dye me, nocturne by skywardstruck  

All of it had been for nothing.

Everything they’d fought, bled and murdered for was all for nothing. They’d twisted themselves into unrecognizable monsters, husks of their former selves. They’d killed without hesitation, committed the most heinous acts imaginable, no matter how much it pained them to do it. But it was fine for them to become the villains, as long as they had each other, as long as he wasn’t alone—

“Nelyo... why?!”

An anguished scream cuts through the silent fog surrounding the shore. A bleeding hand grips the accursed gem, burning with the light of judgement, searing the skin, forever marking him as unworthy. It is the last thing he has left to remind him of his family— the gem that was stolen from them, that rightfully belonged to them- but now it burns him. It tears his palm open; he is painfully aware of his failures, and yet he knows that without this gem in his hand, he has nothing.

For Maglor, the last living son of Fëanor, is all alone.

The Silmaril is worthless to him now, no matter how much Maglor has fought to hold it in his hand. It cannot replace his father, whose genius created the Silmarils themselves; it cannot replace his brothers, who killed and died for the Oath; it cannot replace Maedhros, who gave himself to the fire with a Silmaril in hand just moments before.

And Maglor was there. If only I was faster, stronger... perhaps I could have stopped him, Maglor insists. Anger wells up in his heart: at the Valar, for making victory impossible; at himself, for his weakness; at Maedhros, for leaving him to suffer alone like this. “Why, Nelyo..? Why did you abandon me?!” Maglor cries out to the sea, desperate. He shouts to the vast emptiness before him, overwhelmed by the pain coursing through him, knowing nothing will answer his call except more pain, nothing but pain—

If only he had let it go! Was that damn Silmaril... more important to him than me?

“Damn you...!!”

The sky flashes white. An arc of light pierces the fog. Maglor, with all the strength he has left, casts the Silmaril into the sea, collapsing onto the sand. He is finally free, free of the dreadful Oath, free of his burden- but nothing can fill the emptiness inside him, the hollow shell that is his broken fëa. His left hand, now charred black, still swells with pain, still bleeds; the salt water stings as it washes over his skin.

What can Maglor cling to now? Not the Silmaril, not the gem which took all that he loved from him. Not his family, his beloved brothers who died for their oath; not the peredhil twins destined for far greater things than he could have ever amounted to, a permanent reminder of the family he so cruelly sundered. He will forever be a kinslayer, unworthy of redemption, mercy or love— and the last person in Middle-earth who loved him is gone. The waves call to him, just as the flames did to Maedhros; for a moment, Maglor wants nothing more than to embrace them, to drown with the Silmaril, follow his beloved brother to the Void. But that feeling washes away as quickly as it came, as Maglor remembers his anger, the betrayal, love and hatred in equal measure. He is determined now, adamant in his refusal to yield to Maedhros’s will again— but without Maedhros, what does he have left?

Nothing. Nothing but the song of the ocean, the cries of the wind ringing the chimes of death, echoing to the mountains behind him. The waves tempt him, more and more, until he can no longer resist the call. Maglor lifts up his body as if controlled, his heart resonating with the Music of the sea as it conducts the anguished song of his broken fëa, twisted, turned, made unrecognizable from what it once was. He can never again be Makalaurë, the mighty singer who uplifted the hearts of all in Aman who listened to him. Now he is nothing, and he will sing until he fades, perhaps until the end of Arda.

Or until his executioner arrives to put his useless hröa out of its misery.

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Once, the Ered Luin was an impenetrable wall dividing Beleriand from the rest of Middle-earth. Now, in the aftermath of the War of Wrath, Beleriand is no more, the sea has broken through, the River Lhûn divides the mountain range in two, and those left in Middle-earth must pick up the pieces of a land crumbled by war.

Daeron, the greatest minstrel among the Sindar, journeys down the river to the west, in search of his fellow Elves, after many long years in self-imposed exile. He must hold out hope that he will find purpose again; it is hope that keeps his voice alive, even as he wanders, his accomplishments forgotten, alone and burdened by jealousy and resentment. Though he loved Lúthien like a sister, he was sundered from her when she chose mortality, leaving everyone she loved behind in death. And in his fruitless attempts to protect her, Daeron became the villain in her story, a sacrifice that amounted to nothing in the end.

Glaerorn would surely be ashamed of him, if she knew what he had become. Glaerorn, his older cousin who so dutifully and patiently taught him how best to connect with his voice, to carve the most beautiful flutes from the bark, to resonate his fëa with the voices of the trees. “The power which rests in your song is your greatest weapon,” she once said. “You must use that power... to sway the hearts of all who hear you, to find meaning where there is nothing, a path forward in your darkest hour.”

Daeron walks through darkness now, for he is no one anymore. But the hope of finding someone, anyone to fill the hole in his heart, keeps him searching. Perhaps he can find Glaerorn, rest his heart in the comfort of her guidance.

As he travels, he hears stories of events that have transpired since his departure, the same stories, told again and again as he searches for signs of his old life. Travelers from the west of the mountains tell Daeron of the fall of Doriath. How Thingol’s heir, Dior, the fairest of all the children of the world, was cruelly slain by the Sons of Fëanor, along with his beloved wife Nimloth— though not before Dior slew Celegorm the cruel with his own hands. And how the sons of Dior were lost after the massacre, left to starve in the woods, no one at all knowing of their fate. Daeron’s beloved home, gone, destroyed, drenched in blood before the sinking of the continent.

The travelers tell of the terrible attack on the Havens of Sirion— refugees from Doriath, Gondolin, lands of the Haladin, cruelly slain by the forces of the Sons of Fëanor, all to claim a single Silmaril kept in the hands of Elwing, granddaughter of Lúthien. “It was the worst, the most horrific of all of the kinslayings,” a fellow Sinda heading east tells him. “The Lady Elwing was pushed to her death, only saved by Ulmo’s grace...”

“And what of the survivors?” Daeron asks.

“I managed to escape the worst of it,” the traveler replies, “but it was likely they were scattered, as I was. I know a few of the survivors reside in Lindon now; I have just come from there. Whatever you are seeking, perhaps in Lindon you will find answers.”

“If from Lindon you have come... what can you tell me of Glaerorn, or her kin?” Daeron inquires further, desperate for news of his older cousin and mentor. “She was a flute-maker, the greatest in Doriath, a talented singer and teacher...” He knows there is little chance a random traveler will know, but he asks anyway, for leads have been few and far between.

“I have not heard that name in some time,” the traveler admits, regret in their voice. “The last I heard of her, she was protecting the Lady Elwing’s twin children, Elrond and Elros, from the kinslayers in Sirion— whether she managed to escape herself or was slain, I do not know.”

“I... I see.” It is all Daeron can say, for a fate unknown terrifies him more than anything.

“I am terribly sorry I could not be of more help...”

“Do not... be burdened by my troubles,” Daeron pleads. “I wish you well on your journey.” He bows his head, going on his way, keeping his true feelings inside. Daeron refuses to let anyone see his weakness, for ever since Lúthien was lost to him, Daeron vowed the song of his heart would be his alone.

