I
Two figures sit in shadow by a fire, cradling bowls of warm liquid in their hands. Their grey cloaks conceal them, and the elf's inky hair causes him to fade almost entirely into the surrounding night, whilst the elleth's blonde curls shine like the moonlight. They have sat in companionable silence for the last few hours, but now the elleth looks up, and begins to speak, in a voice that is half a song. The elf stares out into the distance, as the figures and places of the story seem to come to life around him...
When the news had reached them of Maedhros' capture, Maglor's first impulse had been to ride out after him straight away. His brothers had all broken into shouts at once, their voices lost in the general clamour as they argued over what to do. Only Caranthir the ever-silent did not speak, though his face was grey with worry. When he finally did, his words were enough to throw everyone into a sudden hush.
"Maglor should resolve the debate." he said. "After all, he is now High-King."
The High-King gave an unpleasant jolt. The office was the last thing on Arda he wanted. It was Maedhros that was suited for it, the Kingly courage, strength and pride that was his father's legacy tempered by the wisdom and gentility of his mother. Maglor was no King. He preferred to be in the background of things, spending his time on solitary walks, or with his harp, finding that music let him articulate himself in a way rhetoric never had.
His brothers were all looking at him expectantly. He closed his eyes, feeling slightly sick, and began to think, desperately. His first impulse was still to go himself. A fool's errand, this, and there was no way he was letting any of his brothers throw away their lives on it – he couldn't bear to lose any more of them. But who would become King whilst he was away, and possibly after he was dead (for that would almost certainly be the outcome of the venture)?
Celegorm, he realised with an internal groan. His beautiful brother, with his constantly drawn sword, his love of hunting, his overbearing and sometimes vainglorious pride. With Celegorm in charge, relations with everybody and anybody would certainly never be improved. Worse still was knowing that Celegorm would almost certainly defer to Curufin, that idoliser of their father, who was like to him in almost all ways, save perhaps that he was of less skill and even more pride, and the flame behind his mocking smile seemed almost to burn cold. Try as he might, when he thought of Curufin he could not forget Losgar. That day no eye had been dry save two. He could still remember Amrod's screams and his father's wordless horror, but Curufin's blank silence was perhaps the most terrifying recollection of all. Yes, Curufin was surely an elf of ice where Fëanor had been of fire, but like with Fëanor and with himself, when he spoke, people listened. It was a political disaster waiting to happen.
No, he could not leave Celegorm in charge. And yet he could do naught else – he was the next in age, and passing him over for Caranthir was like to cause civil war amongst his brothers (it would not be the first time swords had been drawn amongst them), or at the very least a permanent coldness. He remembered Maedhros' last words to him.
"Look after them, Makalaure. Keep them all safe for me." He opened his eyes slowly, finally and awfully resolved.
"Nobody is going to Thangorodrim." he said – oh Maitimo, Russandol, dearest of my brothers, friend of my childhood, forgive me! The silence became incredulous, and there was an outpouring of general wrath and disbelief. Each word smote him heavily: betrayal, abandonment, treachery. He let the barrage continue for a few minutes, and then held up a firm hand, and it ceased.
"Silence. None of you will go. Maedhros is lost."
Maglor didn't raise his voice, but his word, his command, was filled with the fierce intensity that his father had bequeathed him, and the flame in his eyes, usually veiled by the wraith like mists of music and dreams, was fully kindled. As few knew – but oh how well they knew it – Maglor's enethadar* had been well given. Nobody argued, not even Celegorm or Curufin, and Maglor strode from the room to the sound of his own footsteps striking the unforgiving ground. His fae felt like lead in his chest, weighing him down, and a voice inside him hissed "murderer", but Conuifin Maglor did not bow his head. He didn't have to like being King, but he would be damned if he would fail in his duty to Maedhros, who would be the last brother he was losing.
II
Watching the approach of Fingon with his brother, Maglor's relief was so powerful it was almost a physical force. The vague notion of his brother's continued existence had tortured him ever since he had made his decision. But mixed up with the relief was a bitterness, so shameful that he could hardly even admit it to himself.
He knew what the whispers of the Noldor said about him. That he was a coward, not worthy of bearing his father's name. Or worse, that he desired the Kingship more than he had wished for his brother's safe return. Fingon would be their hero, Maedhros their scapegoat.
He had known that when he had taken the decision: he had done it anyway, but that choice had grown harder, not easier, to bear. He had banned his brothers from making the attempt out of concern for their safety; he had later extended that ban to the entirety of his people out of an understanding of their pain. A desire to ease the shame in the eyes of the warriors who felt deeply their duty to (and often love for) his brother, but trembled in their very faer at the thought of Thangorodrim.
Why should he not be their scapegoat? Surely it was better for one to suffer than for so many? And was he not already damned? Nevertheless, the burden of their guilt, of everyone's guilt, when added to his own, was proving far more crushing than he had originally thought. Every whisper cut him like a knife, and he had seen his life stretching out before him, an endless corridor of blame. Would that ease or intensify with his brother's return? Well, let them say what they wished. He had his brother back, and that was all that mattered.
He meets them at the gates, and the urge to fling himself at Fingon's feet wars with the urge to shake him until his bones rattle for the look of disgust on his noble face, for his easy comradeship with his broken brother. Maglor is the least prideful of the Fëanorionath, perhaps of all the children of Finwë save only his uncle Finarfin, and yet he is still a scion of that egotistical house, and disgust still rankles. And it is easy to resent a friendship with Maedhros that he will likely never have himself again. Fingon will have told him of the ban, no doubt in unflattering terms, and his brothers and men will soon race to reassure him that that was the sole reason preventing their rescue of him – that their loyalty never once swerved.
He settles for clasping his cousin's shoulder, too wary of the contempt in his eyes to embrace him, and thanking him warmly. Fingon's face is cold: he does not want the coward's gratitude. But Maglor does not care for Fingon right now. He takes his brother into his arms, and breathes in the scent of his hewn off hair. Maedhros feels as fragile as a leaf in his embrace, and Maglor lets remorse rack him once again, a sensation rapidly becoming as familiar to him as the feeling of his own blood running through his veins.
He meets his brother's eyes – oh Maitimo, how sunk they are in your ravaged face! – and sees in them more than he had hoped for: a kind of acceptance. He knows then that his brother understands his decision, but that also that he will not forgive it. Maglor cannot fault him for that, though he may wish to strangle his cousin for his protective arm on Maedhros' shoulder, and for his glare.
What could the hot-headed boy know of difficult decisions, of soul-sickening, biting betrayal? He had never had to choose between two evils, never had to despairingly try to find a lesser. Well, at least it was only Fingon that was openly hostile. But all his kin were cold to him now.
Maglor looked up as the story ended, and as his eyes refocused on the present, they met those of his daughter, with the shifting shadows and fey fire that his father had bequeathed him, and he her. As usual, she had moulded his memories into words that had taken him straight back to the moment, and he is almost surprised to find himself sitting on this deserted plain, in the shadow of the forest. But she had not quite finished. Her tale was done, but she now addressed him directly.
"You sacrificed the love of your kin and the respect of your people for their safety and well-being. Perhaps you were more suited for the office of High-King than you knew."
And for the first time that evening, he smiled.
*Best translation of essi I could do - if anyone has a better, please tell me! :)