A Deed Unforgiven by LadySternchen  

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Chapter 13- Maglor

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“Russo, you cannot be serious!”

Maglor could practically feel his face going pale with shock, the faint hope that his brother might be jesting not enough to put his mind at ease. And of course, Maedhros was not jesting, he never jested anymore these days. He did not sleep, either, and Maglor strongly suspected that his brother’s insane decision had been made in exactly these sleepless nights, when the daytime tasks of keeping their brothers and their respective warriors in check ceased, and Maedhros was left alone with nothing but his own searing mind, a place where not even Maglor could reach him.

It hurt, yes, to see Maedhros so. They had always done everything together, had watched their brothers, had helped raise them. They had been the sensible ones, had bonded over the shared struggle to keep the likes of Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir from causing too much irreversible harm, or the twins from setting anything ablaze by mistake. But now?

Admittedly, their war against Morgoth had left neither of them unscarred, but that they had managed to cope with. Because they had had each other. Not anymore, though. Not since the battle, when the old world had ended and a the new terror had begun. Since then, everything had been steadily turning from bad to worse.

“Russo…” Maglor tried again, in more consoling tones. “I know you feel the weight of the Oath; I do, too. We all do. But we cannot make the same mistake again, we cannot let the heat of our minds…”

“It is ours, Káno. Dior has no claim on it, and if he does not give it up freely…”

“I know. It is infuriating and I agree that we must do something about it. But not with swords, Russo. And you know, maybe he has a point. Morgoth does not expect a vagabonding half-elf to hold the Silmaril, he is much less likely to target Dior than he is to target us. Let him keep the one Silmaril that has already been won safe for now, until we have acquired the others, and then…”

Maedhros laughed, a cold and derisive laugh that showed Maglor how much this new bitterness wounded Maedhros inside. Maedhros, who had once been so gentle, so caring. Maedhros who would for so long seek to shield his brothers and cousins from any harm.

“And how do you think are we to achieve that, without the aid of the one Silmaril?” he snorted “We need its power to overthrow Morgoth. So if that foolish half-elf does not give back what is ours, I am going to get it from him by force!”

“Do you not remember Alqualondë?” Maglor asked tiredly.

He well knew that the argument was long lost, but he had to try nonetheless. If he wanted to live with himself at all after today, anyway. Still, mentioning Alqualondë and that terrible night was risky. The night that had made rebels into murderers, turned noble adventures to crimes and doomed them forever more.

Maglor himself remembered it as if they had only just abandoned Olwë’s blood-stained city. And blood there had been, oh, there had been so much blood. Blood, and keen, gut-wrenching screams of an agony no sword-strike could ever afflict. They had not only murdered other elves that day, but slain the innocence of Elvenesse itself, tarnished it for evermore. Neither of them had needed the Doom of Mandos proclaimed over them to know that they were branded for eternity, and that there could be no going back, ever.

It was strange, now Maglor thought about it, that Alqualondë was still so sore in all their hearts, when what they had experienced after had eclipsed the sorrow of that night by far- the death of their father, Maedhros’ capture and subsequent torture upon Thangorodrim and his long, hard way to recovery that had followed. The many nights Maglor had sat by Maedhros’ bed, trying to wake his thrashing and screaming brother. The heartbreak of having to cut Maedhros flaming hair, to keep it short enough for Maedhros to take care of it himself with just one hand.

That thought made Maglor want to throw his arms around Maedhros even now, that horrible vain and proud fool who would rather die than accept help, whom Maglor nonetheless loved more deeply than anyone safe his wife and his mother. But of them, he could not allow himself to think. Them whom he had abandoned in favour of insanity.

“Russo, you must rest.” he tried one last time, hoping that taking a different approach might break through his brother’s madness “You must not make such a decision tired out as you are…”

Again, Maedhros laughed this cold, cruel laugh that Maglor had grown to hate.

“Rest? What rest do you think I will find? The rest that shows me again? The rest in which I see, hear and smell Finno die? I can smell it sleeping or waking, Káno, the blood mingled with the dirt, the charred…”

He faltered, pain and terror momentarily driving all else from his face. Maglor knew what would not cross his lips. The terror of witnessing their cousin’s body being utterly destroyed never left his mind, either.