❧

Daeron continues his travels west, still in search of Glaerorn. However, his heart is heavy now, confronted with the possibility that his dearest cousin could be dead, murdered by the hands of kinslayers. Perhaps someone in Lindon will know more of her fate. Never let go of hope, he tells himself again, even if he is beginning to believe it less. Glaerorn could still be alive, Daeron knows, and yet, the horrific image in his head will not leave him— what if it’s true? He begs silently yet fervently for some kind of sign, any way forward—

In the silence, a single note rings out, almost forming into words as if it were a message from far away. Though Daeron cannot understand it yet, he knows it to be a voice, at least, and someone who is just as lost as him. So he takes out his flute, a gift from Glaerorn, his most prized possession— and answers back with a note of his own, harmonizing, letting his feelings flow through the instrument and along the wavelength of the Music. The distant singer calls to Daeron, full of loneliness, guilt, resentment and longing all at once; it is everything Daeron feels now, and he wonders, if he followed the voice to its source, would the singer understand?

What can you do, when you have nothing left anymore?

And so Daeron follows the voice, caring not on what paths it takes him. The voice sings of family, lost to blade and flame. It sings of sacrifice, becoming the villain in the story, if it meant fighting for those they loved. But it also sings of regret, a funeral march and a lament all at once, for nothing can erase the pain they had wrought on others, nothing can return them to the way they once were, loved and respected by all for their talents and accomplishments. The voice seems to draw out every burden in Daeron’s heart, for the song is his, too, as the sorrowful notes of his flute join with the pained tones of the singer’s voice. And atop a hill, Daeron can perceive the beautiful shores of Forlindon, the sparkling waves resonating with the music as if mourning alongside the singer; still, they beckon him forward on the path, as Daeron gives himself up to the music, wandering ever closer to the sea.

Daeron knows not how much time has passed, when he finally reaches the shores. As he regains his senses, searching for the owner of that anguished voice— he sees a figure off in the distance, with long, curly black hair blowing in the wind, hands reaching for the frame of a golden harp. Daeron treads carefully towards the singer, hoping to catch a glimpse of their face.

Another wave crashes onto the sand as the singer turns around, eyes full of tears, gazing at Daeron in disbelief, as if he is nothing more than a dream. But the music pauses only for a moment, and soon enough, flute and harp become one.

❧

The Music lasts for some time, the sweet notes of Daeron’s wooden flute soaring above the gentle, sorrowful notes of the stranger’s harp. Daeron is not lost in the music for long, however, as he soon begins to notice some of the features of his surroundings: the grains of sand between his feet, glittering from Arien’s reflection; the worn-down cabin past the rocks; the vastness of the sea. He notices more about the strange singer, as well. His eyes are drawn to the raggedy clothes, the fading light in their eyes, and the singer’s left hand, blackened as if scorched by flame. Daeron realizes neither he nor the stranger beside him have revealed much to each other, and now he wonders, what could have led to this? What is the cause, of the sorrow in this stranger’s heart, the burn upon their hand? And the more Daeron observes the stranger, with their loose wavy curls, distant gaze, sweet tenor voice— the more Daeron wonders if perhaps, he has met them before.

And then, the Music comes to a halt.

“You have stopped,” the stranger observes, speaking softly, with a tone suggesting curiosity rather than disappointment. “Did you wish to ask something of me?”

Daeron hesitates, if only for being taken aback by the stranger’s speaking voice. It is a prince’s voice, one he swears he remembers from somewhere. And those glowing eyes— if it is the light of Valinor, surely a prince of the Noldor sits before him....

“You have traveled far, to reach me,” the stranger adds, noticing Daeron hasn’t asked his question yet. “If my voice has made you stray from your path, made you weary, helpless in its wake... I understand, if you cannot forgive me for the hurt I have caused you—”

“None of that,” Daeron interrupts, not interested in the stranger’s calculated self-pity. “Just.... tell me, who are you?”

“I am Maglor, son of Fëanor,” he answers, without a single reservation, though he pauses soon after to observe, as if he knows how Daeron will react. “The last son of Fëanor.”

“Then you—”

“Yes, I am a kinslayer,” Maglor states plainly, a strange smile forming on his face, burnt hand placed delicately on his chest. “Corrupted, lost, with no hope of redemption.”

Daeron narrows his gaze. How strange, that the song should lead him here, to Maglor, the minstrel who had swayed his heart during the Mereth Aderthad, a kinslayer who killed so many in his family’s relentless, bloody pursuit of the Silmarils, that cursed gem which led Lúthien to— no, he cannot dwell on this now, not when he has spent so long escaping his grief. And it would be wrong, anyway, to blame this fallen prince, for the actions of Doriath’s foolish, vain king.

Anyone in their right mind would warn Daeron, to be careful when dealing with kinslayers. But something about Maglor doesn’t sit right with him. The kinslayer is clearly remorseful, Daeron observes, but why, then, did the song lead me here? What does he want from me?

Daeron decides he will only ask for information, nothing more. Vengeance, he leaves to those whose hearts burn more fiercely than his own. So he asks about the obvious.

“That blackened hand of yours. How did this happen to you?” asks Daeron, kneeling before Maglor.

“Oh, this...” Maglor mumbles, extending his arm a bit to allow Daeron to inspect it. “I was punished. After everything I’d done, I could no longer... ai!” It stings Maglor a little, when Daeron rubs a finger across his hand, feeling the heat radiating from it, and Maglor winces. Daeron notices this right away, eyebrows furrowed in worry, and lets the unburnt skin of Maglor’s arm rest in his palm instead.

“Punished you? Who punished you? How?”

“When the Silmarils were made... Elbereth hallowed them, so that if evil hands ever touched them, they would be burned, and face the judgement of the Valar,” Maglor explains, carefully looking up at Daeron, as if trying to gauge his thoughts. “Though we had sworn an oath to recover them, no matter who or what opposed us, all of it was in vain, from the very beginning... everything I’ve sacrificed, everyone I’ve lost, all of it..." Maglor’s voice shakes, and Daeron isn’t sure what to think, but he knows he cannot let his emotions get the better of him.

Especially not when Maglor has that look in his eyes, demanding pity without saying anything at all.

“Of course the Silmaril would burn you,” Daeron asserts, growing more frustrated, and he wonders if Maglor is aware of what he’s doing. “You’re a kinslayer; how many of my own kin have you killed with those hands? Nothing, no amount of remorse will erase what you’ve done.”

“I know,” Maglor assures him, “But I cannot erase these feelings of regret, either. I shall carry them with me until the end of Arda, and I have accepted this fate for myself,” he explains with a gentle smile. “It is only right. I can feel how your heart weeps for those you have lost, how the grief still tears away at you unceasingly, and I too weep alongside you, even though I do not know who you are...”

“You may call me Daeron,” he replies, wondering how much about himself he should reveal, especially since Maglor didn’t seem to recognize him before. Then Daeron remembers his pride, everything that had been forgotten about him once Lúthien and Beren were immortalized as heroes, and his tone changes. “Daeron, of Doriath,” he says, more self-assured as he stands to introduce himself. “Inventor of the Cirth alphabet. Loremaster of King Thingol. The greatest minstrel among the Sindar.”

“Ah... the one who played for us, at the great feast, all that time ago...” Maglor reminisces.

“The very same.”

“Then it must have been fate!” Maglor declares, breathing a sigh of relief. “That you, of all people, should hear my song, and find me here...”

“I hardly know you; we only met briefly on one occasion,” Daeron retorts. “Other than my noteworthy accomplishments, what makes me so significant?”

