A Drowned Flame

Part 2

A tangle of twisted limbs clawed at the leaden sky. The living scar wound across the empty land, beyond which a furious ocean carved out the coast. Sunlight filtered through leaves created a slight green haze, but the dark beneath these trees was deep enough to make Maglor feel safe. Here there was a sense of the world shifting like patterns of light, as if reality itself was altered. Here he was unable to cause any harm. Here, maybe, he could forget.

Maglor had only made this far by force of will, determined to get as far as he could from the bleak cracks of fire where his brother had met his end. He had wandered aimlessly in that hell for what felt like several decades, before moving slowly, vaguely westwards. He knew there was no hope of redemption from the Valar now, after the first invitation had been declined, but Maglor was just glad to see trees again and hear the wind sighing in ancient branches, to feel cool earth under his feet. The ground was green here, and the air felt fresh.

The trees were undoubtedly beautiful in the early morning light, but Maglor found himself unconsciously comparing them to Galathilion. The great tree of Tirion upon Túna had stretched wide across the shimmering courts of the tower of the High King and could be seen from the furthest corners of the city. Not for nothing had the Noldor gained their reputation as brilliant metal-workers and crafters of precious stones; crystal stairs climbed from the grassy hill to the city's white walls, and diamonds as fine as grains of sand covered the streets.

Thinking of Tirion and the White Tree reminded Maglor of the oath sworn beneath its branches that had led to hundreds of lives destroyed, a land obliterated, and kingdoms crumbled into dust.

If not for the madness of the Noldor so long ago, maybe there would have been more opportunity to enjoy the peace of Middle-earth. Maglor could have roamed free and wild in Thargelion, or stayed with Círdan by the sea. But attempts to fulfil the oath had brought war and destruction to this continent and excluded everything except his and his brothers' pursuit of the Silmarils; a long, ultimately hopeless quest that had stretched the length and breadth of Middle-earth and led to the deaths of nearly everyone Maglor had known in his youth. Maglor had no way of knowing when many of them would be released from Mandos, but in some cases he suspected that the answer was never. Their actions turned the world against them, but the hunt had been relentless. From far west to east, to Himring and the Nirnaeth, to Ossiriand and Doriath and Sirion, Maglor had sought his father's greatest treasures and lost his own along the way.

The earlier burning pain from the Silmaril in his hand had subsided into a throbbing ache, but there were still occasional twinges and the skin on his palm was weeping blood. No matter how much it had cost him, the oath compelled Maglor to hold on to the one that remained. The others were out of reach forever, but after all he'd gone through to get it, he wanted to keep the last Silmaril where it belonged. Another, increasingly more agitated, part of him was desperate to fling it away and be rid of the jewel that had brought him and others so much pain.

Maglor's mind took hold of that thought, and he remembered his words to Maedhros before the desperate assault on Ëonwë's camp. If none can release us, then indeed the Everlasting Darkness shall be our lot, whether we keep our oath or break it; but less evil shall we do in the breaking. He had kept it to the best of his ability; the last Silmaril lay with the last son of Fëanor, and there was no one left to take it from him. However, it was also true that their quest had caused nearly as much suffering as Morgoth had, and Maglor suspected that breaking the oath at the last minute by deciding not to take the last two Silmarils would have made no real difference.

Gradually he realised that the sense of purpose that had been driving him for so long, though turned to weariness and despair in the end, was gone, and Maglor found with surprise and no small sense of relief that he no longer felt bound to the Silmaril, realising that it was a burden on his fëa as well as a physical pain to his hröa.

Maybe he was doomed to wander forever in the everlasting dark, but he could at least be rid of the thing that had indirectly led to the destruction of his people, and many hundreds of others.

Maglor had already sensed the sea a little way off, an ever-present whisper in the back of his mind. He was drawn to it, as all the Eldar in Middle-earth were, by a memory of his ancient home, but he had been carefully avoiding it. Even after all these centuries, the memories of several Kinslayings were too raw and painful for him to face.

Reluctantly, he came to realise that it was now his only choice; there were no chasms here, and he doubted that Ulmo would be feeling merciful enough to turn him into a bird if he decided to jump off a cliff. However much he tried to deny it, the Great Sea was the best place to be rid of the Silmaril for good, and the only place where it wouldn't be found for many centuries, if at all. Besides, it was fitting; one Silmaril among the stars, another deep in the fiery earth... The Silmarils belonged to the elements, the very fabric of Arda. From the first light of Arda they were made, and to Arda they should return, for their light to be enjoyed by all.

Maglor was decided. The Silmaril would go to the sea, and he would finally be free of the horrors it carried. Whether that would release him from the horrors in his own mind was another question entirely.

Fëa: spirit
Hröa: body