What about supplies? About those still wounded? We need to—“

“We will not go.” Maglor’s voice cuts easily across his brothers. The silence is a tangible, terrible, immediate thing in the aftermath.

Celegorm is the first to recover, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, we will not go? The longer we wait—“

“It is not about timing. There is no point at which it will be different.”

“You cannot mean—“ Amras. Poor, washed-out Amras. Maglor wonders how any of them could have ever believed that anything other than ruin and desolation awaited them here.

He stands. The table before him is made of good wood, good craft, a gift of the Sindar they had found in these lands.

He wonders if he will bring ruin to them, too. Cannot find it within himself to care.

“It would be a trap, either way. We do not even know if he is still alive, what they have done to him. We will not go.”

Ever, among his brothers, has Maglor been the merriest one, the one to yet turn anything into a game.

Now, not one of them raises their voice against him. He knows they want to—can see it in the furious twist of Celegorm’s mouth, the misery in Caranthir’s eyes.

It is Amras who breaks the silence, his expression a wildfire staring back at him. “One brother we have already almost killed; I should not find surprise in the fact that you are willing to seal the fate of another so soon.”

He leaves the tent without another word. Maglor stays silent until all the others follow. He stays where he is until the candles burn out, and what little light there is fades.

The song of the world rages, and he hears none of it.

I promise, I promise, I promise—oh, how Maglor knows of regret now, of a vow squeezing all life out of him.

He does not move. Casts out his mind, north, north, north, and hears no answer.

It is, of course, not the last of the matter.

Maglor would have resented them all far more if it were. In a way, there is liberation in his brothers and their people fighting him on his decision. It is nothing Maglor does not want to do himself, even if he cannot.

Lead as I would, Maedhros had demanded. It is the only solace as he tears his heart out through his ribs, over and over—that, no matter what, Maedhros would choose no different.

He has to believe that, through endless, vicious fights with his brothers. Through blank-faced speeches to their people, all their expressions hurling accusations at him, through the punishment of those who try to revolt against him.

Through long, endless nights with no beginning and no end, where his mind conjures ever-worse scenarios—kept and tortured in Morgoth’s dungeons; dead and gone, disappeared into the void to join their father, never to return.

Maglor learns of darkness, in that first year, of the stars watching on, cold and unmoving, no matter his prayers.

Truly abandoned, then, he thinks one night, sitting by the lake, its still surface reflecting Varda’s most well-wrought creations.

He sings, no plea but in sorrow. Predictably, there is no reply.

Eventually, subtly but unmistakably, Caranthir starts throwing his support behind him.

“It is strategically sound,” he says, when Curufin starts on the ever-same topic again in a meeting that had been meant to concern their attempts at harvesting food from the land. “We can throw all our people at Angband and lose half of them in the process, with no hope of success. Or we can establish ourselves here, build a good camp, and wait for an opportunity that is less of a suicide mission than our dear father embarked on.”

It is more successful in shutting Curufin up specifically than anything Maglor has tried so far, save the few times he blatantly abused the power of his voice. He hates doing it, more than his brothers hate being subjected to it, but he has learnt quickly that few things, here, are about what one wants.

Maglor does what he must. Ever he hated the consequences of his own actions, but ever he has faced them. This is no different, a word given impossible to take back.

“Our Oath—“ Curufin tries, but it is a feeble attempt, even before it can come to its conclusion.

“Will not be fulfilled by senseless self-sacrifice,” Maglor finishes, gathering his papers. There will be no more fruitful discussion on how to feed their people tonight. “We are much wiser to wait for a feasible chance there, too, and you know it.”

Curufin’s mouth tightens into a thin line, and Maglor knows that he has won another day of acquiescence. Has won another night of dark dreams and self-loathing.

“How can you abandon him like this?“ Curufin murmurs, as they pass each other upon leaving the tent. “Do you not wonder, if he ever comes back, how you will face him?”

“It is no else than he would have done. He will forgive me, in due time.”