“You...” Maglor pauses, observing Daeron with an unnerving gaze. “You’ve come here looking for someone, haven’t you?”

Daeron curses himself, for being so easy to read.

“What do you really want, Maglor?” he asks, his patience thinning. “I have nothing left anymore. You aren’t going to get anything out of me, that I can promise you, why have you called me here?”

“Whatever you are imagining... I seek nothing of the sort,” Maglor insists, “for I too, have lost everything. Do you not wish to know what became of that person? The one you’re searching for?”

Daeron hesitates to say her name now. He would leave himself vulnerable, thinking of his beloved mentor, and how long he wandered in self-pity and jealousy, cursing everyone who led to his fall. Mentioning her name, stirring up all of the emotions that come with it, letting himself be vulnerable to Maglor’s manipulation— all of it will only give the kinslayer everything he wants. Maglor will never understand that feeling, not someone as cruel and heartless as him, with no regard at all for the sanctity of life, only selfish regret after the fact.

Unfortunately, as Daeron soon realizes, Maglor is probably one of the few people left who can tell him of Glaerorn’s fate. That news is all Daeron wants, and Maglor seems to be eager to give it to him. Would it hurt so much to play his game? What does Daeron have left to lose, anyway?

“Glaerorn, the flute-maker.. my mentor, and cousin,” Daeron finally says. “That performance you heard from me, at the Mereth Aderthad... Glaerorn taught me that song. The melody, the technique, all of it. She made the flute for me,” he explains, keeping a close eye on Maglor’s body language. “The last anyone heard of her, she was protecting Lady Elwing’s children at Sirion... Surely you would know of her fate. You started the violence yourself, murdering all of those helpless people. Tell me, what happened to Glaerorn?”

Maglor’s eyes widen, and his brows furrow in the silence, seemingly deep in thought about what he should say. Daeron cannot read Maglor’s thoughts, for his fëa is unrecognizable from what it once was, made twisted from his horrific deeds. But Daeron can tell that Maglor recognizes that name, and for a fleeting moment, Daeron notices a chilling smile on Maglor’s face.

“I am terribly sorry...” Maglor answers in a soft, shuddering voice, afraid to meet Daeron’s gaze.

“For what? Answer me swiftly; I grow weary of this game, Maglor.”

“Your search, o Daeron... it ends here,” Maglor finally answers. His expression darkens, though he speaks with more certainty now, as if he had been waiting for this moment for a long time. “Glaerorn... is lost.”

“Lost...?”

“Indeed. For she died on my blade... I was the one who killed her.”

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The die has been cast, Maglor is certain; he can sense Daeron’s justified anger rising, melding with his grief, about to erupt like the very volcano in which Maedhros fell.

Truly, this is fate. Finally, Maglor’s story can come to an end.

“You lie!” Daeron retorts, and Maglor can only gaze downward in the same regret he embodies so completely, as Daeron continues to shout at him, rising to stand, pointing at him, accusing him.. “You lie, so you can drag me down in despair with you... I refuse!”

And Daeron isn’t wrong. Maglor did tell a lie; he knows nothing of Glaerorn’s fate after she cried out to the twins to flee at Sirion. But what does one lie matter at the very end of it all, when Maglor will soon die by the hands of one who deserves to wield the knife? Doriath had fallen to the bloodied blades of the Sons of Fëanor, and it is only right for Doriath’s greatest minstrel to enact vengeance for all that he has lost.

So Maglor continues spinning the false tale.

“But I remember it clearly,” says Maglor, looking up at Daeron in an effort to convince him of this new revelation. “I remember... how she bravely threw herself in front of the twins as I rushed forth. How she pleaded for them to flee, sacrificing herself so Elrond and Elros could live...”

“No... it cannot be so. Surely, it isn’t true...”

“The truth is sometimes the most painful thing of all,” Maglor affirms, lifting up his burnt left hand as proof. 

“This must be some kind of trap. You want something from me—”

“And what could I possibly stand to gain from you, fellow wanderer? I wish only for you to give what you think I deserve,” Maglor assures him, with a gentle, non-threatening smile, the one he always used to sway the hearts of others, and bring out their innermost desires.

“What you deserve...”

Surely, this is what Daeron wants, right? Someone as cold as him, who would betray even those he loved just to protect them, would surely wish to take his revenge. And Maglor can see Daeron’s expression change, shock back to anger, everything he had kept inside him all this time about to be unleashed.

“What you deserve, Maglor Fëanorion, is to feel even for one moment, every bit of grief, pain and agony that my people have suffered at your hands,” Daeron snaps. “I could not even be there, to witness the final moments of those I loved, my family, my home. I could not be there, to protect those I loved at Sirion, their final chance to simply live, without the shadow of death hanging over them— those lives you destroyed, caring not for their screams as you slaughtered them all, their families, their children...” He pauses, catches his breath, for the tears have begun to flow. “I could not play even one song, to comfort those who survived it all, for I was not there, and I had not lived that pain... but you... you—! You were the one who massacred them all!”

Maglor can only wince when Daeron kneels in front of him and grips his tattered tunic in rage. “Do you even know the names, of everyone you slaughtered in cold blood?! What did Glaerorn say when you killed her? What were her last words? Tell me!”

A brief pause, and Maglor knows Daeron expects an answer, so he must devise one. “‘Live on, sons of Elwing... you are our last hope,’ she said. That is what I remember...”

“And then you killed her,” Daeron reiterates, seeming to fully believe it now. “You killed her, and you didn’t even care.”

“Every life I so cruelly extinguished eats away at me. The weight of my sins... it has carved away at my insides, destroying me from within, until there is very little left of me, nothing but a song,” Maglor explains, telling the truth of his feelings. “But even that is worth nothing anymore. I deserve sympathy from no one. Perhaps, if I could have escaped that damned Oath—”

“You always had a choice, Kinslayer, and you chose violence every time,” Daeron argues. “And the only grief you feel now is for yourself. For what you have become.”

Maglor cannot even protest, as tears well up in his eyes; he cannot bring himself to speak of Maedhros whom he grieves, for the pain is still too near. But his eyes soon widen in anticipation, as Daeron grips the handle of a hunting dagger attached to his waist.

“Alas, there is no punishment I could deliver that would be fitting enough for all of the atrocities you have wrought upon my kin,” Daeron declares, unsheathing the knife with a shaking hand, a pained expression on his face as he lets his own tears fall. “But— perhaps once I send you to the Halls... the Valar shall decide it instead.” And as the judgment leaves Daeron’s lips, Maglor knows his executioner has finally come for him, and he sighs quietly, relieved.

Daeron holds the knife in his hand, the blade hovering over Maglor’s neck. Maglor closes his eyes, taking deep breaths, awaiting the end.

But the end does not come. He can still feel the salty breeze on his skin, smell the sea air; he can still hear the sounds of the waves, the cries of the gulls, Daeron’s heavy breathing as the blade slowly, almost hesitantly, graces the surface of Maglor’s skin. It is enough to draw only a little blood, but not enough for him to feel pain, nothing that comes close to the pain of losing Maedhros, if anything could. Can you not end this quicker? Maglor wishes to say, but he will not beg, not yet, not when he finally has Daeron right where he wants him.

And even as he waits, the blade does not move.

A few more agonizing moments of waiting. Daeron’s hand shakes, and still, the end does not come.

