Falling Stars by Tyelca

When he finally dies in an inferno that equals the racing thoughts in his mind, it is quiet. Dark, silent. Calm. It is something he hasn’t been in a long time, not since he foolishly agreed to false negotiations in an attempt to win a war before it truly began, against an enemy he’d only known by his friendly disguise. There are no voices whispering in his mind now.

He does not move, he does not think. He just is, and for now, perhaps for an Age, that is enough.

Phantom flames still lick phantom limbs and he allows it, for it is pure and not tainted with the Dark Lord’s presence.

He is glad, somewhere, somehow, that this is how it ends. On his own terms, his own choice. No one to take it from him or twist it into something else. It is a lonely death, but at least he doesn’t drag anyone else down with him. It is a responsibility he had happily given away.

He does not feel terror now, but there is something vaguely like relief. He had fought his battles, for good or for worse, and this is the end. No more war.

He poses that that unnamable feeling is peace, and when he thinks about it, he discovers that it just might be true.

A smile ghosts over his lips that exist no more, and a light shines in his eyes that see no more.

He is done. But he looks forward to seeing his family again.

Whenever Maglor wandered the shores north of Lindon, he could make out the silhouette of Himling. Only the very top of the ancient hill rose above sea level to form a small island; the ruins of his brother’s stronghold but a weak echo of their former glory and power. But it was still there, standing proud and strong and untakable. He often found himself wanting to go there and see what treasures were left, but he dared not make the crossing. He didn’t imagine Ulmo or any of his maiar would be particularly merciful should he encroach on their territory.

He had not had any contact with his kin since he lost his last brother; he did not wish to defend himself against strangers who only knew about the great vastness of the First Age through stories told around the campfire at night.

That was not to say he always was alone; he spent many years at a time connected to a single Human village or seaside town, offering his many skills in exchange for food and a place to live. One part of him, the part that had once lived in a palace and listened to the title of Prince and later, for a short while, King, found this demeaning and abhorrent; the other part was content in the peace anonymity offered. He did not hide who he was, exactly; rather, he did not share his information freely and only responded to direct questions. It helped that he chose places that were but rarely visited by Elves. He avoided their company when they did.

He listened attentively to the stories told by travelers, and kept up with the comings and goings of the world. He heard about great cities and kingdoms rising and falling, about a threat in the east, and then in the west. He heard about the turning of an Age and watched the number of Elves left in Middle-Earth slowly dwindle. Cities were abandoned and only a few places now remembered them.

Maglor did not mind their absence, but it was a sign of a changing world. And Himling loomed in the distance.

One day he had had enough. Perhaps it was the desire to find and hold his Silmaril one last time, perhaps it was grief for the past. It could even have been the reassurance that everything he remembered was real, and not an extensive imaginary he’d created for himself. Whatever the cause, he decided to cross the sea and visit the tiny island.

Maglor started with building a boat. It was rigged with a small sail; Maglor had gained more than enough experience in handling ships, and in some ways that was proof in itself that he had not gone mad. It took him a whole summer to cut the trees, treat the wood and nail them together. The sail he ordered at the local weaver was traded against a hand-carved unstringed harp he’d originally made for himself. Maglor was aware he sold it far under its real value, but money was not what he needed. He did not feel remorse at losing the precious instrument.

It was autumn when the miniature ship was finally finished. The leaves colored a coppery red that bore an uncanny resemblance to shining red locks under burnished helmets. They reminded Maglor of happier times he preferred not to dwell on.

He first tested his vessel on the calm river that crossed through the Human village. Many came out to watch; it had been common knowledge that the recluse Elf living on the outskirts of social interaction was busy with a project. The ship remained afloat and Maglor tested the sail, felt the wind tug at the ropes he held in his scarred hands. To his eye, the amateur attempt had resulted in unquestionable success. The children of the village cheered him on; he had never been an outcast despite his solitary nature, and he suspected that on some level the Humans knew what he was capable of when he was displeased. They had never excluded him.

