And in the End by Ivare

Chapter 1

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The Silmaril seared Maedhros’s hand. The pain was far worse than anything he had ever been through, much more than his imprisonment and rescue from Thangorodrim. It burned, and the fire seemed to be all that was left of him. But the deeper hurt lay in the knowledge that Eönwë was correct; that they had lost their right to the Silmarils. Everything they had been through, only to end like this? Losing their brothers. The kinslayings. Their names written in blood, over and over again. Any good deed was always overshadowed by their sins. The pain and sacrifice, just to fulfill the Oath of their long-dead father.

    And all in vain, for through their Oath, they forsook the right to what they had pursued for countless years, so many centuries. It was as Mandos had said: in the end, their Oath would betray them. Even as the jewel burned him, its hallowed fire reminding him of his sins, images of death flashed before his eyes. Caranthir, his body sprawled in a pool of red and studded with arrows; Celegorm and Curufin, cut down in succession by Dior before their killer died from the wounds they inflicted; Amrod and Amras, the blood on their clothes and skin a deeper red than their hair; Fëanor, his armour rent and torn by the gash that pierced him, his corpse cremated by the fire of his spirit as his sons, then all seven of them, watched.

    Now, they numbered at two.

    He saw the faces of Elrond and Elros, the half-Elven twins whom, despite himself, he had grown to care about. In the years after the Third Kinslaying, they’d kept him sane, given him something care for.

    But in them, he’d seen and still saw another pair of peredhel twins. Eluréd and Elurín, abandoned in a forest, dying of cold and starvation. Surely they were dead, and whose fault was that?

    His missing right hand was a constant reminder of his torture at Thangorodrim, of years lost to an unending cycle of torment. Morgoth, mocking him with words and instruments of torture. The light of the Silmarils in his iron crown had, for the briefest moment, reminded him of better days, days of light. But that evaporated quickly, and his father’s jewels taunted him with their brilliance.

    The raw pain of the metal cuff chafing his wrist, drawing blood which ran down his arm. Years spent wasting away on the jagged face of Thangorodrim, already dead inside.

    His cousin Fingon, who had made the perilous journey to those mountain peaks, despite his cousin’s supposed betrayal. He couldn’t have known that, of his father and brothers, he alone had stood against the burning of the ships at Losgar.

    Fingon wept.

    If you are truly here, and not just another ghost, kill me. Maedhros had little strength left. And sometimes, he wished that the Valar had ignored Fingon’s pleas that one time, that Thorondor had not stopped Fingon’s arrow as it sped towards his heart. That he could face death and never inflict it ever again.

    Then the Nirnaeth.

    His cousin’s lifeless weight in his arms. The sword that had severed his hand and saved him lay useless in the hand of Fingolfin’s eldest son. Fingon had wielded it to the very end, even as a Balrog had trapped him with its whip from behind, and another smote him down into a mire of his own blood. The eyes that had wept when they found his friend chained to a peak of the mountain stared blankly, unseeing.

    And then, the cries that rang in his ears every night, accusing, branding the guilt ever deeper into his mind and soul. The cries of the Elves at Alqualondë, those he had murdered. Every drop of Elven blood on his hands another tally of his crime. Murderer. Kinslayer. The labels hung heavy on him; they might as well have been branded on his skin.

    But those were only memories. They did not exist here, where there was nothing left to be had. Not like Maglor, who was nearby in the dark. Not like the shadow that loomed ever in his heart, ripping the frayed threads of his sanity. Not that much of it remained.

    The chasm gaped before Maedhros, its dark crevices illuminated by the flames within. There was no more point in going on; surely he was barred from Valinor, but nothing could bar the dead from Mandos. The pain of the Silmaril in his hand reminded him he had become the very thing he wished never to be, that his soul was corrupt and darkened in the eyes of the Valar. The Oath could never be fulfilled, for one Silmaril was with Eärendil. Even if Manwë and Varda had pardoned them, they had invoked Ilúvatar’s name from beyond the circles of worlds.

    ‘Maedhros?’ Maglor stood a little way from him. In his eyes was dawning realisation. His heart heavy, Maedhros turned to his last remaining brother.

    ‘Forgive me.’ He clutched the jewel to his chest, and it gleamed even through the blood from his hand. The weight of his existence and all that had come with it was too much. One foot rested on the edge of the chasm.

    His younger brother was too far away to stop him. ‘No —’

    He turned away, tumbling down into the heart of the fire. Like hands of fate, the pain consumed him; was this how his father had felt as the flames bore him away to Mandos? He was burning, burning, and there was no stopping it. As his vision faded, he was aware of Maglor screaming his name.

    Forgive me. He was all his brother had left, and he had taken even that from him. Unspoken words that would never be heard hung between them, another broken promise.

    But all that faded: the flames; the Silmaril; Maglor’s cries.

    All he sought now was peace in death’s embrace.

Maglor watched as his older brother pitched into the chasm, into the flames. Everything happened so slowly, far too slowly.

    ‘Maedhros!’ The name tore from his throat like an animal cry. Before, he’d thought he had nothing left to lose.

    How wrong he had been.

    It was too late when he reached the gaping mouth in the earth. The heat that rose from it forced him away and he staggered back. He dropped the Silmaril — an action he would never have thought of doing before. In the dusty earth, it shone bright, its light an echo of things past. He fell to his knees, head in hands, his tears mixing with blood.

    ‘No. Maedhros, why?’ No one heard his whisper, save perhaps for the Valar. But what did they care now? Too great was his sin, Ilúvatar would not look on him kindly, even though the Oath was sworn in his name. If only he had run to his last surviving brother before he had taken the fall, if only he had convinced Maedhros to follow Eönwë’s advice, this wouldn’t have happened. What did it matter now? The faces of his father and brothers haunted him, like ghosts out of the corner of his eyes. But they were simply ghosts of his mind, of memory and the past. One by one he had lost his family, and there was no returning to Valinor, the home from which he was forbidden.

    There was no returning to anything at all.

    Forgive me.

    Forgiveness was nothing, not when Maedhros was only a memory. He might have envied the peace of death, but he was numb and broken at once. Besides, he didn’t deserve to rest. He would have cursed the Valar as he cursed Morgoth’s name, but that never amounted to anything. There was nothing left; nothing to salvage, no meaning left in anything, and he was empty.

    Nothing.

    And perhaps that was the worst part of it all.

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Chapter End Notes

Sorry if some weird series tags appear — I can’t make them go away. This work is not part of a series.