A/N: Have you ever been attacked by muse at a most inconvenient time? I have. This is the result. I have no idea where it came from, what it means or why I wrote it, but I'm quite pleased I have something about my favourite Silmarillion characters at last. To readers of "A Noble Light"... I'll try to get chapter 2 written ASAP, but Maedhros and Maglor had other plans tonight...
Some of you may remember Edhellion from my Gondolin fic. Be warned, he doesn't have a happy tale to tell here.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and I'm not sure I'd want to own much of this depressing fic...
The Havens of Sirion, FA 532
I sit alone at the end of a small wooden pier jutting out into the sea. The sky is perfectly clear and blue ahead of me as I look into the West. My eyes turn to the clear sea-water lapping at the sides of the pier, and I notice it's stained with blood.
I look back across the deserted beach and see the destruction that we, no, I, have caused. Thick black smoke is pouring from the once-white buildings. No sea-birds cry here today, only the screams of the Exiles fill the air. Cries of fear and pain, and above the gentle sound of the waves, the unmistakable sound of burning. All of these sounds are familiar to me now. They should have no effect on me.
I kneel down and carefully unfasten the ties on my boots, with my one hand. I lower my bare feet into the water, watching the ripples spread outwards across the gently undulating tide. I watch as the sun catches the crests of the waves, just before they reach the shore and are broken. I close my eyes, enjoying the cool sensation on my feet. I can almost block out the screams coming from the burning Haven. With my eyes closed I do not see the red hue of the tide lapping around my ankles.
A moan of someone in pain close by makes me turn. Withdrawing my feet from the water, I stand up and slowly walk back along the pier, barefoot, carrying my boots over my arm. I look for the source of the sound and find it, soon enough. A tall Elf is lying slain on the sand, just a stone's throw away. I approach him, then kneel down beside him and nudge away the helmet covering his face with my elbow.
To my horror, I realise I know him. It's Edhellion, once an acquaintance of my father in Tirion. He is kinsman to Elenwe, the wife of Turgon, and as far as I know followed his brother-in-law to Gondolin. As I look at him I see no recognition in his eyes, only hurt, and fear, and hate.
"Why are you here?" he whispers in his failing voice. I lay my boots at his side in order to use my only hand to grasp his, but he pulls away.
"Edhellion-"
"You have done great wrong. Great wrong, son of Fëanor." he says with the last of his strength, then his hand slips from my grasp and he says no more.
For a few moments I kneel beside him, perhaps out of respect, perhaps to allow his words to sink in. Strangely they have no effect on me. I stand up and pick up my boots from his side, and continue to walk down the beach. I feel detached from what is going on around me - the screams and smoke and blood affect me little. Not knowing where else to go, I come to the sea's edge and skim several rounded pebbles. They too make ripples, perfect circles crisscrossing the calm sea. Behind me, far along the beach, I hear someone approaching. I ignore them and stare at the water. Blood is flowing in rivulets from the Haven to the sea, staining the bright foam with red. Red, like at the Swanhaven so long ago. It was my hand, among others, that caused that. How much more pain must I bring to my kind before the Oath is fulfilled?
The smoke rising from the burning Haven is blocking out the sky above me now. The screams are dying down, and once again the gentle shush-shush of the waves has predominance.
The Oath. I am the Oath. It is me. When it is fulfilled, I will be no more. I will burn out like my father, or just fade in the light of the Jewels. I am the last of my brothers to live now, for I saw the twins slain in the city, and I am certain Maglor has perished too. Perhaps it is for the best. He is tired, so tired. Maybe the Halls of Mandos are the best place for him. And maybe, I will join him soon.
The footsteps behind me draw nearer now, and a quiet voice hums a wordless tune. Without words, but not without meaning. It leaves me in no doubt of the identity of the singer.
"Maglor." I say without turning. My brother says nothing, but lays a hand on my shoulder. Turning, I take him in: the dark hair, braided but in disarray, the torn battle-clothes, slashed and stained with blood, a sword-cut on his cheek, his large trusting eyes. In his other hand he holds his sword, drawn and notched with blows, but clean as it was before the battle. How like Maglor.
"I have a new song." he said simply, his voice unreadable. "Would you like to hear it?"
I nod, and sit down on the sand when he gestures me to. Only Maglor could sing at a time like this, and only he could put his thoughts and feelings into a song. Sometimes I envy Maglor's gift of music, and his kind heart. He was never born to be a son of Fëanor. I wish that he had been born a joyful Vanya, living in bliss and happiness. Somehow he doesn't belong here, on this deserted beach far from home where rivers of blood stain the sea red.
His song falters.
"It isn't finished." he says, but I knew that already. I stand up, and embrace him. Will this ever be finished? Will we ever end? Or, like the Silmarils, must we exist until the ending of Arda because of our oath?
After a short while, he pulls free.
"Round up our survivors, and search for it." I command him, the meaning of "it" known to both of us. He nods, and with a lingering glance at me, turns and starts slowly back towards the settlement of the Exiles. I turn, once more, back to the red tide, remembering Alqualondë. I cannot end here, that is not my fate.