“Will you not... send me to Mandos, Daeron of Doriath?” Maglor opens his eyes, only to find Daeron retracting the knife, a hint of frustration on his face before he turns away, refusing to meet Maglor’s pleading gaze. Why, Daeron? You had such a fire in your heart before... Maglor wishes to ask, but he knows he must be patient.

“I... will not end your life, not yet,” answers Daeron, his voice strained, as he cleans the blade of blood with a small cloth. “I will watch over you, for two nights, so that you may reflect upon your choices. And on the third day, I will leave your fate to other hands.”

“...Very well then,” Maglor replies, nodding as if to say, I understand. After all, it was the love of his family that gave him the strength to do the unthinkable, and Daeron has no one left at all.

❧

Daeron asks Maglor where shelter can be found, and Maglor leads him to a nearby cave some ways down the shoreline. Maglor pauses to look behind him occasionally, to glance at Daeron’s expression, and it doesn’t change from his usual scowl. But something doesn’t feel quite right, and Maglor can’t place it.

“Why do you stare at me so, kinslayer?” asks Daeron.

“Only to make sure you are still following me,” Maglor replies.

“Of course I would be following you; you’re the only one who knows where the cave is,” Daeron retorts. “Why don’t you think about what you’ve done, instead of staring at me? I suggest you quit wasting time.”

Maglor nods in agreement, but he can’t help but notice Daeron’s frown is a bit strained, as if he’s forcing himself to look angrier when he would rather just rest.

And the more Maglor thinks about it, he starts to feel bad for Daeron, wondering how things would’ve gone if he hadn’t lied.

When they finally arrive at the cave, Daeron stops for a brief moment to marvel at its beauty. The entrance to the cave, behind a gleaming waterfall, is through shallow water, before they arrive upon a raised mound of sand and rock. The cave is wide, the ceiling high, every sound echoes as if someone else is there, answering back. Ridges of the cave walls alternate in colors from silver to smoky gray, the cave a reflection of the ripples in the water that shaped it, Ossë’s finest work. The light shines through a small cavity above, each ray reflecting off of the drops of seawater clinging to the walls, the stalactites and columns. But this is not a place of peace for Maglor. For it reminds him too much of the cave where he took the peredhil twins that fateful day, in the dead of night, huddled together in the dark as they feared the worst. And this is the cave where he must wait, his fate delayed, his executioner hesitant to gift to Maglor the release of death he deserves.

Maglor knows how hard it is to deliver death. He knows it all too well, for every time he killed, was forced to by that damned Oath, he would shove his emotions away. That gentle temperament he inherited from his mother, the soft, kind Makalaurë that everyone loved, he would hide him away. Simply stop feeling, remind himself, this is all for my family, nothing else matters, and he would become a different person. His treelit eyes would spark terror in anyone who saw them, that fierce gaze of a warrior— no, of a monster. Perhaps if Daeron had seen that side of Maglor, he would be less hesitant now.

But Maglor knows what Daeron is capable of; he knows of the darkness in Daeron’s past, even if it is not as violent as Maglor’s own. The tales call him a schemer, jealous of Lúthien’s love for Beren, conspiring with Thingol to thwart their relationship, betraying Lúthien not just once but twice. There is truth in some of it, but other parts, Maglor assumes, are surely exaggerated. History cannot always get everything right, after all.

So Maglor settles against a rock, Daeron playing the warden as he looks down on Maglor, full of uncertainty— and he asks a simple question.

“The stories about you. How you betrayed Lúthien.... how much of it is true?”

“Hmph. I suppose it was only a matter of time until you asked me about that,” Daeron grumbles, turning his gaze away. “While it is true I betrayed Lúthien to her father on at least two occasions— I did not do so out of romantic interest in her. That was a lie. Lúthien was a sister to me. I wished only to protect her, for I knew her road would only lead to death.”

“And... you could not stop her. Because she chose her doom of her own free will.”

“Yes. But I thought, if I could at least slow her down, give her a moment to think, to consider everyone she’d be leaving behind forever... maybe then, she wouldn’t have—” Daeron pauses, hoping to stop himself from losing composure. “She could’ve stayed with me, as we always had, since we were young... I was willing to become the villain, if it meant I could save her. Even if she hated me for a while, perhaps she would come to understand my feelings. But I failed. I am hated by all, and my dear sister is lost to me... There is no use protesting the lies about me. People can believe whatever they wish.”

Maglor finds Daeron’s answer strange. Where is his pride? Every song Maglor ever composed, it was to speak from the heart, so that even those who hated him and condemned his deeds could feel his pain, the weight of his guilt and sorrow. But Daeron refuses to fight back— why?

“Do you not care enough for your reputation,” Maglor inquires, “for all of your noteworthy accomplishments, to defend yourself?”

“No... not anymore,” answers Daeron, gravely. “Not when the only people who loved me are gone.”

Maglor gasps, his chest aching as he thinks of Maedhros, who too chose death. Though his story is nothing like Lúthien’s choice to go beyond the confines of Arda, never to be seen again, it is similar in one way: regret. For Maglor was there when Maedhros fell, right before his eyes; Maglor knows, if only he had run up to him, held onto him, if he had stopped him from jumping over the edge into the fiery chasm, Maedhros would still be here, the only person in all the world who understood him, cared about him, loved him. But Maedhros chose death, chose to fall to his doom, and all Maglor could do was watch helplessly, screaming out his name in pain and betrayal. If only I had known, then I could’ve said something, could’ve done something, Maglor tells himself, tears welling up in his eyes. Then he wouldn’t have— Maedhros, he...

Maedhros killed himself, and I couldn’t stop him.

“Maglor? I do not need pity from you. Is there something wrong?” Daeron asks, his voice strangely soothing, cold while hiding genuine concern. Maglor wants nothing more than for death to take him, right now, but he wonders if Daeron will truly have the heart to give it to him.

“Nothing is wrong,” Maglor lies. “I am only... thinking about the end.”

“The end... the end of what? What do you speak of?”

“Let us rest for tonight,” says Maglor, ignoring the question, hoping that sleep will be a good opportunity to think less about Daeron. “I’m sure you are desperately seeking respite from your long journey... will you not rest?”

“I was going to do that anyway, with or without your permission,” Daeron huffs, turning away to rest upon the sand. “You ought to rest as well. Perhaps the Master of Dreams will have revealing visions for you.”

But Maglor does not even attempt to sleep that night. For he cries out to Maedhros silently, desperately, over and over, without a single answer.

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“Why... Daeron, why? I trusted you... How could you?”

Daeron was met with a look of hurt, betrayal, and anger from Lúthien, the moment he arrived with her afternoon meal as his king demanded.

“Surely you knew... that my father would have done this, the moment you told him.”

“I did, dear sister. And you will come to understand why, in time.”

“No, it is you who does not understand,” said Lúthien, looking Daeron directly in the eyes, her gaze powerful, even though she was trapped here. “All the times we spent dancing, singing, playing games among the trees, roaming free in the wide woods— those are some of my happiest memories with you. It seems you have forgotten them, in your efforts to cage me here, against my will.”

“You will not be here for long; you will be released, once you accept the truth,” Daeron clarified, hoping to ease Lúthien’s worries, for his heart ached for her, knowing he had to do this for her sake. “This path you have gone down, in pursuit of this mortal man, ends only in your death. And a world without you... it hurts to even imagine it. Have you not thought for even one moment, of those you love, those whom you would leave behind?”