“But will you?” Curufin asks, and Maglor laughs, then, a sound like thunder splitting ancient wood.

“We will never be forgiven, Atarinkë; this was true long before we set foot on these shores. You, like all of us, had better make your peace with it. The everlasting Darkness will be our lot, Námo’s Doom otherwise. There is no salvation; all we can hope to accomplish is to keep our word and our Oath, and not wreak an even worse fate for us and all those dear to us in the process.”

That night, he dreams of the flash of terror on his younger brother’s face. He thinks this, too, would have been easier for Maedhros than for him.

But then, Maedhros is not here. Maglor only has himself to blame for that.

Word comes among them of an elf chained to Angband’s highest peak a year, after their old reckoning, of their stay in Mithrim.

No one can tell where the rumour started, or when—only the whispers of copper, bright and blinding, against dark rock and grey sky. Only of a voice rising and falling in torment.

Maglor sits upon the throne that, by then, has been built, and meets his brothers’ eyes blankly, one by one.

“A trap, still,” he says. No more. There is no more argument about it, after.

He walks, that night, a straight line away from their camp.

It almost deserves the name no longer, houses and structures having grown—too much, either way, to risk causing any damage to it.

So, Maglor walks until his legs carry him no further. Sinks to his knees then, there to the soft earth of the forest. Screams, and screams, and screams, until everything around him has been levelled, ancient trees reduced to dust.

He had promised, but by then, it barely matters. He gets back up, turns around, and walks back to his own personal torment.

Fingolfin’s host arrives with glaring light and blowing banners.

Maglor has not the energy left to resent them for it, not even from afar.

Any desire he may have liked to have for such resentment vanishes for good when his uncle and cousin are admitted to his council chambers.

It is clear from Fingolfin’s face that no one had warned him—that he had not expected Maglor, wearing the crown, sitting at the head of the table. Had, most likely, not even expected Maedhros, if the rage that drops off his face is any indication.

They regard each other across the long table. Fingolfin must be putting the pieces together the same way Maglor is—the emaciated weakness of his uncle’s body, the dull skin, the frostbitten fingertips.

“You crossed the Ice,” Maglor says, at last. No use in talking around it—the reason for their having done so will be a matter of contention soon enough.

As expected, Fingolfin’s expression hardens. “So we have, and lost many to its treacherous surface. Where is your father?”

Maglor holds his gaze. Fingolfin tries hard not to show it, but he is so very unsettled by whatever he has found in Maglor, after all these years.

“Dead,” Maglor says, and no more.

Fingolfin swallows, but his face betrays nothing. Maglor, too, finds himself admitting in the silence of his own mind, is unsettled by what stands before him.

“And Nelyafinwë?”

Maglor tries hard and fails not to flinch. He grits his teeth. “Dead, too, if he were lucky. Enjoying Moringotto’s hospitality, if the rumours are to be believed.”

There is a sharp, furious intake of breath from Fingon, then, standing behind Fingolfin. He, unlike his father, is doing a terrible job at containing his rage—he has ever been a terrible performer, if not a bad musician.

“And you just left him there?” he asks now, his dark grey eyes fixed like knives onto Maglor. “You, who has always claimed to love him—“

“Mind your tongue,” Maglor says, and against his intent, power seeps into his voice. Fingon snaps his mouth shut, but the fury stays sharp upon his face.

The chamber falls silent, the air thick with tension. Maglor knows he should feel—something. Anger, joy, worry. Anything.

There is nothing. Lead as I would have. He clears his throat, raises his chin. “I welcome you, Uncle. May you recover well from your journey and ordeal of it, and please, do not hesitate to let us know if you need anything.”

Again, Fingon scoffs. He says no more, though, and after a long, tense moment, Fingolfin merely inclines his head. He leaves before anyone else can say something to be regretted later.

“You should have—“

“I do not remember asking for advice, Tyelkormo.”

A beat of silence. “No,” Celegorm says, and there is a note to his voice that one could almost call sorrow, if one did not know Celegorm at all. “I did not think you had.”

