Worst Day

Canon-compliant AU.  Maglor's worst day.  Warning, he has two sons in this fic, because in my head canon he and his wife probably got it on before he was exiled from Valinor.  In any case, this is about the older one briefly mentioned in "Villain", to which this piece is a close companion, probably taking place just before.  So the year 506 of the First Age, just prior to the Second Kinslaying.  Quenya names used (Maglor = Makalaurë, Curufin = Curufinwë, Celebrimbor = Telperinquar). Mostly introspective with flashbacks.

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion, but Manafinwë is mine.  Maglor kept up the ridiculous naming tradition.  Curufinwë didn't; I'd be bitter, too, if my parents named me Curufinwë Atarincë.

Pairings: none

Characters: Maglor, Manafinwë (OMC) (mentions of Maglor's children, Celebrimbor, Curufin, the Valar, Maglor's wife (OFC), Fingon, Fëanor... think I got everyone LOL)

Warning: canon-compliant AU, mentions of murder, premeditated homicide, semi-explicit violence, blood, mentions of abduction and war, canon character death, general angst

Song: Sora

Words: 958
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
worst (adjective): most corrupt, bad, evil or ill; most unfavorable, difficult, unpleasant or painful; most wanting in quality, value or condition
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/worst?show=0&t=1362621759

There were many days that Makalaurë could have considered his worst.

The day he swore the Oath.  The night away from his wife, sleeping in the cold, his arms empty.  The night he had spilled innocent blood upon the docks of Alqualondë and betrayed kin.

The day his father perished and Maitimo was abducted.  The night he was named High King in their stead.  The night he forsook his older brother.

Even the day of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, the night that dawned red with carnage as far as the eye could see.  The night that dawned to the death of their High King.

But none of those came even close to what he felt now, the utter desolation that overtook him as he stood stock-still in the room, alone with only the flickering fire and cold, empty stone.  Long since had angry footsteps faded into the distance, but they still seemed to ring in his ears with dire finality.

Family was supposed to come first, and there was little Makalaurë valued above his family.  His brothers.  His children.  His two beautiful sons.

"This plan... it is insane!  How could you agree to this?  How could you?"

"We have no choice!"

"There is always a choice!"

Shouting and fiery tempers had clashed.  Broken glass littered the floor around his boots, but Makalaurë barely saw any of it.  His eyes stayed glued helplessly to the doorway.  Hoping.  Praying for his little one to come running back as he always had before.

"Not this time.  We swore.  We swore before the Valar!"

"It's wrong!  Why would you...?  How could you even think...?"

"Please, understand."

Bereft, Makalaurë sat down, ignoring the sharp prickle of shards cutting into his flesh.  Harsh light, vicious crimson, streaked across the stone, fading, falling slowly downwards into darkness.  He had not the energy to stand, to chase.  His throat felt swollen, his heart settled at his toes, a sharp sting behind his eyes.

"But I can't.  I can't understand."

"Please, yonya--"

"It makes me sick."

"Manafinwë, you knew it would come to this.  You knew what the Oath entailed.  Just listen to m--"

"You make me sick.  I can hardly bear to look upon you and call you 'Atar'!"

Sharp pain, like fire building upwards in his chest, scalding bile at the back of his throat, its bitter taste on his palate.  Makalaurë lowered his head, frantically trying to hold back the hot tears burning their way down his cheeks, dripping onto the stone beneath.

"Manafinwë--"

"Not this time.  Not again.  The first time... it was an accident.  This... this is murder, and I will have no part in this travesty.  This sin."

"You will not walk away from me."

Not like Telperinquar had Curufinwë.  That's all he could think, of the heartbroken silver eyes turning into something dark and dangerous, into toothy grins and simmering malice hiding beneath an incisive, treacherous tongue.  But even beneath all that, something so broken and shattered, something he had never wanted to understand.

But now it was all too clear.

"You cannot keep me here."

"Stop this ridiculousness, child.  Are you not part of our House?  The House of Fëanáro, the House of your blood-kin?"

"If being part of this family means spilling innocent blood, I would rather die."

Shock and horror.  Disbelief.

"I renounce my name and my kin.  I will hold no kin with murderers or traitors.  With Kinslayers.  Call me no longer Manafinwë nor Fëanorion.  I will be Ilession."

"Don't you walk away from me, child!"

"I am no child."

Hissed, spat and filled with venom.  Eyes so blue filled with such hatred and fear, and directed at him.  Makalaurë thought it might kill him, so powerful was the pain.  No battle-wound had ever felt like this, so raw and open, rubbed down with salt and filled with poison, slowly blackening his veins and deadening his nerves, cutting off the lifeblood.

"Don't you dare turn your back on me!"

His hand on the other's wrist, fingers bruising as they dragged and clawed.  He could recall the jarring pain in his skull, the snap of his nose breaking under the strain of knuckles, the drip of hot blood down his lips.

"Curse you and your bloody House!  Do not dare touch me, murderer."

"Manafinwë!"

"Shut up!"

And shattered glass, just missing his head, tinkling to the floor, wine splattered and streaming down the wall, staining dark red on stone.  Like the halls of Menegroth would be stained by their sin.

And then there had been footsteps, echoing down the halls.  And then silence.  Nothing.

Separation could not compare.  The shock and horror of ever-stained hands could not shake his soul with such force.  Could not shift the foundations of his existence.  Could not lift the veil of deceit.  Could not drag away the curtain of lies and let in the light that revealed the ugliness beneath.

Manafinwë hated him.  Cursed his name.  Cursed their family and kin.

Should they ever meet again, Makalaurë did not doubt that his child would not hesitate to take a blade to his throat.  Not that he wouldn't deserve it.  He would deserve it a hundred--a thousand times over again, and thrice that many more.  Nothing could pay back the blood that would flow like water, the lives that would end without mercy or regard.

But there was no choice.  Not a one.  Not anymore.

He stared at the wall, until red faded to the floor, until blackness crawled down like sickness, consuming the light and hope.

Until the worst day faded into the darkest night.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wow.  Angstfest much.  But then, it's Maglor.  Angst is his forte, ne?

I couldn't help it though.  This could have turned into some sort of cute fic with cuddling and hurt/comfort fluff at the end, but I'm not in the mood.  I need tragedy today.  Tomorrow I'm selling my soul to chemistry for the day.  And then to bible studies.  Big test on Friday and all that.

Anyway, listening to an amazing song (that probably is much happier than this fic but has a certain melancholy to it that just morphed this thing into a remembrance piece with flashback dialogue) called Sora by Yoko Kanno from the movie The Vision of Escaflowne.  I haven't even looked up the lyrics, but it made me happy, so yeah.

No artwork for this one.  Manafinwë is mine, and Ilession is probably a poor attempt at Quenya for "son of no one" (very roughly mind you), but oh well.  Not even sure how that would transfer to Sindarin.  Nor do I honestly care.  And if you don't know where "Mana" came from, you need to research the etymology of Manwë's name.