Of Endurance and Forget-Me-N̶o̶t̶s̶ by aSymphonyofDeadMen  

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Of Endurance and Forget-Me-N̶o̶t̶s̶

Droplets of red slowly make their way down, blurring his vision as a heavy mantle is set upon his shoulders - just that tidbit too tight, too suffocating. His thoughts spiral while the fiery herd that is his Fëa, silent testimony of a dead man's gift, hidden deep within a well of his tears misery - a futile attempt of drowning what his heart yearns to never have been in the first place - rouses from its sleep with a definitive crack, flames once more roaring to life.

 

His nerves zing-zang, little needles maltreating the husk of his Hröa, pinpricks of a rage born to take without asking, hurt without thinking and bite without trusting.

 

And just like that his tongue loosens, jaw quietly popping as his mouth opens, flesh twisting into a grotesque mask. Blood coats his lips. Foe or friend, he could not tell for he is but a foreigner trapped in a body that is subject to a corpse's ashes every whim and whish, crowned by youth's foolishness.

 

Skillful as ever does the puppet master move, he muses, observing an arm that is not his twitch - a seed of distant curiosity sparking within his chest as muscles wiggle - tense -, malleable flesh transforming into cold stone. Indeed, skillful as ever does the puppet master move, pulling strings with a childish glee.

 

And then there is a sniffle.

 

Quiet and yet deafening in a corridor subject to silence, highlighting its miserable nature. It is but a most pitiable sound, awkward in itself for having conglomerated in it a futile suppressed hiccup with a slowly settling in hysteria.

 

And then there are eyes.

 

Glittering pools of a soul too old for a body so very young - But why dare tell, lays now a mist upon those marbles, doors to the soul, their surface glassy instead of smooth as within them howls a hurricane, deviously pulling on flesh and bone alike while hitched breaths, too ragged and short, ring in his ears as nimble fingers twist one another, skin giving away under a nail's pressure, painting it in a deep red. He stares into those marbles, unmoving, and his reflection stares back at him.

 

There is a creaking in his ear, a rumble born low to rise above and beyond and the sound of glass shattering. There is blood on his lips - and shards in his eyes.

 

Another sniffle follows, wheezier, thinner as oxygen evades the needy.

 

And just like that the hunchback of an old man morphs into a little boy as the clock turns backwards, not - never - cutting away the ever tightening rope around his neck but for the time being loosening strings meant to strangulate. A taste of this looming threat, a whispered promise sulling his ears, mixes with the bloodied coat of his lips to a sour poison. He gulps, then blinks. Tension leaves his body, face contorting while lead busies itself with decorating his intestines.

 

And just like that Maglor breathes, shuddering as the world tilts on its axis, plunging him into oceanic depths.

 

Reason evades the Noldor as emptiness, pillar of the grave he had desperately dug himself, wishing it to stop, stop, stop tumbles for its strength lies in a hollowness not his own but the one bestowed upon him by a monster's deeds.

 

However, as gentle as such claws are able to scratch out the remnants of a shredded heart, poking and prodding with a vicious glee while meticulously pulling one muscle fibre after the other apart, as laughable are said endeavours of attorney in the face of a distraught boy - his distraught boy.

 

Maglor blinks.

 

Fog is the landscape of his mind, heavily settling on a swamp overly thick - or perhaps excessively deep - for light is the lost love his heart yearns for.

 

His boy stands in front of him, tears adorning puffed up cheeks while suppressed sobs shake a frail frame. Little fingers stained red with their own blood dig into the rough fabric of a tunic big enough to hang off of one shoulder, meant for another one and yet all the more right on the child in front of him.

 

Another sniffle disrupts the stillness of a moment frozen in time.

 

Hate, Maglor had been sure of, was not a mere companion you greeted with the dip of a head.

 

Hate, Maglor had been sure of, was a friend unlike any other in reliability, loyal to a fault to free the world of vicious beasts dressed in allies' skins.

 

Hate, Maglor had been sure of, was not the one constant he simply knew but had instead internalized, borders having blurred as they danced to a rhythm of their own - lovers entangled in an infinite embrace, chastity evading them as lust had challenged their lips, pleasantries a needless formality none could bother to uphold.

