The original story was written for fic marathon on our Polish literary forum, Mirriel. This is translaton, as usual.
There are mentions of suicide (canonical) and suicide attempt, but no graphic description and no corpse.
When all the words are gone
When he takes the knife the one last time, he would gladly pierce his own heart if he still had it. The world around him shakes, the earth cannot stand the sudden change and crashes; the cracks look like wounds and nothing is familiar anymore.
Maedhros is dead and for the first time in his life Maglor is truly alone. He wants to howl in despair, not even sing, but wail like a wounded animal, but no sound comes from his throat. Even if he wanted, he cannot sing. Middle-Earth is crying and coughing evil, poisonous mist comes from the cracks, as if Arda was trying to clean itself after the war. The fumes have burned his throat when he was trying to stop his brother in his madness, when he scram his name at the edge of the hot chasm; this one time he could not follow his brother. Now every breath is agony, but his hand struggles to make this one move, his legs don't want to make this one step over the edge.
The imprints of the Oath burn, his burned fingers cannot bend to grab the knife; pain draws tears. The waves humming below him have already swallowed the cause of all this misery; in their singing Maglor hears laments of the murdered. Two Silmarills, reclaimed after half a millennium, when there was no one left to find joy in their father's jewels. It seemed the Silmarills had burned them more than once, but it took the real flame consuming their hands to make them realise what they had done. To make Yavanna's blessing their curse.
Maglor shakes his head and over the pain he forces his hand to move. His fingers grab the knife, stick together under the bandages, though he has been very careful to separate them earlier. The steel glimmers in the setting sun; the knife was a gift from Curufin and his blades never dull.
It is harder to cut loose hair than a braid, but Maglor would not be able to braid them with his burned fingers. Dark strands fall one after another.
With the last one, the blade falls as well; it is no longer needed. There would be no one to grieve for. Maglor's lips soundlessly repeat the words he has always used to say farewell to his brothers; Maedhros deserves that at least.
And then he takes one step; the waves and the whispers of the dead are waiting. No one would sing a lament for him.
xxx
The fleet of Teleri sailed widely and slowly, as if the whole sea belonged to them. Colourful emblems of the Vanyar flew over the white sails and the waters were calm; Ulmo wished his favourites to go back home safely.
Suddenly the sea moved and two ships on the left rocked on an unexpected wave. The mariners went up on the decks, followed by some of the Vanyar. The captain skilfully shouted orders, but he too went silent for a moment when the next wave appeared out of nowhere and raised high, up to the middle of the sails, only to fall on the deck. The elves caught whatever they could so they would not be swept, but the water barely touched the left side and the whole ship did not even move, as if a huge hand was holding it from the bottom. The wave subdued and the keenest observers would claim later it looked as if it was disgusted. There were some sea plants left on the deck, along with a few fish. And a motionless figure by the side.
The sight of the castaway broke the spell. Two nearest elves knelt by him. The would-be drowned was breathing, water bubbling in his lungs.
"Guard him," muttered Ulmo in the sea waves, and the elf, raised carefully, started coughing and vomiting water. His eyes, wild and wide with terror, shut after first spasm; tears ran down his cheeks. When the elf stopped heaving, he was trembling in the air and short, dark hair stuck to his face tightened with pain. He had no strength to get up, so he was covered with a blanket and taken from the deck.
Questions arose when they were removing his clothes, but the elf, though he was staring at the mariners and seemed to understand their speech, only opened his mouth, but said no word; there was agony in his eyes. Only when someone touched his bandaged hands, he wailed, if one could wail soundlessly, struggled and went limp.
His possessions quickly solved the puzzle who was the elf rescued by Ulmo, as he wore a belt with Feanorian star on the clasp. The identity of would-be drowned was also confirmed by his burnt hands.
The whole ship bustled. As they learned that Maglor was on the desk, many voices arose among Teleri, demanding that he be thrown back into the water. They were stopped only by the fact that Ulmo himself had rescued him from death and told them to guard him. So reluctantly the mariners agreed to let the unconscious Noldo stay in the cabin, where a Vanya healer took care of his wounds.
xxx
Ship. Elves.
Teleri.
Of that Maglor was sure; he had seen their fleet on the shores. The question was, how come he had ended up in the deck. For he had no doubts he was on a ship; no one in their right mind would have made a room so small, and his narrow bed was rocking mildly. At the thought of sea journey a bile came up his throat and Maglor turned on his side, but the sickness didn't come.
Next moment a fair-haired elf appeared within his sight. He leaned over him and firmly forced him to lay back on the narrow bed. He said something in his language, then switched to something resembling Quenya.
"Lie still." Maglor's mother tongue sounded weird , but also strangely familiar, like something he had not heard in ages.
Vanya, realised the son of Feanor. He was alone on a ship full of elves coming back from war. At this thought he reached his hand to help himself up, but the pain made him drop the attempt; the cellar moved and it had nothing to do with the ship's rocking.