“I have. But even if I were to accept my father’s terms, that would not change the will of my heart,” Lúthien explained. “While it is true that I would go on living... I would never be the same again. And I would live... with the guilt that Beren had died for my sake, because he loved me, and I had done nothing in my power to save him, even when I had the chance.”

“And if you were to die, trying to save him?”

“I do not fear death, Daeron. Love is stronger than all things, even death itself.”

“Perhaps I have never understood you at all, Lúthien.... why take this road?”

“It is worth the risk,” Lúthien declared. “And only one who has been transformed by love could truly understand.”

❧

Daeron awakes in frustration— of course Irmo would remind him of one of his worst memories. But why now? Why did Irmo want him to recall Lúthien’s words? Was it simply because Daeron had discussed it with Maglor the day before, or was it an omen of some sort?

It can’t be because I’m attached to— no. I don’t even wish to think about it.

Daeron then notices Maglor has moved very little from his spot on the rock. Daeron is hesitant to ask about Maglor’s current state, but it is clear that Maglor already expects the question. “No, I did not sleep,” Maglor answers. “For ever since I was left alone... I could no longer keep the nightmares away, and so I prefer to avoid them, when I can.”

“Then... how do you usually pass the time, when you force yourself to stay awake?”

“I sing,” Maglor explains, “for it is the only way I have to lose myself completely. Do you not feel this way too, when you play?”

“Sometimes. But I do not play for myself, for music is more meaningful when there is someone else to hear it; and for the longest time, I have had no one,” Daeron admits. “But perhaps if things could go back to the way they once were...”

“It is impossible. Our homes... we can never go back. And after all that we have suffered, we are forever changed; you did not even recognize me, when we crossed paths on the shore,” Maglor points out.

“That... that is true,” Daeron concedes, remembering the haunting notes of Maglor’s voice. “Your voice, it... sounded much deeper than I remember.”

“The Makalaurë of that time... he no longer exists. You know this.”

“Oh, I am aware,” Daeron agrees, narrowing his gaze, deep in thought. “To think of it another way, though... I only wish to recall those same feelings of joy again, from that blissful time. That is why I was desperately searching for my family, for Glaerorn, I thought that maybe...”

“I... I know nothing that I can say will bring Glaerorn back to this world,” says Maglor, after a bit of hesitation. “I know that my words are meaningless when I have wronged her, wronged you and so many others. But if my death in turn can bring you peace... I hope that one day, you will find purpose in this changed world. That you will be able to play again, with your whole heart, and find a reason to smile, like you did then.”

Daeron can only sigh, for he has very little to say in reply. Maglor is right; words can only do so much. But at the same time, he cannot let go of his memory; the Mereth Aderthad was the first time he heard Maglor sing, the first time he found someone who could match him in skill, someone whose song harmonized so perfectly with his own. It is a voice he cannot forget, but one he will never hear in the same way again, as Maglor twisted his being, becoming a monster in pursuit of the hopeless oath. Maglor is weary now, burdened by his past; it would be wrong of Daeron to ask Maglor to sing the same song again, the song that captured his heart back then.

But one thing has changed: Daeron is no longer alone. For the first time, he has someone to listen to his woes, his regrets, his desires. If only it could stay like this, Daeron tells himself, if only I didn’t have to deliver death, the song would be complete. He dares not voice it aloud, though, for he is dealing with a kinslayer. Daeron needs to remind himself of this; it is the only way he can give himself the strength to commit the act, he thinks. But even this may not be enough, for Daeron has never killed anyone in all his life. And he doesn’t wish to start now, even if he knows he cannot admit it to Maglor, if he has any pride left at all.

Silence falls. Day eventually gives way to night. Maglor still does not sleep. But for the first time, Daeron fears the nightmares that await him in the dark.

❧

Seaside homes were set ablaze. The cries of the refugees at Sirion rang out as many fell to the blades of the Fëanorians. Lady Elwing, who had brought hope to her people wearing the jewel her grandmother had fought for, was now lost among the waves, disappeared, never to be seen again. But her children were still alive, and Glaerorn, Elwing’s most loyal knight, would sacrifice everything to make sure they would live on to carry the light of Lúthien’s line— even if it meant her own death.

Elwing had chosen her knight wisely, for Glaerorn carried a large two-handed sword, used for attacking and defending. Though the sword strikes were slow, they were precise, and often deadly for whomever happened to be hit by them. Glaerorn wore shining silver armor decorated with pearls, so all would know of her rank, and that she was Elwing’s trusted companion.

This mission, Glaerorn knew, would be her final one.

“You must flee!” she called to the twins, protecting them with her large body as she fought off a few more of the Fëanorian invaders.

“But Mother...” cried Elrond, “what about Mother?”

“This is what Lady Elwing wished for me to tell you,” Glaerorn replied.

“But where do we go?” asked Elros. “The attackers are everywhere...”

“To the secret place,” Glaerorn instructed, lowering her voice. “The place she told you about.”

“Right,” said Elrond, nodding. The twins remembered an underground shelter their mother had shown them, but they hadn’t thought much of it at the time, not when Sirion was so peaceful. But for all they knew, their mother was gone forever. Glaerorn was right. They had to live.

“Then hurry,” Glaerorn pleaded, “the enemy is here!”

Elros took hold of his twin’s hand. There was no time left to waste; one of the enemy generals was charging right for them. Glaerorn knew it was Maglor, remembering him from the attack on Doriath, with his wavy black hair, red-plumed helmet, full armor and a blazing light in his eyes.

“Surrender the Silmaril, that is all we ask,” Maglor demanded, “and we will call off the attack.”

“How dare you, scourge of Doriath!” Glaerorn shouted, pushing back Maglor with a swing of her sword, though he was not willing to give up. “You destroy our home, and have the nerve to ask us to surrender to you? We do not make deals with kinslayers.”

“Do you not wish to walk away with your lives?”

“Do you?”

“Glaerorn!” Elrond called out. “Run away with us!”

“Please,” begged Elros, “I don’t want to lose you, too!”

As Maglor’s sword clashed with Glaerorn’s own, the twins were paralyzed with fear. Their mother was gone, surely, and now they feared Glaerorn would be next.

However, Glaerorn could not abandon the task she set out to complete. “I swore an oath to Lady Elwing that I would protect you both, even at the cost of my life,” said Glaerorn. “You must live on, sons of Elwing... you are our last hope!”

“But...!”

“Go! Now!”

The twins said nothing, only nodding as they ran in the other direction, holding back their tears. Soon enough, Maglor, seeing an opening, swung his sword aiming for Glaerorn’s head. But Glaerorn saw the attack coming, ducking backwards and jumping to Maglor’s side, throwing her mighty fist in Maglor’s face with all the power she could muster.

“Gah—!! You...!” Maglor cried, blown back by the strength of Glaerorn’s punch, which had put considerable distance between them. As Maglor was struggling to get up, a light flashed through the sky, and it was then that Glaerorn realized Elwing was in danger. Seizing the opportunity, Glaerorn fled the battle, for her place was always at her lady’s side.

It was a humiliation Glaerorn knew Maglor would not soon forget.