Turning from the window, Maglor meets his eyes. “Good. Anything else?”

Celegorm does not look away, but he says nothing else, either. It is really all that Maglor wants.

Maedhros ’ Abdication

It takes Maglor three days to bring himself to visit the Nolofinwëan camp. To go see his brother, the one he has ever loved best.

When he finally does, he makes it not past the door—stays there, heart a clamour inside his chest, and stares at the ruined, wretched form until bile races up his throat.

You did this, he hears, over and over, as he retches into the nearest brush. You did this, you did this, you did this.

He comes back the next day. Consequences ever want to be faced, no matter Maglor’s dislike for them, and what is left of his brother is no different.

Fingon resents his presence, Maglor knows. The feeling is mutual, and Maglor knows, too, that it is an unfair thing, bitter and vile, the way guilt calcifies into resentment.

He does not want to feel anything other, truth be told—any anger is easier to bear than the bone-crushing revulsion he feels whenever he lays eyes on Maedhros, more bandages than skin, more horror than brother.

He keeps returning, though, silent and weary. He will face this. He must.

Maedhros’ recovery is a slow, arduous process, but recover he does.

It has little to do with Maglor, truth be told. He recoils from it—the helping of the healers in the beginning. The facing of the wounds, the confrontation of all that Maedhros can do no longer.

It is Fingon who fills the gaps, who is ever-patient even in the face of Maedhros’ frustration.

But Maglor stays. It is all that he can do, and somehow, inexplicably, for Maedhros it seems to be enough.

Never once does he cast blame or accusation, never once looks at Maglor with anger.

Some days, Maglor wishes he would. Some days, he wishes it were that easy.

It never is. He knows that he deserves that, too.

The rage arrives, at last, when Maedhros announces his intention to abdicate to Fingolfin, two years after Fingon has brought him back.

It is not Maedhros who rages then. Maglor waits until all their brothers have said their piece, save Caranthir only. Waits until Maedhros removes to his rooms, his spine straight but his face weary.

No one else would notice, but Maglor has ever known how to read him well. Has been the only one who could do so, once, before Fingon had cut him off the accursed mountain with song and harp, where Maglor had failed.

Maglor follows. Maedhros looks not surprised to see him, but his expression tightens once more at whatever he finds on Maglor’s face.

“You, too?” he asks, simple and tired.

Maglor wishes it were not so, except—

Except.

“You have made up your mind. There is no need for my telling you what I think of it.”

“I thought you, of all people, would understand.”

There is an accusation in it, then. Maglor looks away, cannot stand to keep that kind of contact. The room Maedhros had moved into a year ago—now, these days, reckoned by sun and moon—is still bare.

“If I had known it such an expandable thing…” he starts, but his voice falters.

Maedhros does not look like he understands.

“Thirty years, I have kept it for you. For thirty years, I have done as you asked, kept my promise to you. And you throw it away like—like—“

“Oh, Laurë,” Maedhros says, his expression softening. Maglor wants to weep and rage at the use of that name. “It was never about the crown.”

He blinks. Swallows. Curls his hands into fists until his nails are biting into skin. It takes effort to keep his voice even. “What, then, was it possibly about?”

Maedhros steps closer, ever wilfully ignorant of Maglor’s temper. He should no longer be, neither of them the same, and Maglor cannot tell if it is unawareness or disregard, and which option would be worse.

“To keep you safe, of course. You and everyone else.”

Maedhros presses a kiss to his forehead, then pulls away, beginning to pack—slowly, painfully, with only one hand and a refusal to be helped.

Right then, on the eve of their departure into the east and with everything unspoken between them, Maglor hates him more than words could possibly say.

The Long Peace

Eventually, inevitably, things mellow.

Maglor has ever been prone to temper, and his tantrums have ever prone to running their course quickly.

Maedhros waits him out, as he ever does. Maglor does not quite forgive him, but he is too glad to have him back to linger on it.

