Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion
Pairings: none
Characters: Maglor (mentions of Maedhros, Fëanor, the Fëanorions, Maglor's non-canon children and Elrond and Elros, Ilúvatar and Nienna)
Warning: almost canon-compliant, mentions OMC, non-canon children, premeditated mass murder, death, suicide, self-hatred and self-punishment (I think that's everything...)
Song: Anakin's Betrayal
Words: 1,092
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done (adjective): arrived at or brought to an end; doomed to failure, defeat or death
The last sliver of star-shine disappeared beneath the treacherous waves and into the ocean's cold, black embrace, lost for all of time.
Gone. Forever until the End of Days. Forever until the world cracked and split and fell to dust and ashes beneath his feet.
And the chill of stark night and the air of the wild sea washed over his splayed hands, soothing away the blistering, unbearable heat of purity and light rotting away sin and darkness. But the marks did not fade, the inflamed crimson lines etched into his palms, shaped into the echo of glistening facets. For none could touch their brilliance with hands unclean.
Strange silence and stillness held him in their embrace, tight and sound, whispering with Ulmo's song raging at the corners of his broken mind.
It is over. Done. Finished.
Alone, he stood on the shores that would mark the end of his journey--the journey of the House of Fëanáro and all who claimed its kinship. Maitimo was broken beyond reconstruction, driven mad with terror and desperation. His sons were long fled from shame and horror at his actions. His brothers were all ashes upon the wind, their names whispered like filthy, black secrets on starless nights. The bloodshed cursed to sully their House and lead them to their deadly, fitting ends was fulfilled, for there were no more finely-hewn swords to cleave kin by the hands of kin, or hearts forged of steal to spill blood over greed and vengeance.
Makalaurë alone was left.
The lone elf knelt in the sand, his breath caught in gasping sobs of fresh, clean air--the air burning with the poisonous fumes of freedom. Below, the edges of the ocean's fury collided with the cracks of the dry earth, their screams and wails the final melody and harmony, etched forever in his ears as the face of the Silmaril was upon his hands and the light of the Two Trees accusingly upon his tainted soul.
Trembling digits touched his sharp, glistening cheeks, palms rising to block all sight from his eyes. What he should do now, he could not say. Makalaurë had never known such crushing despair as that which swallowed him whole, the intense and complete horror of knowing that all his kin had fallen and failed utterly in their quest, had been lost to their own madness and the brutality of their own foolish actions. Blood slickened the floor beneath their boots until it rose to their ankles--to their calves--until they were wading in it with no way out, with nowhere to turn--until it was up to their chins, until it was over their heads.
The list of names and faces grew longer and longer. That he could remember them all was a miracle, a punishment harsher than whips of fire pronged in steel thorns. Three days, it would take to recite them all, and at the end his lips would crack and his throat would ache, but neither would pain him so much as his bruised heart, decorated with lacerations of self-loathing and scarred with weariness of death, pumping thickly in the back of his throat. That list seemed content to never end, because no amount of death would ever be enough to satisfy the shrine built to arrogance and foolishness.
Until finally he added his brother's name. Maitimo. Lost to himself, killed by flame and molten earth. He had thrown himself over the edge with a smile of wicked delight and eyes as fey and bright with madness as Fëanáro's had ever been.
But at the same time, there was relief. Horrible relief, so powerful and terrible that shame beat down upon his shoulders at the feeling, heavier than all the mountains in the world. Who should feel such a thing when their last of kin had just committed suicide, when their sons would not look them in the face because of their evil deeds? Who would dare to feel such a thing, with hands that had slain innocents pleading for mercy, with a soul that could turn the other way at the sight of rampant killing and hatred?
It was there all the same, coiled in Makalaurë's breast, a snake hissing in his ears with the final strains of the finale of their epic tragedy. Rising like a tide inside him, it shook his limbs until they fell limply to the ground, shook his heart until all he could do was scream and cry and wish that the torment would cease an never end.
Over, over, over! It was over. Done!
No more death would spread like ink across his marred, abused soul. No more teary, pleading eyes could haunt him in his waking nightmares. No more bone-deep sorrow would douse the white-hot fire of his spirit.
Because they had failed, and he was free. Free to waste away singing upon the shores of Middle-earth for the rest of eternity in the hopes that someone would hear and understand. In the hopes that the same horrible acts would never be repeated, that someone would learn. Forever, the ceaseless noise of crashing waves, of water breaking against rock and foam spitting against cold air would host his prelude to doom, his chorus of the fallen, his epilogue in which the wanderer ceaselessly burned out the candle of his spirit day by day singing and singing of the cruelty of vengeance, of the emptiness of victory and the grace of defeat.
Until the end of the world and after. Makalaurë looked down into the dark abyss that had swallowed the last hope of redemption for his family, for his father and brothers, for himself, and laughed bitterly through his last tears.
His theme was complete. As Nienna had sung a lament for the darkening of the world in the ancient days before the mountains had been carved and the sky and sea parted, so too would Makalaurë sing his lament to the darkening of his kin when at last he joined the choir of the heavens at the feet of Ilúvatar and was judged before His gaze.
He would sing of the graceless fall of his cursed kin, for their tale was finally fully upon his tongue and ringing through his restless mind, ready to burst forth like a tide held beyond a cracking dam. Ready to stand as a memorial to remind them all of what every soul was capable of becoming.
It was done.
Noldolantë.
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And we have returned to the Maglor angst-factory central. Please leave your fluff at the front gate. This is the first thing that came to mind with this prompt, but I will say in my defense I've been having a horrid day. I woke up late and had a headache and there are people staying at my house and I'm just not in a good mood. Ergo, Maglor suffers as well.
In any case, the music once again did not help. Did I mention the genius of John Williams yesterday? I'm quite certain that I did, but I should mention it again. John Williams is the epitome of awesome. As I rediscovered (again) the Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith OST yesterday, of course I went through the entire thing and listened to all the wonderful epic music, and of course I found this: Anakin's Betrayal. Yeah, the song that plays when he goes evil and all the Jedi die and everything is suddenly very dark and sad. It fits the mood of this story well, I should think, because forgive me if I'm wrong, but Maglor's world just fell apart.
And another Maglor picture, because I don't think I've linked this one yet and I really like the design of it: Maglor by ~Ilweran on dA.
Have a better day than I am having.
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