"I told you to lie," said the Vanya. "I want to see your hands, the sea water has made some damage."
Hands? No, no, no, don't touch, Maglor wanted to object, but only sputter came from his mouth, then a fit of cough left his throat and lungs in agony.
The elf accompanying him helped Maglor sit up and waited until he stopped choking, then lifted a mug to his lips.
"Alright, we'll do it differently. Drink it first."
If Maglor thought that breathing hurt, then swallowing made him realise how wrong he was. He struggled after first sip as his throat burned. He backed and pressed his lips, but the Vanya held him tightly and he was as weak as a kitten. Nevertheless, he wasn't about to let the elf torture him.
"You lied lifeless for three days," continued the Vanya with that strange Quenya of his, accepting that Maglor was not going to answer him, neither by word nor gesture; his hands were covered thickly with bandages, making it impossible for him to move his fingers. "I know it is hard to swallow, but you have to drink it. It will help with fever and ease the pain."
It will ease the pain, hurting me first, Maglor wanted to say, but he couldn't. He could do nothing but surrender.
When the Vanya finished, Maglor fell back on the damn rocking berth. He was going to have an unpleasant journey and he wasn't exactly sure if he wanted to know what awaited him on its end.
xxx
He was standing on the deck as they approached the harbour; the cabin seemed too narrow and stuffy. The ship was rocking, but the movement was gentle enough so that it didn't cause nausea. The coast was growing in his eyes. Maglor could not look away, he was staring with amazement but also with fear, unsure what to expect.
He walked unsteadily to the side and leaned his elbows on the railing. The fingers on one of his hand fiddled with the dressings on the other. The healer that took care of him agreed to his silent pleas and gave him less bandages, allowing movement to some degree.
The waves crashing against the sides of the ship suddenly turned red and dark spots blackened Maglor's vision. The water sang with the laments of those who had fallen there lifelessly ages ago from the white ships. He had heard them the whole way; the closer they were, the louder and angrier Osse's whispers became.
Not only Maglor could hear them. Osse's voice reached Teleri too, and so they spoke against Maglor, barely letting him sit on the deck. The singer suspected he should thank the healer for their permission, because he too considered the cabins too stuffy and led all of his wounded on the deck, Maglor included. But the reluctance remained, sometimes voiced, sometimes only in unfriendly glances. Maglor did not reply, because though his throat hurt less, he did not regain his voice. He usually turned his gaze or walked away as not to fuel their anger.
But now he could not walk away, he stood there, glued, as is some force had chained him to the railing. Closing his eyes did not help, his hands by his ears did not muffle the laments that mingled with the harbour bustle.
"Go." Some mariner poked him suddenly and Maglor realised the journey was over and Manwe's herald was waiting for him on the wooden landing. He took his hands from his ears with effort and walked uncertainly to the narrow gangplank. He stepped on it as if in a dream, confused by the noise, but then someone bumped on him from behind, sending him right into the water.
He didn't even shout, he fell heavily like a stone and the water immediately came into his mouth. The cloak he had been given on the ship by one of the Vanyar now dragged him down. Opening his mouth in desperate attempt to get some air resulted only in more water in his lungs. Maglor struggled, trying to unfasten the clasp binding the cloak on his neck, but the bandages did not let his fingers bend enough to do it. His throat burned, the whispers of the dead turned into screams.
The water whirled, a sudden wave brought Maglor up. Another voice, stronger, broke over Osse's and Maglor had the absurd feeling of being held by his collar. Next moment he hit the wooden platform hard and he nailed his fingers between the boards, coughing weakly and spitting water. His throat was one big wound yet again.
"I told you to guard him," murmured Ulmo with reproach. Maglor raised his head just in time to see the next wave almost washing the elf on the gangplank.
He rose on his feet with effort, grateful that the platform was not rocking. He was breathing spasmodically, his knees buckling, his head spinning. Aman, he was in Aman... The view danced before his eyes, the faces of the elves blurred in colourful spots.
A wave of pain in his hands woke him, as salty water saturated through the bandages to the burns. He shivered, trying in vain to get rid of the dressings. His stomach cramped violently.
"You will come with me, Kanafinwe Makalaure," said Eonwe and his hand on Maglor's shoulder made him freeze. He followed only when he was pulled.
"Wait." Ulmo stopped the herald before they took a few steps. "Take also this." Another wave went through the platform and left a shining jewel at Eonwe's feet. The Maia grabbed it swiftly and hid before the son of Feanor had a chance to do anything.
Maglor realised he didn't care anymore. He didn't desire the jewel that had destroyed everything in his life. He was about to face the Valar's judgement, he was certain of it, but it didn't matter; they could not do anything that had not already been done to him.
He went, though he had no way to explain himself. The words of Noldolante ran through his head; the words of the lament no one was ever going to hear again.
If you liked it, please feed me with a few words. If there was something wrong, please tell me as well, I will do my best to correct any mistakes.