He establishes his own forces at the Gap. Finds that, without a crown’s weight bowing his head, he quite enjoys the chance to lead, to build, to fight. Hones his voice into the perfect weapon and uses it to enact his vengeance on Morgoth’s forces whenever he can.

In Himring, Maedhros grows infamous for his valour and ruthlessness against Morgoth’s forces. To his right, Maglor turns the decimation, too, into an art form.

He alone accompanies Maedhros to the Mereth Aderthad. Models his voice back into something soft, something beautiful and pleasant.

Feels, for the first time since they set foot on these shores, like he rediscovers something of himself that he had thought lost to Alqualondë’s blood, to Losgar’s fire. To Morgoth’s violence.

He begins to hope again. It is a foolish notion, and he is wise enough to keep it to himself, for the most part. But the years pass, and they hold the siege. He and Maedhros spend long nights in Himring, and his brother is not the same, is ever balancing on the edge of madness, but he is still his brother.

He spends blissful days in Thargelion, too, and Caranthir is not the same either, not as they were in that long night of Mithrim, but they are brothers still, also.

The peace holds. The land grows less dreary. The Oath, for the time being, waits alongside them for its turn.

It will come eventually, Maglor knows. There is no escaping it. But perhaps, perhaps, perhaps—

Perhaps, despite all that suffering, they might yet lift into a second, hopeful crescendo, after all; might yet find a conclusion that does not leave everything torn open.

The Dagor Bragollach

The Gap is not the first place to go up in flames, when the dragon comes. Maglor knows this because he can sense it, heat like discordant notes setting the fabric of the world far beyond his land alight.

He stays long after the point where he should be ordering his forces to retreat. Throws his voice against the beasts and the flames, over and over, until the smoke chokes him, until he cannot breathe, or see, or move, caught firmly in the dragon’s thrall. Until he cannot raise his voice to order anything, and it is only his captain, disregarding authority, at last, that drags him along. Such an audacious thing is helped by the simple fact that Maglor can no longer protest; it is the only reason he makes it out of the flames at all.

It takes them almost a week to fight their way through to Himring. Maglor tries not to think of his brothers, his cousins, caught in the flames. He fails miserably.

Maedhros, when they finally make it, looks much the same—soot-stained, bloodied, and like he has not slept in days.

“I did not have word from you,” he says, once he and Maglor are alone in Maglor’s usual chambers. “I did not know—“

Maglor cannot meet his eyes. He sits down on the divan, too tired to care for the imbalance it puts between them—Maedhros looms over him either way, he might as well rest his shaking legs.

“It was—“ he tries, but his voice, too, fails, breaking and tearing through his throat.

He swallows, and gratefully takes the wine Maedhros hands him.

He is wordless too, his brother. There is nothing to be said for this ruin. Maglor needs no news of their brethren to know that the days of the siege are over.

And still. “Anything of the others?”

Maedhros sighs, and sits down beside him, pressing their shoulders together. Maglor does not deserve the comfort and leans into it regardless. If only he had been better, if only they had been prepared, if only—

“All alive, of our brothers, last I heard. Not so Aegnor and Angrod. Finrod lives—Celegorm and Curufin have removed to Nargothrond. No news from Barad Eithel yet.”

Maglor winces in sympathy. He needs not to see Maedhros’ face to guess at his concern.

He offers no consolation. He has none left.

Neither does Maedhros.

The Nirnaeth Arnoediad

In some ways, they learn to grow around each other once more, in those years after the fire.

They are different to what they were, and living in the same space both drives that home and makes it easier to accept. Makes it easier to find all those little pieces that are still the same—the way Maedhros sits up late, brooding over some paper or other; strategy and plans of war now, where it was statesmanship and indulgence, back in Tirion. How he says Maglor’s name, forces him to rest his voice until it is recovered, lets Maglor slip into all those open spaces beside him like he belongs there.

In other ways—well, they are not the same young Elves they used to be. Have not been in a long time. Maglor cannot bear the callous viciousness Maedhros carries, some days—the way he revels in battle, in vengeance, in making Orcs and Morgoth’s Men flee before his face.