❧

Daeron wakes, and he knows he has seen yet another vision of the past. This past, however, is not his own, but Glaerorn’s. It was a fleeting glimpse of Glaerorn’s final moments, whatever Daeron could recall from the night before. One thing stands out to him above all else, though: the punch Glaerorn delivered to Maglor, right after she spoke those fateful words. Though Daeron still knows little of what befell Glaerorn after the attack on Sirion, he knows one thing for certain: Maglor had lied to him. Glaerorn had bested him then, and Maglor lied, to cover for that embarrassing defeat.

However, this new information does not change the facts, Daeron reminds himself. Maglor killed countless people on his warpath in pursuit of the Silmarils. He was responsible for the downfall of Doriath. And today, Daeron will make Maglor answer for his crimes, as he promised. Today, Daeron will have to become a different person.

Time passes, as Daeron contemplates what he will be forced to do. Day turns to night. The moon casts a glow through the opening in the cave. The stars shine in the night sky— one stands out among them with a powerful radiance, and surely, Daeron thinks, Elbereth must be judging him right now.

Daeron quietly takes out his dagger, sharpening it against a stone. With this dagger, he will take the life of another, for the first time, and hopefully the last. If he backs down now, what would be said about him? Surely, the survivors of Sirion would think him a coward, for refusing to kill the worst of the kinslayers when he had the chance. What would Glaerorn say about him? What would Maglor say—

...Since when does Maglor’s opinion matter?

Daeron sighs— Maglor is staring at him now, with those tired eyes, waiting for him to give him what he deserves. There is a wistful quality to his gaze, and Daeron wishes it didn’t have to end this way. He thinks back to the feast, how that beautiful song swept over him and brought him to another world. And now, Daeron is the one tasked with killing him...

Why do I suddenly care this much about him? He deserves to die, doesn’t he?

As Daeron walks over to the rock where Maglor rests, he shoves his emotions away, just as Maglor had to do when he killed others so heartlessly, and his expression becomes grave, looking down at him in condemnation. “Today, you will answer for everything you have done,” Daeron declares, though the words feel scripted, as if they are not his own. “You, who have slain my kin in Alqualondë... in Doriath... in Sirion. I will send you to the Halls beyond, so that you may be judged for your crimes.”

Maglor lays down, preparing himself for Daeron’s dagger. “The regret I feel for my actions cannot even begin to match your pain and anger. Do what you must, Daeron of Doriath.”

Daeron kneels before Maglor, dagger face down, hovering over his chest. He takes in a deep breath, trying as best as he can to calm himself. All he needs to do is drive that dagger into his heart, and it will all be over.

“Any last words, kinslayer, before I finish this?”

Maglor nods, his wistful gaze pointed towards the opening in the cave ceiling, light shining through the dome, drops of water on the walls reflecting the light and glimmering like stars. “If you see Elrond in Lindon, tell him I am sorry... I am sorry for everything.” Tears begin to form in Maglor’s eyes as the familiar name falls from his lips, and Daeron notices a sad smile on Maglor’s face for a split second. “Tell him... I never stopped thinking about him. Though he never deserved me. I took everything from him. I was the worst thing that happened to him. But...”

“Maglor...?”

“Please... tell Elrond I still love him.”

Daeron gasps, his hand shaking. Love, between Maglor and the son of Elwing? How is that possible? And yet... Maglor sounded sincere, just now. It was a different tone of voice, compared to when he was spinning falsehoods. The words seemed to flow naturally and freely.

“You truly mean this?” Daeron asks, hoping for some sign that Maglor is telling the truth.

“Yes. I know what he would say, if he heard of my fate. But he will be happier, in a world without me.”

“I... I see...”

Daeron can’t find the words to say; he can’t even begin to imagine Maglor’s history with Elrond and what could have led to this. But two things are certain. One, Maglor’s feelings are true. And two, Maglor still has family. There is someone in the world, alive right now, who loves him.

Daeron never wanted to kill Maglor. Only his pride could keep him from dropping the act, but there is something much greater on the line than his pride. His morals, his honor— he cannot bear to tear someone from their family. And the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes he’s grown fond of Maglor’s company, a star, fallen from grace just like him. For the first time in his life, he is not alone.

Daeron lowers the dagger. Maglor may be a kinslayer, but Daeron cannot take a life. All of his will to commit the irrevocable act is gone.

But Maglor refuses to accept this, his face falling as Daeron refuses to deliver death to him.

“Daeron... why? Will you not make me answer for my crimes?”

Daeron says nothing, for he knows the truth now. All of those lies, they were just to get Daeron to do what Maglor wanted, to kill him and put him out of his misery. Disgust wells up in his chest, his expression full of indignation, for Maglor was dangerously close to manipulating him into doing the unthinkable.

“Daeron...!” Maglor protests. “Did you not promise—”

“You should know better,” Daeron reminds Maglor. “I am a traitor. I am not known for keeping my promises.”

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Just when Maglor believes he has Daeron right where he wants him, all of his careful plans collapse into nothing. Of course Daeron would refuse to kill him— he was a flutist, not a fighter. Maglor could see how much it pained Daeron to even think of killing someone, and in those moments, he surely had his doubts on whether his executioner had truly come. But Maglor cannot stand to be in the world of the living any longer, and he knows, it is now or never; Daeron... just needs a little extra help, it seems.

So Maglor places his hand around Daeron’s own, guiding the dagger back above his chest.

“What are you doing—”

“Helping you,” Maglor states plainly, pulling on Daeron’s hand even as he resists. “I understand it is difficult to do, but it is the right thing—”

“What would a kinslayer like you know of that?!”

“Please... kill me,” Maglor begs, desperately, as he grips harder around Daeron’s wrist. “Deliver me to the Halls of Mandos, so that I may be judged, as you promised. You have suffered so much because of me. It is only right that I should pay the price for the wrongs I have committed.”

“No, this... this is ridiculous,” Daeron spats back. “Someone as merciless as you, begging for death... I’m supposed to hate you, but all I can feel is pity,” he admits. “Is this what you wanted from me? Why are you doing this to me? How dare you?!” Daeron uses all of his strength to pull his hand away, tossing the dagger into the waters of the cave, and Maglor’s last hope for release is gone.

Daeron, however, is giving Maglor entirely too much credit. “I am not lying to you; I cannot bear to go on living much longer, Daeron. This is how I truly feel. I just wanted... I wanted to make things right—”

“If I were to go through with it, I’d be a kinslayer too. I would be no better than you.”

“Excuse me?!” Maglor is in shock, offended, even. Killing one kinslayer, the worst of them all, would undoubtedly be a heroic act in comparison to everything Maglor has done; how is this not obvious? “What are you saying? I’ve killed so many... I destroyed your home, slaughtered your people!”

“I do not kill if I have the choice, Maglor, even if it is supposedly for the ‘right’ reasons,” Daeron explains, his serious expression unwavering, not reacting at all to Maglor’s outbursts. “More importantly... it would not be right of me to let you die, when you still have family alive. People who love you.”

Maglor knows Daeron is speaking of Elrond, and his heart sinks. “Did I not tell you Elrond would be happier without me?”

“How would you know that? You are not Elrond, and Elrond is not here with us right now,” Daeron points out, raising an eyebrow, and Maglor has nothing to say to that. For he knows Elrond would rather have him alive, above all else, a bond that should never have been formed, one Maglor pursued out of selfishness. “Can you perhaps tell me about him?” asks Daeron. “Do you consider him family?”