But the boys and girls were young and innocent and ran along the shores of the river, trying to keep up with the little ship as the wind made it pick up speed. Maglor laughed and the sound was free of his internal pain and guilt as it carried towards the playing children. He steered his white vessel back to the sandy beach, the village’s connection to the sea and the Ered Luin mountain range and the primary way of trade and economy.

He did not leave for Himling immediately. He waited out the winter, which was long and cold and too dangerous to set sail. Chunks of ice floating in the river made the waters treacherous, and the little harbor, protected by a small bay, froze over.

The winter stretched out far into springtime, and the chill did not leave the air for even longer after that. Maglor figured he could take it as a warning, but didn’t. One by one he gathered his effects and either sold or bequeathed them to the Humans who’d for so many years tolerated his presence and accepted him into their lives. It was his way of thanking them for their courtesy while saying goodbye.

Maglor did not intend to remain on Himling forever, but when he returned it would certainly not be to this little town. Middle-Earth was vast, and he did not like to confine himself to only one backwater quarter of it for much longer. He was certain the villagers were aware of what he was doing, but they accepted his gifts with grace and offered no comments. Maglor was glad for that; he had no intention to explain himself.

In spring the river swoll with the melting snow from the mountains. The water was cold and clear, and streamed fast. Maglor gathered food and the few possessions he had not parted with and lifted his improvised anchor. He had given no notice, but the entire village came out to see him off. He was touched to see some held even tears in their eyes.

He waved goodbye once and then focused on the western horizon. Himling was not yet visible from the river, but Maglor knew that as soon as he reached the mouth, where it opened up into the sea, he would be able to see it. He did not fear Ulmo or his maiar; for the first time he felt indifferent towards the possibility of his own death and that thought freed him. The gradual decline of Elven presence in Middle-Earth made him realize there were so few things left that could actually hurt him; he had never been averse to taking risks. He wished to reach his brother’s fortress, so he would go there; nothing stood in his way.

The winds picked up and the sail billowed, but Maglor expertly maneuvered the seacraft through the waves as he coursed straight towards Himling. He traversed a light storm and when the rain slowed down to a lazy trickle and the wind returned to a fresh breeze, Maglor landed at the island.

He jumped into the water to pull the boat up the beach, a short stretch of land not covered in rocks and trees; from its position to the sun, Maglor reckoned this had once been the wide flat road that led to the main gates.

The road gently wound around the hill Himling was build on, but the last bend before the main gates held a great and sudden inclination; it accommodated for the steep cliff on the northern side and simultaneously provided an entrance that would be difficult to besiege. It was also an easy target, both from the castle battlements and from below.

Maglor climbed the moss-covered stone tiles that still outlined the road until he came to Himling’s main entrance. Once thick wooden gates had held out many enemies as archers picked them off one by one from the bastions above. Now an open arch between two half-broken pillars gaped wide like the maw of a wolf.

Maglor entered. The roof was still intact and so were most of the walls, but the place was weathered and old. He recognized the layout from memory, but would not have been able to navigate without this aid.

There was little left that conveyed the merry feasts or the grim discussions that had taken place in these very same halls. Seagulls had build their nests in the many nooks and crannies; most wooden beams supporting the high roof were still intact, surprisingly. Maglor knew how fast good wood could turn rotten. White droppings covered almost every square inch of ground.

As he wandered the little isle of a hilltop, Maglor encountered no other animals than the gulls. Little to no vegetation remained and Maglor understood this lack of wildlife must have slowed down the inevitable natural destruction. He was not sure if he felt that was appropriate or not; but it was the way of the world, and that, at least, Maglor could respect.

Aside from the broken fortress, nothing had survived the floods of water and time. Maglor remembered that once there had been a busy and prosperous town on these hillsides. Nature had long since claimed back any trace remnants. Even then, it was not much to look at: brown shrubs in brown grass with a few bare trees.

