A Deed Unforgiven by LadySternchen  

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Chapter 17- Eärendil

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Eärendil had always thought that he knew grief quite well, and fear, and anger, and the thing in-between, when one grieved for one who had done one ill.

He had thought he would die then, when Maeglin’s arm had closed around his throat. But that had not been as bad as seeing the terror in his mother’s eyes, and hear her plea with Maeglin, or hearing Aredhel’s whimper of utter horror. Headstrong, tough Aredhel, who had never ever been lost for words. Eärendil had not understood any of what had happened, knew not why Maeglin would all of a sudden turn against them, but he had understood the pain that was etched into Maeglin’s features, and he had pitted him even as his father had gasped him and carried him away, while Maeglin had been left to flee, where to, Eärendil knew not.

Oh, he had not had enough tears to weep for all the grieves that had befallen that day.

For Ecthelion, who would never again sit by his fountain and play for him. What had Eärendil cared that they all said that the captain had died a heroic death? That he had slain Gothmog himself, had revenged the King’s brother? Nothing whatsoever. Eärendil had not mourned a hero that day, but his dear friend. The same had held true for Glorfindel, whom he had seen being dragged into the abyss by his hair. But worst of all, worse even than losing his home and all he had known until then, had been the loss of his grandfather. Not at first, maybe, at first the death of Ecthelion had hurt worse. But with every passing moon, he had missed Turgon more. They all missed him to this day.

He had heard his mother crying for her father in her sleep like a frightened child, had watched Aredhel breaking more and more, mourning both her brother and her son. In Eärendil’s mind, too, that day was still present, with thoughts about Gondolin’s fall resurfacing whenever he would allow himself to relax the defences he had build up against them. But he would not allow that often. It would not do for him to smell the smoke and the stench of all the foul creatures of Morgoth, to taste the soot on his tongue, to feel the heat. He could not always dwell in Gondolin, nor could he be a child anymore.

But his becoming an adult had not meant an end to grief and pain and loss, though he had to admit that his growing understanding made it easier to bear. He had had friends to talk to when his parents had set sail, never to be seen or heard of again- Círdan and Ereinion, and moat importantly Elwing. And above all, he had had hope for them, a hope that had driven himself out to sea.

He regretted it still. Had stayed in Sirion, had he only been there, they might have escaped together. They might not have believed their sons lost, might have stayed a family.

He did not rue his role, he knew well that only he and Elwing could have achieved what they had, that they had to sacrifice the relationship with their children so that other parents might not watch their children being slain, so that no more child had to lose their mother and father. He knew, but that did not ease the pain.

All of that had been before today, though. Today, finally, he understood that he had in fact known very little about grief, at least about the grief helplessness brought in its wake. Never had he felt so sore, so raw within than the moment he watched from above as the Elf his sons had come to consider their father stood rounded together with his brother, a hollow madness burning within their eyes, their latest victims lying dead at their feet. He watched his sons, his boys, who had grown into young men so fair and kind, stare at Maglor and Maedhros in terror. He sensed their pain, yet could do nothing whatsoever to ease it. He was a stranger to Elrond and Elros, condemned to watch them from afar. He could not longer comfort them.

And nor could he, nor anyone else, comfort Maedhros and Maglor.

“Leave them be!”

Eönwë’s voice was heavy with grief as well as he bade all the remaining guards step back, to not lie hand on those who had stolen the Silmarils.

What would happen, Eärendil wondered, if he disobeyed the Valar’s orders, and descended from the sky, and gave them the third jewel, have them be once again united, see the accursed Oath being wiped off the face of Arda for good, and all the atrocities committed in its name with it? But before he could decide whether or not he was actually tempted, he saw both brothers writhe in pain, saw understanding dawning on their faces. He had never looked into the face of an Elf who was so utterly, thoroughly destroyed.

Eönwë must have known that. Of course he had known, and that was why he had so lightly stepped back when Maedhros and Maglor had refused to submit themselves to the verdict of the Valar. And surely that was what accounted for the pain and pity in the Maia’s face, the knowledge that what Fëanor’s sons had held as their birthright, what they had pursued with an ever growing madness because they believed it to ease their burden, would in truth burn their hands, condemning them once and for all.

“You see now” Eönwë went on heavily, proving Eärendil’s suspicions right “…how your deeds have rendered you incapable of redeeming your oath. I therefore invite you once again to forego your errand, and come with me to the West, to claim responsibility for your crimes before my lords, and find forgive…”

“Never!” Maedhros cut across him, looking more unhinged than ever. “We will not creep back to the West like disobedient children, to be chided and forgiven. There is nothing to forgive. We would not be robbed. When has that become a crime? Besides, the Valar will never forgive us. Not after we discovered their true intent. We are too dangerous. Nay, Lord  Eönwë, it is the Void that awaits us. Makalaurë, come!”

Once again, Eönwë did nothing to hider their leaving. Maedhros’ words had been crude and bold, yet could not hide his agony from one like Eönwë, and nor form Eärendil. He perceived Maedhros’ inner horror and despair and the unendurable pain that all that had befallen caused him.