Maglor has no qualms about fighting, about winning. But too often, Maedhros’ rage now reminds him of Celegorm, of their father.

He cannot bear the way his brother now only ever softens for Fingon, only ever changes his mind when it is Fingon who asks. Jealousy is an uncouth companion, and Maglor fails to shake him off, once he moves into Himring.

In turn, he knows that Maedhros cannot stand his despair, how Maglor talks of the Oath as fact. Maedhros, for all his sharp-drawn realism, would like to believe, still, that the Darkness they swore themselves to might not claim them, regardless of their success.

He is not the only one, among their brothers, and Maglor ever wants to laugh at their delusion. How simple to think that something that squeezes the air out of their lungs with looming malice could ever leave them any room for choice—how else, otherwise, could any of them explain what they have become?

And so, they parse out the blind spots, the spaces they carefully step around on the good days, and the ones they press into on the bad ones.

It is a far cry from what they once used to be. Maglor thinks this, more than anything, is something he will never be able to forgive.

And then, and then—hope. Wild, treacherous, terrible hope. A story as fantastical as the old tales they used to spin in Valinor to delight the masses, and yet, a more real, more tangible success than any of them have accomplished in centuries on these shores.

Fingon comes to Himring still grief-ridden and with fury in his shadow, their brothers’ most recent transgressions a wedge between them.

Maglor makes himself scarce, makes sure that Celegorm and Curufin do the same. It is no hard task; both are worn down and angry, isolated among even Himring’s people.

Not that Maglor has much sympathy. If they were not his brothers—

But they are. Any quarrel they may have with each other will stay between them. It is what Findekáno has never understood, and still does not, even now.

It is not Maglor’s problem. He only rejoins them when Maedhros starts talking of his plans, eyes bright and animated.

Maglor sees his own doubt mirrored on Fingon’s weary face. And yet—it has always been the two of them who were incapable of resisting Maedhros at his most persuasive.

For what it is worth, it is not like they have much choice. Sooner or later, the borrowed time they are living on will run out; their Oath will demand an answer. Already it is rearing its head, if Celegorm and Curufin’s actions are anything to go by.

“Everything will hinge on this,” he tells Fingon, one late night as Maedhros disappears from the war room at the behest of his captain. “If it fails—I am not sure he will be able to rally his hope and defiance once more.”

Fingon does not look at him, as he never does, these days. Maglor knows that to this day, his cousin has not forgiven him for leaving his Maedhros to his torment at Morgoth’s hands.

Some days, Maglor wants to hate him for it. Most days, it is nothing that he does not already condemn himself for.

“Indeed,” Fingon finally says, draining his wine. He, too, has been stripped to bone and marrow and sheer defiance—a brother, a sister, a father lost, already. The last brother disappeared. Maglor would pity him if he could. “So, we will win, because we must.”

Maglor smiles, a brittle thing. So they will win, because they must.

“As you say, your Highness.”

Fingon flinches at the title. Maglor’s good deed for the day is that he pretends not to notice.

In truth, it is good to have a goal again, something to work toward.

He and Maedhros fall truly back into step, then. They plan. They calculate supply lines alongside Caranthir, train their men alongside the rest of their brothers. Men and Dwarves join their ranks. Fingon recruits on his side of the continent.

There are setbacks. Neither Doriath nor Nargothrond will join, and the fights Maedhros has with Celegorm and Curufin behind closed doors turn more vicious with each iteration.

“Perhaps it would help if you did publicly condemn them for it,” Maglor says one night, the two of them up on the battlements. “It is not like they have any great force left to contribute.”

He needs not to clarify further. Maedhros shakes his head, not turning to meet Maglor’s eye. “We are family, for better or for worse. Any conflict, we solve between ourselves—I will not give Thingol the satisfaction of publicly humiliating my siblings for his sake, no matter how much I cannot stand the sight of them myself.”

“Not even if it will win us the war?”