Maglor had carefully stopped himself from creating any expectations, but when he looked at the sorry mess at his feet, he felt distinctly disappointed. In his mind, he could still see the proud towers and tall halls. He felt the heat of roaring fires, smelled the meat as it slowly turned on the spit. He heard the conversation freely flowing. He tasted the warm spice of mulled wine.

Never had Maglor given serious thought to the notion of returning to Valinor, but for the first time he could understand the appeal that so many had surrendered to. Compared to Beleriand and now to Middle-Earth, the Undying Lands were frozen in time. No ghastly changes that turned well-known spaces into foreign territory.

Turning to the north, Maglor imagined he could make out the landmarks that had demarcated his own fiefdom, but the waves kept their secrets.

Maglor took one last look around and then returned to his little ship. Down the main road, the white boat lay considerably deeper in the water than when he’d first moored it; the tide was rising. Maglor stared at it for some time, thinking. The ship was his only way off the island that could become as familiar to him again as it had been long ago. If he waited any longer, the sea would carry away his escape; Maglor found that the idea terrified him like few things did nowadays.

His decision was made. Middle-Earth, with its ever-changing lands was his home now. It had been his unwilling home for much longer already than he’d ever lived in Valinor. He did not think he could adapt back to that sluggish an dull way of life, and in truth he did not wish to. And, Maglor acknowledged to himself, even after all the years his welcome would hardly be a warm one. Elrond would be pleased, but he would be one of but a few. And Elrond was a grown adult now with his own family. He would never return to the bright, bubbly and stupidly courageous little boy he once was; the child that stood, quivering in his boots, between the sharp tip of Maglor’s sword and his brother. It had made him pause and that bravery had saved the children’s lives.

So Maglor waded into the water and jumped into his ship, using the rudder to push himself away from Himling. Hardly a dignified way to say goodbye to the past, Maglor drily reflected, but there was nothing to be done about that. He released the sail and the wind filled it immediately; it had gained strength during his visit and whipped Maglor’s tangled hair in his face.

Himling was not far from the shores of Middle-Earth; in the far distance, Maglor could see the peaks of Ered Luin. To get there, though, he had to cross a stretch of open sea; and the waves rose high and dangerous. All Maglor’s attention was focused on the horizon, which only slowly came nearer.

The sky was pressing down with dark grey clouds and Maglor’s ears heard the thunder come from behind. He debated going back to Himling and wait the storm out, but he doubted it had a natural cause; the next time he set sail it would only be worse. That left only a single choice, and Maglor’s face was grim. He was a confident sailor, but he remembered the terror that was an unnatural storm at sea.

He did not wish to die, not now that he’d untangled his own desires and was ready to leave the past behind, as far as that was possible. Maglor pulled on the sail, ignoring the way the rope cut in his burned hands. Pain was not something he feared anymore.

He bit his cheek as the skies opened and a curtain of cold rain soaked him to the bone. It poured and sogged the sail. Maglor knew he should rein it in, but he wished to lose none of the speed the violent wind afforded him; the sooner he reached land, the better.

Maglor ignored the ominous way the rope creaked, or the planks cracked whenever he shifted his weight. The waves only grew higher and higher and Maglor had to fight to keep his boat afloat. Water began to collect in the bottom of the deck as the rain turned into hail, carving tiny cuts in Maglor’s cheeks. Small droplets of blood leaked into his mouth and Maglor tasted the metallic flavor. It reminded him of long ago, when wounds were a daily occurrence and blood just as common as water.

Through the storm Maglor managed to steer his ship closer to the coastline, where high cliffs were intercepted by small, quick-flowing little rivers. These too vomited white waves that rose much higher than they had any right to. From his perspective on open sea, the shores were unfamiliar; the wind had blown him far to the north. He knew of no places in which to moor and could see no suitable space either; but before worrying about that, Maglor had to survive the next wave that crashed in from the side.