“He is... a very distant cousin of mine,” Maglor eventually answers, getting up and resting his back against the rock after a bit of silence. He knows the only way out of this is to give Daeron the information he’s looking for. “During the attack on Sirion, Elwing was forced to jump off the cliff with the Silmaril. The Lord of Waters saved her, transformed her into a bird... but she could never return to her sons, who couldn’t have been more than six years of age. I took Elrond and his twin brother Elros as hostages, and led them to a cave, much like this one. I at first planned to abandon them there, but I... took pity on them. I decided to raise them as my own.”

“Ah... I can see why you would be attached to Elrond, then,” says Daeron, sitting beside Maglor. “But surely, he wouldn’t have taken well to this arrangement?”

“He hated me at first. Both of them did. They were constantly plotting ways to escape from me.” Maglor smiles a little at the fond memory. A genuine smile this time, one he hardly notices.

“Well, you did kidnap them.”

Maglor nods; he knows Elrond and Elros deserved better. “It took a long time before I was able to earn their trust. To show them I was sincere, that I wanted the best for them... It was the only thing I could do, to make up for what I had done.”

“Nothing can truly make up for the massacre you led, Maglor.”

“I know. But... it did do something good, at least,” Maglor tries to explain. “I was reminded... of the warm feelings that come with being part of a family. What it means to love, and be loved in return. I had forgotten about that. For the longest time, all I knew was loyalty to the cause, nothing more. But even if it was formed under horrible circumstances... it felt like a real family, at least for a little while. I felt it the first time Elrond told me he loved me.”

“Then... why would you want to die like this? Clearly, you still had a conscience, a heart, even after everything you had done,” Daeron observes, growing a bit more suspicious. “What is it that you’re hiding from me?” And Maglor knows now, that he must tell the truth about everything, no matter how much it hurts. About Elrond and Glaerorn... about Maedhros, for whom he grieves most. He has nothing to lose anymore, and Daeron will never give him what he wants.

Maglor was never good at lying, anyway.

“I... it was my older brother. Maedhros,” Maglor finally confesses with a sigh. “I sacrificed everything for him. Even as we descended more and more into madness, I could be strong, I could have a reason to live, as long as he was by my side. But at the end of it all...” Maglor trails off, looking down again at his burnt left hand, still swelling in pain, the only thing he has left as a reminder of his deeds, his family that he loved and lost.

“His hand was burned, as well?” asks Daeron. 

“Yes. He could not withstand the pain, so he found his way to one of the cracks of the earth, and he—” Maglor pauses again, letting the tears flow. The memory is still too near, but he has to recall it now, for it is the only way he can explain himself.

“What... what happened...?” Daeron asks with a worried expression.

“He jumped. He jumped into the flames, and took the Silmaril with him,” Maglor says weakly; he can hear Daeron quietly gasp in shock. “I was there. I was powerless to stop him, I couldn’t do anything... I wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t good enough; he took his own life, Daeron! The one person I loved most in all the world, consumed by the flames, right before my eyes...”

“Oh Maglor...”

“And I was... so angry,” Maglor admits, laying his feelings bare. “I was determined, to not die the same way he did. But without him, I felt like I was nothing, I needed him, I didn’t want to live in a world without him. What I told you about Glaerorn, about how I killed her— I lied to you. I just... I wanted the right person to be the one to kill me, and... I used you. I’m so sorry...”

“I... appreciate the apology, and... I think I understand now,” says Daeron, not entirely sure how to respond, as it’s certainly much to take in. “But if you remember correctly, Maglor, I had accused you of lying, from the very beginning. I just wish you had been honest with me.”

“You’re right, Daeron, oh, I’ve done such a horrible thing...!”

“Be thankful I stopped your scheme in its tracks,” Daeron replies. “Though your explanation makes sense, at least.”

Maglor nods in agreement, feeling the weight of Daeron’s words; he knows how much he’s hurt Daeron through his lies, his manipulative words. “I— I truly felt like I had to lie...” he explains, his voice trembling. “Just being alive without Maedhros was agony; every day I wished more and more for death. I can still see that moment, repeating endlessly in my memory. I sometimes try to imagine, how it would go differently. But the flames, my screams, the Silmaril in his hand— it always ends the same,” he cries, his hand forming a fist, the anger and grief overpowering him. “And I can never have him back. I’m just going to be left to waste away here, forever, and I... I’m never going to see him again...!”

Maglor breaks down into sobs, crying into the worn-out rags of his robes, wracked by guilt— for not being able to save Maedhros, or his other brothers; for every life he took in pursuit of the dreadful Oath when breaking it would have meant less violence; for pouring out all of these horrible memories and negative emotions and forcing Daeron to carry the burden. Daeron doesn’t deserve this, Maglor thinks to himself. He wishes he could disappear so badly right now, but his hröa still keeps him here. Daeron lifts a hand, about to comfort him, but Maglor pulls away; Daeron has already given him too much. “Hmm— I thought you didn’t want to take pity on me,” says Maglor, refusing to meet Daeron’s gaze. “A shame, because if you did, you would have put me out of my misery by now.”

“No, enough, it’s not about that,” Daeron retorts, hoping to stop Maglor’s destructive train of thought. “I only wished to say that I felt the same way. Anger, melded with grief... I felt that about Lúthien,” Daeron tries to explain, and suddenly, everything begins to make sense between them.

We’ve.... been through the same things, Maglor realizes. He takes a deep breath, collecting his thoughts in the silence, wiping his tears.

“It wasn’t... entirely the same,” Daeron makes sure to add, “but... I mistakenly allowed her to choose death, and I lost her forever. She is nothing more than a memory to me now; I have nothing else left to remind me of her.”

“I suppose I... never thought about it like that,” Maglor admits, pondering Daeron's words. Lúthien's choice of mortality was always framed as a gift from Námo, a sign of her love for Beren, of love conquering all. But she still chose death, and left her brother behind to wander alone.

Love can so often be selfish.

“But— I try not to think about her at all, in truth,” Maglor adds. “The legacy she left behind is a painful reminder of my failures.”

“You mean your failure to obtain the Silmaril.”

“Yes, in part. The Silmarils were my father’s greatest creations; family was all that mattered to me,” says Maglor, still finding it strange that Daeron is relating to him in this way. “But... look up. To the stars.”

Daeron casts his gaze upwards, as Maglor requests. “Where are you going with this?”

“Can you see, Daeron, how one star shines brighter than all the others?”

Daeron nods. “I... have always wondered about that.”

“You may find it hard to believe, but it is indeed the very Silmaril that Elwing took with her, when she fell,” Maglor explains. “I know not how it came to be lifted into the sky. But what I do know, is it sails with Vingilot, the ship of Elwing’s husband Eärendil, who slew the great dragon of Morgoth in the Great Battle. The Silmaril is a star now, the most beautiful of them all, shining in the heavens away from evil hands.”

“Hands such as yours.”

“And I am grateful for it, despite the painful memories, the truth of the impossible Oath,” Maglor asserts. “The gems have wrought so much pain, but this one brings hope to all. I grieve, though I am relieved, at the same time.”

“And that Silmaril... it is the same one that Lúthien earned,” Daeron observes, and a painful realization comes to him. “The one she died for, and so many others...”