“If we turn on each other, we have already lost, Laurë; surely, you must know this by now.”

Maglor does. He leans against Maedhros’ side and fixes his eyes northward, wondering if one day, they will come to regret this, too.

The battle goes sideways from the start, their forces delayed and undisciplined.

They arrive late, only to find that Fingon’s own host has already attacked. They adjust. Fingon’s force is much larger than expected, and it takes them some time to recognise Turgon and his people amidst the frenzy.

They do not have much time to revel in the unexpected hope, the dragons and beasts swarming the field. Vengeance burns bright in Maglor’s blood then; in spite of it, he sticks close to Maedhros’ right, too aware of every one of Morgoth’s forces being bent on keeping their and Fingon’s host separated.

He does not see the betrayal coming.

He notes the chaos breaking out in the rearguard, notes their lines breaking, their forces scattering. Sees groups of unfamiliar Men assail their ranks, and oh, Maglor knows of betrayal, but in that moment, he thinks that he understands his father, at last, the all-consuming rage that could drive anyone to frothing, vicious madness.

When Uldor appears beside Maedhros, Maglor moves without thinking, without deliberation. His voice snaps and slashes across the field, already hewing routes of escape, but this—this is personal. He can see in Uldor’s face the purpose, the single-minded goal—the aim for Maedhros, and Maedhros only.

Maglor has spent years, countless, terrible years failing his brother, over and over and over.

No more.

He lets Uldor run into his sword, relishes in the shock that washes across his face. Buries the blade deeper, pushes in closer; leans in, close, close, and watches in satisfaction as, in increments, the purpose leaves Uldor’s face, until there is only horror left.

And still.

“You may kill me, proud Elfling,” Uldor heaves, his knees buckling. “But you will still lose all that you hold dear. And you will think of me, when you do.”

Maglor screams, and twists his sword. He leaves Uldor on the battlefield. It is not such an easy thing to do the same with his words.

Maglor had known that a defeat would be devastating.

When the news of Fingon’s death reaches them, he knows that he had no idea, in truth, what was coming for them.

Maedhros stares at the messenger, and it is like seeing the dissolution of a person in real time. Is like seeing all that hope, all that defiance, all that stubborn, white-knuckled refusal to give up slide right off his brother, leaving behind nothing of substance.

Maedhros turns, without a word, and disappears into his rooms.

Maglor knows, then, that this is the end. He will not admit it—not yet, not quite yet—but looking back on it, he knows.

“There was nothing left of him,” the messenger had said, and truly, there was nothing left. Not of either of them, after that.

Prelude to Doriath

Little changes, in the following years.

Maedhros does not fade, which is a concern, for a while. Maglor sits beside him in his rooms as much as he can. Hums and talks sometimes, and, most often, does nothing but keep their shoulders pressed together and little else.

There is nothing he can do, he knows this. But he had known this once before, and he had made all the wrong choices, then. This time, there is no one left who will walk into hell to bring his brother back except himself.

He knows what it means. In the wake of everything, their House needs to be led. If Maedhros does not—cannot—it should be on Maglor.

Maglor refuses. Refuses Caranthir’s imploring questions, the twins’ accusing eyes.

Let Celegorm lead. What, after all, is there left to ruin?

When Celegorm does as expected, Maglor feels no surprise. Feels, in truth, not much aversion.

They still have an Oath to fulfil, and already the twins and Caranthir have spoken for it. He cannot let them go alone, cannot lose any of his brothers.

And, at last, they need—something. If they succeed, perhaps it will raise Maedhros from his grief.

It is a wrong thing to do, Maglor knows this. But then, oh then—what choice do they have? Ever, since the beginning, what choice do they have?

None, and none, and none. Maglor knows the weight of words, the shape of a promise. And so, Celegorm calls; and so, Maglor answers.

Chapter End Notes

If you're thinking: Mona, this feels so much longer than the rest! He's a bard. Let him yap (you can still hear me despairing in the background, if you listen closely...)

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