The little ship was already weighed down by a rapidly increasing layer of water on the deck, and Maglor doubted its ability to keep floating for much longer. With a grim frown he rigged the sail and jumped down, trying to heave the water with the single bucket he’d brought for exactly this purpose. But the little boat filled up much faster than he could heave, and Maglor eventually was forced back to the rudder and sail.

During this time he thought little; all his focus was on the present moment and how to survive it. Single-mindedly he steered, he pulled, he heaved; and all the while the hail cut his skin and the rain obscured his vision and the wind tore through him and threatened to pull his ship apart. He was soaked and cold and the salt water stung in his many little wounds. But Maglor was determined and these were but minor inconveniences; living was his number one priority.

He battled the elements in his struggle to reach the shore, but the elements actively fought back. As agreeable as the ainur had been to his journey to Himling, so fiercely did they object to him leaving it. Maglor could not turn back now, even though he was fairly certain that the moment he turned the ship around the clouds would dissipate and the sea calm down.

But Maglor had made his choice, his decision, and he was done abiding by the ainur’s will. Perhaps that put him in the footsteps of his father, but Maglor had never been ashamed of his legacy, only of his actions. Unwilling to make the same mistakes, yes, but never ashamed. And he had inherited a fair streak of stubbornness; and after all, he was closer now to Middle-Earth than to the little island of the past.

Another wave crashed against the deck and the little ship almost capsized; Maglor could only just prevent it by grabbing the opposite edge of the deck and concentrating all his weight, and slowly the boat approached a state that could be called horizontal.

Maglor noticed he’d started humming, the only form of music he was capable of making in this situation. He had been doing it for a while already, little calming melodies that he came up with on the spot. They brimmed with power, though; power Maglor had not used in millennia. It was probably the reason the boat had not failed him yet. Now that he was aware he was doing it, Maglor put more force behind the notes, and for a while the ocean seemed just the tiniest bit calmer and the wind slightly less harsh.

Turning the notes into words, Maglor’s voice rang out over the waves and smoothed the worst of their foaming caps. But he had not sung in a very long time, and certainly not invoked the power a song could have, and soon his throat hurt and despite his best efforts, his voice broke and tapered off. He tried to push a sound through his lips, but his vocal chords refused to obey.

The wind picked up again and to Maglor it seemed so much stronger than before. Individual planks bend under the unrelenting battering of the water and it was then that Maglor knew he would not make it. His ship would fall apart any moment now and it was still a long way to the shore, in open sea during a storm of unnatural proportions. He could swim and was a confident swimmer, but he had no idea what strong current he would encounter and knew it would be a miracle if he made it. And miracles tended to be curses in disguise.

But Maglor refused to believe it was over just as he’d found, maybe not a purpose, but then certainly an inner peace. His hands hurt, his face stung and his muscles cramped, but Maglor hold on. By this time it was sheer willpower that kept the tiny boat above the waves, but eventually even that was not enough anymore. As the sun set in the far distance, peeking just underneath the terrible clouds for a few moments, Maglor heard a sharp tearing sound over the general outcry of the storm.

He looked up and saw that the sail had finally given up; two separate pieces of cloth violently gripped by the stormwinds. For a split moment they reminded Maglor of white flags, frantically waved to indicate a willingness to negotiate, to stop the violence. As he did back then, he ignored them and focused on what little of the ship he could still control. The rudder was useless without the sail, so with an outbreak of force Maglor pulled it loose to use as a peddle. His ship was now little more than a raft, barely controllable and pulled here and there by the waves. It also threatened to sink.

Maglor risked a lapse in attention to gauge the distance to the shore. His efforts had had some effect: he was closer than he’d been before. Another quick look at his ship, and Maglor made a decision. Just in that moment, the wood let out a shriek as it was forcibly torn apart.

Maglor jumped. He managed a somewhat graceful dive into the cold salt water; not that he noticed much of the difference in temperature, since he was already soaked from the rain and hail. His heavy clothes dragged him down, but for now Maglor had enough strength in his muscles left to fight against it.