“Russo…”

But Maglor in truth knew not what to say. Really, what was there to say, when no words could turn back time, or at least erase the memory of Fingon’s fall from Maedhros mind? Oh, if only they could. Then Maglor would not have had to listen to Maedhros crying in his sleep ever since the battle, sobbing like a child for the one who had been his rock, his hope, his light. Maglor had never wholly understood the relationship between his brother and cousin, had never known if he truly wanted to understand it. He did not need to understand it in any case, to know that Fingon’s cruel death had swiped the last of his brother’s sanity off the face of the earth.

“I see the blood, Káno.” Maedhros went on, waving his hand in front of Maglor’s eyes. “I see the blood on my hand with my waking eyes. And I cannot wash it off, whatever I do. We are doomed.”

Of course we are doomed, Maglor thought. No news there.

He had to bite his tongue not to say those words aloud. Him getting snarky would not help the situation whatsoever.

“But there is a way out.” Maedhros went on, a fey tone to his voice now “I know it! A way that ensures that none of this matters. We will take back the Silmaril that is rightfully ours, that is the work of atar’s hands, his treasure that no-one should ever have dared to touch. And then, with the light of the Silmaril shining in our hands, we will overthrow Morgoth and regain what that thief has stolen. If a mortal man and some wood-elf can steal one gem, we should have no trouble whatsoever, not when we hold the sacred light once more. We will return to Aman in might and glory, Káno, and not even the Valar will dare stand up to us, when the sons of Fëanáro have achieved what they themselves have not. We may even force our way into Mandos if need be, and force Námo to release those he holds hostage there, our father, our grandfather, and Finno. And then, then we will truly be free.”

Maglor knew not what to say, but gazed at his brother with terror. He had been well aware that Maedhros’ mental state was ever deteriorating, but this was a whole new stage of madness. He felt sick. So his brother’s will would not be changed. They would do it again. All over again.
He had never, not even in his worst nightmares, dreamed of repeating this crime, of again assailing other Elves, who should in truth be their brothers-in-arms against the forces of the North.

And just for one moment, turning his own sword upon himself felt much more bearable than turning it against Dior.

Maybe he did not bear the scars Maedhros bore, maybe he was not as wounded by Morgoth as his brother was, but Maglor battled his own demons nonetheless. And just like Maedhros could see the blood on his hand that was not there, Maglor started to see what haunted him with his waking eyes, too. Only that his demon came in the form of their grandfather.

Their grandfather was with them even now, standing before him like Maedhros did, just as real, just as tangible. But he stood there as he had lain in the doorway of Formenos, crushed and destroyed by Morgoth’s wrath, with parts of his body scattered around him that should never have seen the light of day.

Well, strictly speaking, Maglor argued with his own head, they did not see the light of day.
There had only been darkness when Finwë had been slain. But the feeble pun did nothing but quench Maglor’s desire to throw up. Never, ever, had he felt so sick in his life. His brothers may have grown to joke about such things, but he could not. Too terrible was the memory of the light dying, and of what they had found in the darkness- the broken shell of one once so fair, so strong, so kind.

But it was not the sight of Finwë’s wounds that terrified him. It was the bitter disappointment in this ghost’s -for it was a ghost, it must be a ghost- voice as it spoke.

“Why?” Finwë asked, as he had done a million times before in Maglor’s nightmares “Why Olwë? Why one I loved as a brother?”

This time, though, before Maglor could even start to think of an answer he knew from the start that he could not give, Finwë went on.
“And why Dior now? Why jump refugees on the road? Refugees with children?”

There was such profound sadness in his grandfather’s eyes that Maglor wanted to run to him, hide his face against Finwë’s tunic; he wanted to be picked up, be comforted, and told that all was not too bad. His grandfather had always, always, been forgiving, understanding. But Maglor could not run now, could not be a child again. He could only stare at Finwë with nothing at all to say.

“They are my family, too. Not by bond of blood, perhaps, but by bond of friendship. Yet I would never have dreamed the day would come that I would side with my found family rather than with those I spawned.”

Those last words pierced Maglor’s heart like a dagger, ringing so loudly in his ears that he hardly heard Maedhros speaking again.

“We will ride by nightfall, and attack before dawn. I know you deem it cruel, brother. But sometimes, cruelty is necessary.”

Again, Maglor had nothing left to say.

He had failed.

All was lost.

~~~

The wind that had blown for the last few days had ceased a little in the hour before dawn, making the world go eerily quiet. Their feet made no sound on the forest floor, and even if they had, those poor fools would not have picked up their coming even had they had made the sound of a herd of stampeding cattle. The few pitiful guards they had set up died just as soundlessly as they had died cluelessly, Celegorm’s arrows killing them before they had even registered the threat.

And now, there was no going back.