dye me, nocturne by skywardstruck  

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3. Maglor

Maglor lies to Daeron, and Daeron promises to deliver death, watching over him.

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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.