dye me, nocturne by skywardstruck  

1. Maglor

Maglor casts the Silmaril into the sea.

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.