“The very same,” says Maglor, and he offers a sad smile, not even noticing as Daeron holds his hand. “We have both... lost so much.”

“Indeed we have,” Daeron replies, and the two sit in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the waves, contemplating their fates. Maglor is tired, so very tired, as he eventually gives in to Daeron’s earlier promises of comfort. Maglor rests his head on Daeron’s shoulder; Daeron does not object, even leaning into Maglor’s touch. Maglor knows it’s strange, how he feels comfortable enough with Daeron to do this, but no one outside of the peredhil twins, or Maedhros, cared this much about him. He thinks back to the few days they’ve been in each other’s company, the lies he told, the secrets he kept, and how everything seemed to fall into place the moment he started telling the truth.

Maglor knows he has much to answer for, but yet, Daeron isn’t repelled by any of this. So Maglor eventually breaks the silence, wondering if Daeron has anything to say for himself.

“Why do you... not hate me?”

“I do hate you,” Daeron insists, though he doesn’t seem confident at all. “Or at least... I should hate you. Perhaps it is that I don’t hate you in the right way—”

“But you should hate me, no questions asked,” Maglor points out. “I lied to you. I used you. I almost made you do something horrible.”

“That’s the least of it,” Daeron remarks. “Do not forget, I am still very angry and hurt with what you have done, and there is no forgiving the atrocities you’ve committed,” he reminds Maglor. “But... there’s something still eluding me. Somehow, you are the only person I have met in all my years of wandering, who truly understands my feelings. It’s baffling.”

“If you really don’t hate me, you don’t have to force yourself to...”

“I... I don’t know anymore,” says Daeron, gripping his forehead in frustration, conflicted, overcome by emotions he can’t describe. “I don’t understand...”

“Maybe you don’t have to understand,” Maglor suggests. “I actually know what it’s like. Even though I hated Maedhros sometimes, cursing his name, even hurting him physically... at the end of it all, he was the only one I could rely on, the only one who could give me strength when I had none. Where else is there to turn, when you have no one else left?”

Daeron sighs, conceding to Maglor’s point. “I suppose you’re right. I’ve just been alone for so long, I’ve never been one to rely on others,” he explains, speaking slowly as he tries to find the right words for his thoughts. “I haven’t even thought about my own emotions this deeply before. When you lied to me before, that anger you awakened in me, threatening death— that was the first time I felt something that strongly in a long time.”

Maglor nods in understanding. “I’m feeling a little better now, actually. About you not killing me. Even though it wasn’t what I wanted.”

“I cannot sunder you from your family. I cannot bring myself to kill anyone willingly. But more than anything, I...” All of a sudden, Daeron stops himself.

“What is it? Is there... something you need to say to me?”

“I... do not wish to be parted from you. I have grown... attached to you.”

“Attached? Do you mean—”

“No, it isn’t that. It shouldn’t be,” Daeron replies. Realizing what he’s just said, his face starts to turn red. “I shouldn’t be feeling this way about you. Despite everything you’ve done—”

“...you are still... attached to me,” Maglor replies with a sigh. This wasn’t the effect he intended to have, at all, and it’s affecting him, too. He hopes that these feelings Daeron speaks of are just misplaced, though deep down, he knows they are real. “Glaerorn is still out there, I’m sure. You would probably be better off searching for her, rather than staying here, wasting your time...” he suggests. “How unfortunate for you, that you should feel this way for me. You know I am undeserving.”

“Do not say you are undeserving of love, Maglor,” Daeron argues, a sudden confidence in his voice, “when there is clearly love in your heart for those you have lost... for those who still live.”

“The only love that I do not deserve is yours, Daeron.”

“My love—? What do you mean?”

“Before... I, too, thought, there was no one left in all the world who could understand the pain I had endured. But you listened to me. You trusted me, enough to comfort me. To tell me I had a future, when I thought it was lost.”

“I was only doing what I thought was right.”

“I am a kinslayer. I took everything from you.”

“I know. But I... I don’t want to leave you, I can’t. I just... don’t want you to hurt yourself anymore,” Daeron admits. “I finally found something, someone, and— I’m not going to let this go, I don’t want to be alone again, I don’t want you to be alone—” He stops himself, catching his breath, overwhelmed by his feelings as the words keep spilling out, without thinking. “I still don’t understand it, but— this is how I feel.”

“Like I said before... you don’t have to understand it,” says Maglor, smiling wistfully, placing his burnt hand gently on Daeron’s arm. He thinks of Maedhros, he thinks of Elrond, and Elros, of everyone who loved him despite it all. And in his smile, in his touch, is a hint of acceptance. Whether he is deserving or not, he knows Daeron isn’t leaving. And Maglor doesn’t mind it, either— he loves Daeron’s cold personality, reminding him so much of Maedhros. It’s fascinating, and charming, in a way; Maglor wants to know more about him. He wants more of this.

“I can’t believe you,” Daeron huffs. “I can’t believe... that you did this to me, somehow.”

“I can’t believe you did this to me, either.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“Love never makes sense. It transforms us,” Maglor explains. “Love can make us do the unthinkable, and we don’t even realize it’s happening.”

Daeron lets out a quiet gasp, a sudden realization. “Lúthien... she said something very similar to me, once. I think... I understand now, what she meant by that.”

“Perhaps now, you can stop saying you’re simply attached to me?” Maglor teases, leaning in, their faces close to touching. “It’s a bit more than that, isn’t it?”

“This is ridiculous,” Daeron retorts, but his usual serious expression relaxes into a smile, a chuckle escaping his lips.

“I know,” Maglor agrees, as he wraps his arms around Daeron, pulling him in. Though Daeron is a bit hesitant, he returns Maglor’s embrace, touching his forehead to Maglor’s own. Maglor knows what is to come next, and he knows Daeron wants it too; for their hearts, their fëar, are pulling at each other, stronger than ever before. Daeron exhales, shuddered breaths landing on Maglor’s lips, and Maglor comforts him, holds him tighter, closer, placing his right hand gently on Daeron’s cheek.

It isn’t long before their lips meet, closing the space between them. It is a silent kiss, knowing, understanding, but wanting, for the first time their lips part, they meet again for more. It was a feeling Maglor had not experienced since the blissful days of Valinor, and a feeling Daeron was getting to know for the first time. Daeron too wants more of it, pulling Maglor deeper into the kiss, drowning each other’s colors, blending together into one.

And the moment the kiss ends, they both pause. For they can hear a special Theme, one made just for the both of them, that only they can hear.

“I love you,” says Maglor, smiling, a weight lifted off his shoulders, as Daeron gently runs a finger through Maglor’s hair. “I love you too,” Daeron replies, and the Music builds, a crescendo, beckoning to them.

Maglor knows what he must do. He begins to hum, in his deep voice, the same theme that called Daeron to the shores, and his notes echo back to him like bells. Then Daeron joins in, his gentle voice harmonizing perfectly with Maglor’s own.

But it is no longer a song of emptiness, or loneliness, as Daeron and Maglor had sung before. It is a song of hope, belief in a future for both of them. They are wanderers, but they will wander the world together. A song completed, but one perhaps without end.

It is a promise, they know, as their fingers intertwine. Not an Oath, binding them or betraying them, but a silent vow, loving and true. A promise that needs no words.

And a new Music can begin.

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