As he’d expected already, the currents were many and strong and Maglor soon grabbed hold of one of the few floating planks to simply catch his breath. He barely kept his head above the water and the salty foam impaired his vision. Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, Maglor positioned himself around the plank. He knew that what he was about to do was dangerous, and if the ainur truly wanted him dead he would be playing right into their hands. But he saw no other option and he had become desperate enough to try. He kicked off his outer robe, which quickly sank down to the bottom of the ocean. A shiver ran over Maglor’s spine that had nothing to do with the icy temperature.

Maglor took a deep breath and let go of the plank holding him up. He dove down, underneath the crashing surface of the sea that moved up and down with every wave. The currents here were stronger, but the water itself was calmer; Maglor’s survival depended on finding one that ran towards the shore. He kicked down, felt the water stream past his skin. It was tiring, but eventually he found one that went in the general direction of land. Maglor latched onto it, his breath already burning uncomfortably in his lungs. He could stay down for some time yet, but he knew he had to make the most of it.

He kicked off, hands and feet moving in coordinated motions as he propelled himself forwards. He made it a fair distance before the need for air became too strong and he had to go up to the surface. Maglor gasped even as the the rain and sizable hailstones bombarded his face again. But he didn’t have long before a wave pushed him under again. It crashed down on him with great force and Maglor tumbled deep down before he got his bearings. By that time, there was darkness all around and no way to tell which side was up.

Maglor forced himself to remain calm and not to panic. He had time; he’d just inhaled a large gulp of air before he was pushed underwater. Trying to keep a clear mind, Maglor swam into the direction he thought he came from; it seemed just a little bit less dark that way. He pushed the water away, behind him; the light spot moved just out of reach, and Maglor followed.

It was when his lungs burned and his muscles weakened that he realized he would not be breaking the surface anytime soon; what he’d been chasing was a vague reflection of the button of his outer coat that he’d released earlier. It carried the heraldic design of his father. The eight engraved rays of starlight were remarkably clear in the darkness all around, and Maglor reached out with his hand. His fingers grasped the button, tore it cleanly off his coat.

He had no air anymore and his lungs burned. He opened his mouth involuntarily, and salt water immediately streamed in. He swallowed down the first mouthful, ignored the stabbing pain in his stomach. His limbs started kicking, desperate to break the surface and get air into his lungs, but it didn’t help. Maglor became dizzy and black spots appeared in his vision. His eyes remained fixed on the silver button.

Maglor wasn’t sure if it was a sign that his father’s doom finally claimed him, or if the man who raised him and read him bedtime stories whenever he couldn’t sleep was with him as he went to rest one final time. He didn’t really care in those seconds that stretched out eternally; he was just glad to have something familiar with him in this watery grave.

Of all of them, Celegorm is the one that watches the tapestries, studies each and every one as they are put up. He follows the events in the world, a reality he is no longer part of. He watches, and he wishes he were there.

Being dead isn’t what bothers him anymore; after some time one got used to the feeling of bodylessness, used to the Maiar that appeared without warning. Being dead itself isn’t the problem for Celegorm. No, it is the boredom that accompanies it; there is absolutely nothing to do. Talking and trying to resolve issues that can never truly be resolved could only keep him occupied for so long.

So he follows the tapestries, studies them intently as if he can live through stranger’s lives once more. He knows it is futile and that others watch him with pity (those that don’t curse his name, that is), but he doesn’t care and he doesn’t stop.

One by one his family comes to Mandos; he greets his brothers but merely watches his cousins as they, one by one, succumb to the Doom Námo had proclaimed. He does not get close.

The tapestries showed him how they died and he feels no desire to speak to them, to mend wounds not of his making. He will take responsibility for his actions when asked, but he will not apologize on others’ behalf. So he keeps his distance and follows the happenings in Beleriand. Time works strangely in the Halls, or perhaps it is simply that some tapestries take more time to weave than others. Many events are put up in random order, the gaps between them slowly filled until a chronological history is laid out.