 

Hate, Maglor now knew, could not have been more of a stranger with each new tear decorating a child's cheeks with an artistic ease, soundless testimony to a world that is not broken but instead breaks.

 

Forgetfulness is her children's second name and beauty subjective for wonder - the thrill of adoration - lies within all there is. Be it a foe’s shackle made with careful precision, iron dully reflecting a scorching sun, meant to keep - within it ingrained a lesson of holding on rather than of letting go - or a friend’s sword, metal still a bright red, malleable and object to its master’s will as iron twists, whispers of driving apart and an insatiable hunger for blood becoming one under hammer and ambos.

 

So why, Maglor wonders, is it that he is but his maker’s vessel for innumerable misdeeds - in him a mere beauty to be found of a raging wildfire, ravenously consuming everything there is, painting his world with ashen colours...

Neither soil nor plant or cloth,    not searing metal or story untold, but bones ground to dust          that shall be his lust.

 

    

Why, his Fëa then screams, twisting inside out as teeth pull on flesh, nails scratching - tearing apart - in a desperate protest of his very nature, disgustable self, can’t he be the shackle meant to secure and the sword striving to protect? Why, Maglor cries internally, does he even fail to keep his little star safe and sound?

 

The corners of his lips turn upward, muscles meticulously twitching as his mouth stretches into a thin facade of a smile. Hoping, he has come to know, is a most abhorrent concept for it is but the own sharpening of a dagger easening your heart of its burden - and yet he finds himself hoping as he ever so slowly crouches down, dressing himself in sheep's clothing, that his clever boy shall find comfort in a lie of their own. Absentmindedly wiggling his fingers, the Noldor shoves an oncoming feeling of dread unknown to him as of now into the abyss that is his Fëa and swallows the remnants of his heart whole.

 

His boy is crying - and his hand was raised.

 

Memory still evades him. There is no pain as Maglor shouts into the Fog, mind a hazy mess. Thick is the swamp, clutching at his legs, wanting him to stay for its hunger is great as Maglor’s desperation rises for he cannot remember, not decipher -

 

“I”, Maglor blinks, a thin, wobbly voice calling out to him, dragging the elf through waters high. Barely can he suppress a shiver. Eyes focus back into existence, concentrating - searching - and in their depths harboring the reflection of a silent plea. The face in front of him is distraught, snot running and eyes red-rimmed - tiny chest heaving with the effort of such an endeavour while a mouth fruitlessly gasps for air that just won’t come. Pearls decorating as tears are carefully arranged on puffed up, red - Oh, Maglor thinks.

 

And just like that his heart plummets, muscle fibres weaving a cordle to hang himself with. Oxygen evades him, yet he does not care as black stars, proof of an inescapable night creeping ever closer on him, start dancing in the field of his vision.

 

His boy is still distraught.

 

Most terrible of all is the not knowing that pains his very being, the lingering fear and its accompanied horrors gnawing away at the ruins of his psyche. “I-I a-a-am s-sorry”, red fingers twist into rough fabric, breath hitching as the child’s frame is being shocked. Maglor’s fingers itch, yearning to soothe and hold - caress, uttering gentle reassurances while snatching desolate flowers from withering fields and stealing the night sky's stars to paint a brighter picture with for this little boy in front of him.

 

And yet his body is tense, a statue not daring to break the spell laid upon it.

 

His heart aches.

 

“I am sorry, Atya”, and just like that his little star collapses right into his arms, Maglor sure to catch him this time. There is a hand carefully wafting through a curly head, petite fingers locking themselves into red robes and a little head burying itself in his shoulder. Murmurs, sweet lies of reassurement, drip without thinking twice from his lips and he begins rocking them back and forth.

 

Maglor still doesn’t know - and it’s killing him.

 

“I am sorry.”

Chapter End Notes

Hi, thanks so much for reading and I hope you've enjoyed it :)^_^✨ 
This was my first time posting something for this fandom and I do hope that it could entertain. I wish you a wonderful day, stay safe!

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