Drift

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Giving up one cross for another.  Nothing ever comes for free.  Quenya names used (Maglor = Makalaurë, Maedhros = Nelyo).  This is basically part of "Memorial" and "Done", related to "Pause" and the precursor to "Morals", "Hero" and "Gloves" from a while back.  Forgive the crappiness of it.  I'm really tired.  Takes place somewhere in Middle-earth from the end of the First Age to the early Third Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: none (b/g)

Characters: Maglor, Ilession (OMC) (mentions Vardamírë (OFC), Erestor, Fëanor, the Fëanorions and Nelyo in particular)

Warning: non-canon compliant AU, spontaneous children, depression, borderline suicidal thoughts, canonical character death

Song: Kaze to Narite

Words: 1,192
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drift (verb): the flow or the velocity of the current of a river or ocean stream; something driven, propelled, or urged along or drawn together in a clump by or as if by a natural agency; a mass of matter (as sand) deposited together by or as if by wind or water
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/drift

Not for long did he stay in one place.  Not after the first moments in which that glimmer danced its way down into the darkness and left his once-searing hand only tingling with the memory of agony and heat.

The glow of the stone had disappeared far beneath the writhing and churning of the waves, leaving Makalaurë staring only into murky darkness.  Hardly could he believe that he had done the deed now--raised that star-like gem overhead and thrown as far as his arm could manage--as he stared and stared and strained his eyes trying to see some sign of that prize.  That goal after which he had his brothers had chased, for which they had sullied their hands with innocent blood, in pursuit of which they had surrendered their innocence and their happiness.

And he had just thrown it into the waves like meaningless, worthless trash.  Gone, just like that.  Not even a glimmer.

The relief that followed, at first, was crushing.  Brought him to his knees gulping in sobs and breathing without the weight of five hundred years of cursed words upon his shoulders as a reminder of his foolishness and mistakes.  Out of his reach, he no longer needed to chase.  No longer needed to grasp.  No longer needed to sacrifice.

Not that he had anything to give, he soon realized.

It was upon that same beach, breathing out the putrid ash of a broken spirit, that he recognized the truth of the situation.  One weight to be born thrown aside for another.  Just as treacherous and dark and lasting, lingering on forever and ever into the distant expanses of time if he dared look for even a moment.

All that they had worked for laid at the bottom of the sea or was lost in the bosom of the earth or sat hanging as a star of adamant in the expanses of the sky.  No longer was the Oath of his father binding, for he was limited by his earthly form, boxed in by his fleshy cage.  Could not sprout wings to carry him upon the bows of Vingilótë to steal back his father's treasure.  Could not form gills to breathe underwater so that he might search high and low the bottoms of the ocean.  Could not leap into the lava that oozed and spewed in that abyss so deep and hot and hope not to be incinerated in an instant.

No longer could he lay chase.  No longer could he further damn himself in pursuit.  No vast armies or sheer determination would aid him now.

And it felt so wonderful, that knowledge that no longer would he be forced to commit sin in the name of his father's vengeance and wrath.

And yet, his sons were missing and his nephew turned away in disgust.  Nelyo was burned to cinders by the earth's blood.  And his other brothers lay rotting somewhere, upon the fields of the Havens or within the halls of Menegroth or at the bottom of the Bay of Losgar.  All family dead or scattered.  Alone in a dying world as the earth crumbled into shambles as far as the eye could see.

It was tempting to lie down there and die.  To let the waters take him, now that he was unburdened of that cursed Oath.

But Makalaurë rose to his feet, the fire in his blood stirring.  He was, after all, his sire's son, of his mother's gentle heart or no.  He had not thrown aside the Silmaril--and scarred his palm with its unforgiving visage--only to curl up and throw his life aside as well.  Throw that freedom aside when it was a blessing.

That freedom.

That freedom he came to both love and despise.

Upon the shore he drifted, as though the waves themselves carried him upon their crests and troughs.  South, he fled, upon his tail the world collapsing in disrepair and poisoned roots.  Until he reached the edge of Beleriand and crossed over into Eriador where Ered Luin loomed overhead in the fog.  Until all the land he had traversed behind him had sunken into the depths of the ocean and the Silmaril lay hundreds of leagues out in the middle of that water.

Then, there had been no turning back.  Alone in that empty space, his feet carried him.  Because he could not turn around and he could not give up.  He could only move forward.

It was then that he began to hate the freedom of the broken Oath, though he cherished the newfound cleanliness of his hands hidden beneath thick gloves.  To Valinor, he could not return, for the Oath was incomplete.  To his wife, he could not return, for she awaited him there.  To the Halls, he refused to go, for he was no weak-willed creature to collapse in adversity.  There was now no direction except the line of the shore writhing and curling with white sand along the rocky coast.  No force pulling him except the tug of salty ocean wind in his untamed black mane and the sound of distant song from the trees and the rivers and the birds calling faintly over the eternal crashing of turbulent waters.  Every so often he was pulled upstream or inland, but rarely stayed there.

Always, he was carried back.  Helplessly drawn toward it.  Yet still refusing to regret his decision, though it meant sacrificing any chance of going home.  Home was on the other side and his ticket across the sea under thousands of feet of black water.  But the cost of that ticket was too great.

No destination would there be for Makalaurë.  No finality to his tragedy, but the never-ending ambiguity of drifting on the tide of longing forever.  Listless and purposeless and directionless.

And alone.  Wholly and completely alone.

It was upon those shores--upon their waves and in the midst of their stormy, raging song--that he would be found millennia later by his eldest son.

It was then that he turned, beheld that familiar face and the blue eyes.  The eyes of the boy's mother.  And the face softened, no longer that of the grandsire, but more that of the softhearted father.

"Atar..."

It was then that direction returned to the world, and a new theme pulled him away from the waters that had so carried him for centuries and centuries until he lost all track of time.  It was then that he could pull himself away from that magnetic draw, the invisible current always crying for his attention, playing at his guilt and regret and loneliness ruthlessly and painfully.

It was then that the drifting ended.

"Manafinwë," he breathed.  The sound of a new purpose and a new focus.  The sound of companionship and family.

The sound of relief.  And a little slice of home.