Celegorm follows Beleriand. But more specifically, he follows her and the echoes she leaves in the world. Ever since he first laid eyes on her, she blew him away; she stubbornly crawled her way into his heart and refused to leave. Her beauty, but underneath that her fire, her personality. It drew him in and for weeks he orbited around her, like a moth cannot help but circle a flame. He stalled her inquisitions to her lover with tales and false promises, trying to keep her close for just a little while longer, until eventually she began to question his words, his intentions and at last his sincerity. It hurt, but her words were true and if she hadn’t said them, he doubted he’d feel as strongly about her as he did. After that he hunted her; whether he would kill her or take her in once he’d caught her, he didn’t know yet. At the time he didn’t have to know yet.

He hadn’t known she had died before he was killed as well; he had discovered it on one of the tapestries. In the beginning he had tried to find her in the looping corridors that Mandos allowed him to wander, until someone finally told him she was not here.

That damning statement was something he’d fervently denied to himself, searching and intent to catch at least one more glimpse of her. It took a long time for him to accept he never would anymore.

He had killed her child, a murderer and kinslayer in his own right, as the boy had killed him. But that was the single act he had neither done for or to her; some things went further, were older than his infatuation that he refused to name love.

He died in vain, of course; they both did. But Celegorm likes to believe he died for a cause, at least, and not his own pride and vanity. Though in the end it doesn’t really make a difference. So he follows her grandchild, the girl and her sole heir that survived his blade and his orders. He follows her to Sirion, compares the child to her, and the girl falls short in every aspect. Yet he does see the similarities, the stubbornness. Some of her best qualities, weakly reflected back through twice-diluted kinship. But there is more. Celegorm isn’t sure if it is his imagination or not, and he doesn’t speak with others about it. But he sees it, clearly, even through the medium of Vairë’s weaving. For all that this child has Lúthien’s best qualities, she has his flaws. Again, weakly and diluted, not as intense or as alive as he himself was, but there all the same. A marriage of the traits that defined them.

Celegorm watches her grow, fall in love, marry, have children, provoke war and then flee. So much like him, like her, like them together; but not completely. Not entirely. He finally realizes that when he reaches the tapestries chronicling the third Kinslaying. There is a small part of him that blankly stares at the horror that is unleashed, more savage and brutal than the first two he was part of. He follows the threads depicting his brothers and watches as two are suddenly cut short. Celegorm takes a moment to close his eyes and prepares himself for another tearful reunion.

Perhaps it is desperation, perhaps he only sees it clearly now because he is a spectator rather than a participant, but he cannot help but wonder whether even the Silmarils are worth this slaughter. Especially when they should stand together against the Dark Lord’s power.

But it is the young woman he is focused on. He knows he would’ve stood his ground and would’ve been prepared to meet his death. And he has; Lúthien would have too. But the girl does not.

When she jumps over the cliff Celegorm turns away from the tapestry. It was a dream, he tells himself. A fancy, a wish.

When the Ambarussa stumble into Mandos, bloodied and weary and leaning heavily on each other, he is the first to take them in his arms. His little baby brothers; the ones that never should have seen as much as they did, the ones that should never have come to Beleriand in the first place.

He embraces them, clutches them close, smells the drying blood and the scent of battle on them. No, not battle; slaughter, he corrects himself. He doesn’t like to think the word, but forces himself to do it anyway. He inhales deeply, for any slice of life is something he desperately craves.

He sneaks a glance at the nearest tapestry despite himself, and doesn’t know whether he should smile or curse when he sees Maedhros and Maglor take in the two boys she’d left behind. Twins; he wonders if it’s because of guilt, compassion or to replace those innocent red-haired boys they’d lost.

So her legacy still lives on, Celegorm muses to himself. Her blood against his upbringing, her legacy against his culture. He is curious what will win out in the end.