Soon, I follow him.
THE END
A/N: Maglor's song is in fact the Noldolantë, which I think he might have started writing by the time of the Third Kinslaying.
Some of you may remember Edhellion from my Gondolin fic. Be warned, he doesn't have a happy tale to tell here.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and I'm not sure I'd want to own much of this depressing fic...
The Havens of Sirion, FA 532
I sit alone at the end of a small wooden pier jutting out into the sea. The sky is perfectly clear and blue ahead of me as I look into the West. My eyes turn to the clear sea-water lapping at the sides of the pier, and I notice it's stained with blood.
I look back across the deserted beach and see the destruction that we, no, I, have caused. Thick black smoke is pouring from the once-white buildings. No sea-birds cry here today, only the screams of the Exiles fill the air. Cries of fear and pain, and above the gentle sound of the waves, the unmistakable sound of burning. All of these sounds are familiar to me now. They should have no effect on me.
I kneel down and carefully unfasten the ties on my boots, with my one hand. I lower my bare feet into the water, watching the ripples spread outwards across the gently undulating tide. I watch as the sun catches the crests of the waves, just before they reach the shore and are broken. I close my eyes, enjoying the cool sensation on my feet. I can almost block out the screams coming from the burning Haven. With my eyes closed I do not see the red hue of the tide lapping around my ankles.
A moan of someone in pain close by makes me turn. Withdrawing my feet from the water, I stand up and slowly walk back along the pier, barefoot, carrying my boots over my arm. I look for the source of the sound and find it, soon enough. A tall Elf is lying slain on the sand, just a stone's throw away. I approach him, then kneel down beside him and nudge away the helmet covering his face with my elbow.
To my horror, I realise I know him. It's Edhellion, once an acquaintance of my father in Tirion. He is kinsman to Elenwe, the wife of Turgon, and as far as I know followed his brother-in-law to Gondolin. As I look at him I see no recognition in his eyes, only hurt, and fear, and hate.
"Why are you here?" he whispers in his failing voice. I lay my boots at his side in order to use my only hand to grasp his, but he pulls away.
"Edhellion-"
"You have done great wrong. Great wrong, son of Fëanor." he says with the last of his strength, then his hand slips from my grasp and he says no more.
For a few moments I kneel beside him, perhaps out of respect, perhaps to allow his words to sink in. Strangely they have no effect on me. I stand up and pick up my boots from his side, and continue to walk down the beach. I feel detached from what is going on around me - the screams and smoke and blood affect me little. Not knowing where else to go, I come to the sea's edge and skim several rounded pebbles. They too make ripples, perfect circles crisscrossing the calm sea. Behind me, far along the beach, I hear someone approaching. I ignore them and stare at the water. Blood is flowing in rivulets from the Haven to the sea, staining the bright foam with red. Red, like at the Swanhaven so long ago. It was my hand, among others, that caused that. How much more pain must I bring to my kind before the Oath is fulfilled?
The smoke rising from the burning Haven is blocking out the sky above me now. The screams are dying down, and once again the gentle shush-shush of the waves has predominance.
The Oath. I am the Oath. It is me. When it is fulfilled, I will be no more. I will burn out like my father, or just fade in the light of the Jewels. I am the last of my brothers to live now, for I saw the twins slain in the city, and I am certain Maglor has perished too. Perhaps it is for the best. He is tired, so tired. Maybe the Halls of Mandos are the best place for him. And maybe, I will join him soon.
The footsteps behind me draw nearer now, and a quiet voice hums a wordless tune. Without words, but not without meaning. It leaves me in no doubt of the identity of the singer.
"Maglor." I say without turning. My brother says nothing, but lays a hand on my shoulder. Turning, I take him in: the dark hair, braided but in disarray, the torn battle-clothes, slashed and stained with blood, a sword-cut on his cheek, his large trusting eyes. In his other hand he holds his sword, drawn and notched with blows, but clean as it was before the battle. How like Maglor.
"I have a new song." he said simply, his voice unreadable. "Would you like to hear it?"
I nod, and sit down on the sand when he gestures me to. Only Maglor could sing at a time like this, and only he could put his thoughts and feelings into a song. Sometimes I envy Maglor's gift of music, and his kind heart. He was never born to be a son of Fëanor. I wish that he had been born a joyful Vanya, living in bliss and happiness. Somehow he doesn't belong here, on this deserted beach far from home where rivers of blood stain the sea red.
His song falters.
"It isn't finished." he says, but I knew that already. I stand up, and embrace him. Will this ever be finished? Will we ever end? Or, like the Silmarils, must we exist until the ending of Arda because of our oath?
After a short while, he pulls free.
"Round up our survivors, and search for it." I command him, the meaning of "it" known to both of us. He nods, and with a lingering glance at me, turns and starts slowly back towards the settlement of the Exiles. I turn, once more, back to the red tide, remembering Alqualondë. I cannot end here, that is not my fate.
Soon, I follow him.
THE END
A/N: Maglor's song is in fact the Noldolantë, which I think he might have started writing by the time of the Third Kinslaying.