Disclaimer: I do not own any of Tolkien's works

You Live, But Are You Alive?

Italics indicate thought, emphasis, or flashback

Maglor POV

Rated T for a bit of self-loathing and because I'm slightly paranoid

oOo

I looked across the billowing landscape, my old silver harp in my hands. Crests of gleaming crystal foam rode rolling waves of sweeping blues and mighty thrusts that sent them crashing into the shore with a vengeance. Anor's rays bid farewell to the world, kissing the surface with a lingering highlight before laying to slumber under the translucent cloak of the evening. The fresh scent of salt danced through the air and caressed my hair with a gentle hand.

I closed my eyes and imagined it was Nerdanel, my sweet mother, bidding me a soft farewell with her fingers tangled into my loose locks. I could see her sunny face in mind's eye; brilliant curls of the deepest red framing her smooth face and intelligent eyes with the ever-present spark of mischief shining unquieted by her tears.

"You too, my son? Must you all go? Must you leave me here such?"

Her eyes became sad, and smile watery. She was trying to be strong for me, I knew. The same gentle breeze touched me now.

Must you taunt me so, fluttering wind? Must you never cease to trouble my heart?

I knew what came after. The harsh smoke that burned my lungs. The lurching screams that tore through starless nights, through the smoke, through the blood, through my soul. My hands were slick with blood. My eyes tainted with the tinge of red. How I hated it so; that color, that fire, that blood. The death it brought. The heartache it represented. Yet we needed it so to remain alive. How I hated my sword, dripping with the crimson stain of my shameful, abhorred iniquity. Drip! How I hated myself for being the sole cause of it.

The unkind flames danced across the black sky. They devoured, crushed, killed. I looked back down at my cursed sword. I was not so different, was I? From the flames, that killed; the flames that burned passionately in the eyes of my father. Yet I followed him.

The battle was over. The thought turned bitter and I spat it out. There was no battle. There was no cause. The flame in my father's eyes reminded me of my purpose.

My purpose, I scoffed inwardly, spiteful. Was this truly my purpose? I hated it. Hated it so. It stoked a flame in my own eyes, but had I even known?

I was much like him, Fëanor, my father.

I threw my head back and laughed into the roaring waters. Much like him indeed.

I remember it clearly, our family gathering together after our bloody task was done. Yet it wasn't done. Every action came with consequences. The grief we brought would linger for centuries among the hearts of who's own candle of life was snuffed out. Curse the blood! Curse black heart of cruel death! Curse what I brought upon the unblemished souls of my kin!

I remember the smoke more than the words spoken. Both branded in me a terrible memory.

"Ambarussa where is he?"

"Amrod, he—"

"Valar..."

"No! NO!"

The scream cut through my heart with its own blade. In a way, everything that had happened had wrenched that blade deeper and deeper.

With every war, every memory, every scream, I died a little inside.

Smoke... it was another one of my blades that deepened my everlasting torment; guilt.

It in itself was a menace. The way it stung the eyes, the chest, they way it clouded your vision; perception. A smoke had enveloped my soul, then. Now my initially irreversible incorrect perceptions were painfully clear; another hammering blade.

The smoke was a horror, yes, but the memories they recalled—represented—were much more painful.

I remembered once again. The crashing waves mocked me. Perhaps that is all you can do now, they suggested. I blocked them out angrily.

Smoke was a haze over the blood-soaked battlefield. I kicked at the darkened soil as I rolled over another body; another flame— a righteous flame— snuffed out once again.

'Is your thirst quenched? Has not enough blood been spilt? Drink your fill, cursed ground, for you may have more of it before the end!'

But then I saw him fall to his knees; Maitimo. His suffering was of a different kind; his nightmares marked with his own screams rather than others' like mine were. I did not understand his torment, but the scream tore at me now. The blade cut deeper and deeper...

"FINDEKANO! Findekano... why...? why...? Come back, Findekano, come back..."

I had never seen Maitimo so broken since he came back from Angband. I could feel his broken heart. I could not look at him, for I had failed him too. The shards of Maitimo's heart buried into mine.

The rumbling waves taunted and gurgled. I felt the shards, the blades that pained me so; they wrung blood of my own from heartache of my own so it would drip. Drip! Like the blood off my sword. So that it would run into the thirsting ground and the devouring waters that fought for a sweet taste. But these were the consequences. And I accepted them.

I remembered once again. The smoke— that cursed, clouding smoke— rose up from the shimmering crag in the barren earth. This earth thirsted fiercely. My father's flame burned in my eyes now. We had a Silmaril. At last.

But there were consequences. And the larger the deed, the larger the consequence. Only one thing would hurt me sufficiently now. Only one thing could satisfy the parched and fanged hunger of the soil.

It's mouth gaped up at me now. But this time it was my screams that tore through the starless night.

"MAITIMO! NO!" Hot tears were already running down my face. Cursed flame, do not take this from me now!

I knew I deserved it, but I was appalled—horrified— at the very thought—

"I love you Makalaurë. Always have and always will. Promise me you will do something for me. Keep the flame burning in you. Sing for me, Makalaurë, sing for me..."

And he jumped. My world reeled. I was alone... the word reverberated in the empty space that used to house my smoke-clouded soul.

The flame in my eyes died with the flame of my father's; the Silmaril. Though Feanor had died long ago, his flame—his legacy—had continued to burn inside his beloved creation of the Silmarils. Sometimes I wonder if things would have been different if he loved his other creations as much as his Silmarils— his family; us. Wondered if things would have ended up the same if his flame hadn't been kindled to life inside us. But there was no more room in my heart in which to stick another blade. So I felt nothing.

I opened my eyes. The last lights disappeared in the horizon. Wet sand clung to my feet. I absently wondered if the sand ached to taste my own blood as well. Experience told me it did.

The waves continued to crash on the shore; roar, mock, gurgle. They seemed to read my aching thoughts. I had watched my brothers die. One by one they fell, yet I lived.

Perhaps that is all you can do now, they suggested with a spitter and a flick of water on my cheek. Live until the end of time. Live because so many others didn't. Because of you. Consider yourself lucky. You survived.

I felt the blades in my heart sink to the core and deplete the last of my blood to feed the ravenous earth and envious, churning waters.

I threw back my head and laughed bitterly into the night, remembering the smoke, the blood, and the screams; the faces of my brothers, father, and mother that flashed before my eyes as I yelled back to the mocking eternal Sea. "Am I supposed to be grateful to have survived this?" *

oOoOoOo

-Brenna Twohy, from "I Know It's a Little Late"

Found the quote on Pinterest and felt inspired. Heartbroken, but inspired :P Feedback is much appreciated. Thanks!

Findekano~ Fingon

Makalaurë~ Maglor

Maitimo~ Maedhros

Ambarussa~ either Amrod or Amras, in this case it's Amrod