Eäendil could not reason, even before himself, why he chose to follow the brothers. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was the fact that seeing two of the Eldar break so completely was so devastating. And maybe -and somehow Eärendil strongly suspected that to be the real reason- he felt responsible for them, viewed them as family, strange though it might be. They had raised and taught his sons, and Elrond and Elros had grown to call them their parents rather than Elwing and himself. How could he not care?
Before long, however, he came to regret his decision to follow the brothers, for seeing their agony, and hearing their sobs was devastating. They wandered the broken land aimlessly, having nowhere left to go, no-one to seek shelter with. Here at the end of their century-long quest, they were utterly forsaken.

After what felt like hours of aimless meandering, Maedhros finally halted, his remaining hand clenched around the gleaming gem, blood oozing from between his cramped fingers.

“I cannot… cannot bear it.”

Maedhros’ voice was brittle when he addressed Maglor, the first real words spoken between them since they had departed Eönwë’s tent. He seemed to have been pushed past his breaking point, swaying where he stood.

“Then let us go back.” Maglor answered, staggering just like his brother had done “Let us do as Eönwë told us. Let them punish us, let them destroy our very Fëar, let them make us undone. It will then be over at least, Russo. All over, all gone. Does that not sound good to you?”

Maglor’s pleas, however, did not seem to register with his brother, for Maedhros only stumbled on, tripping over his own feet rather than the rubble of the destroyed landscape. There were deep crevices everywhere, some filled with the fires of the earth, some with the waters of the sea. Wherever the two met, pillars of steam would issue from the earth, shrouding the stricken land in white, and Eärendil was reminded against his will of Gondolin’s fair fountains, going up in steam under the dragon-fire.

It was by the edge of just such a crevice that Maedhros finally came to a halt, his face eerily illuminated by the firelight that shone out of the chasm, his tangled hair whipping about him in the hot rising air, and for a moment, the veil of madness seemed to be lifted from his face, so that he stood again fair and proud as the prince of the house of Finwë that he once had been.

But also sad.

That was a whole new expression on Maedhros scarred face, one that at least Eärendil had not seen in all the years that he had watched him- a look of honest, deep sadness, not despair or grief.

“I am sorry.” Maedhros whispered gently, turning once more away from the crevice to face Maglor “I am sorry, little brother.”

And before Maglor could ask what Maedhros was sorry for, or indeed move at all, Maedhros had bent over to kiss Maglor tenderly, then stepped back and let himself fall into the fiery glow.

Eärendil let out a scream that trailed off into nothingness, unheard by any ears but his, the sight just too terrible to endure. Why would any Elf do such a thing? It was a vain and futile deed indeed, for Maedhros had achieved nothing with that gruesome death than reach Mandos even faster, and from all that Eärendil could surmise, that was the very place Maedhros feared most. He hoped that Lord Námo would indeed grant him some rest now, before Maedhros needed face the consequences of his deeds, so that he might in time be healed. And above all, keep him well away from the spirit of his father until he was strong enough to face Fëanor.

Briefly, while he listened  to Maglor’s wails, Eärendil wondered if Elwing would pity Maedhros and Maglor like he did, could she see them now. She bore a very justified grudge against the brothers, holding them in large parts responsible from their separation from their sons, but there was really no way she could not feel sorry for Maglor now. No-one could. His weeping had ceased now, and he stood by his brother’s fiery grave as though he were carved of stone, seemingly forgetting even the pain the Silmaril inflicted upon him, just staring into the fire.

Then, at long last, he raised his head to the heavens, and for an uncomfortable moment, Eärendil thought that he was somehow talking to him.

“Are you satisfied now? That he did what you asked him to? That he sacrificed everything? That he wasted centuries looking after us in your stead, all in vain? That he ended it like this, burning like you? Are you satisfied?”

Eärendil’s heart was heavy within him, hearing Maglor shout those accusations at Fëanor, who after all would never hear them, would never know of his son’s pain, at least not before it was cooled. He wondered if he aught to reveal himself, whether he might be of comfort for Maglor. Was there a chance, that they might bond over Elrond and Elros? Could he save him? And yet he moved not, dared nor, and so only watched as Maglor meandered blindly on, weeping and singing, and Eärendil was certain that he had never ever seen a being so hopeless and filled to the brim with despair.

It was not long before Maglor reached the sea, where it seemed that his feet had inadvertently carried him to, and suddenly, Eärendil knew what Maglor was going to do.

One in the sky, one in the bosom of Arda, one in the sea.

He watched Maglor fulfilling that doom, casting his Silmaril into the grey waves with a scream that spoke of pain and profound relief alike.

Eärendil glanced at the prow of Wingilot, where the third Silmaril gleamed in the gathering darkness, out of reach for any hand but his, and he would not touch it if it could be helped. Beautiful though the light was, it had still caused far too much pain already. So maybe it was indeed a good thing that the other two rested where it had been foretold they would rest, until Arda was broken and remade.

Far below Wingilot’s keel, Maglor slowly started walking again, weeping and unstable, wandering off into the night with a lament of an eery, keen beauty on his lips. One that had lost it all.