The Long Despair of Success by AndyC

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Chapter 1

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He had to be by the shore.

That was the one certainty left. It had pulled him to the Sea, insisting that it be there.

No, ‘insisting’ was the wrong word, and words had always been important to him. Compelling? He tilted his head as if listening for the tune and tempo of the word. The difficulty was that he didn’t think any of the languages he knew had the most apposite word. The thing wasn’t conscious; it didn’t have a will. It was just an object, yet it had forced him… if anything, it most reminded him of when Father had discovered the properties of those materials. What had he called them? ‘Magnets’, that was it. It was like when the ‘upper’ end of one yanked towards the ‘lower’ end of another. A mindless and irresistible attraction.

His brother had found the same thing, but with Earth and Fire. And it had killed him. Not that he’d wanted much else. Nelyafinwe Maitimo Feanorion had been a broken man by then. Broken by their Oath. Broken in mind, broken in spirit – the force that had kept them going all these years, that had kept himself going when chained by one hand to Thangorodrim, had finally failed Maedhros. And he had thrown himself and his Silmaril into a chasm.

At least he had fulfilled that thrice-damned Oath. Unlike Father, and his brothers. The Everlasting Dark was almost certainly their fate.

Maglor lifted his eyes and stared out over the Sea. His hand itched where it had been burned. The blessed, beautiful, unparalleled gem had burned him. Marked him out as evil and unworthy. The worst thing was that he completely agreed. It was part of why he had decided to detach himself from – well – everyone.

Not that anyone would miss the last Son of Feanor, he supposed. Kinslayer three times over. Each time getting worse and worse. He could pretend he had an excuse for Alqualonde: they needed those ships so desperately and the Teleri had attacked them as they took them.

Stole them, he corrected himself.

With Doriath, there was no excuse. Oh, Celegorm’s cunning wheeze that if they went in during winter, a daring raid could snatch the Silmaril from the naïve young Dior Eluchil with minimum casualties, especially if they went in with sufficient force to deter resistance… had been as stupid then as it was when it all started to fall apart. How could anyone have guessed that a thirty-year-old would be so strong? Elves simply didn’t mature that quickly – but Half-Elves obviously did. Not only Celegorm, but Curufin and Caranthir – the latter having been brought in unwillingly in the first place – had died under Dior’s blade. The Battle of the Thousand Caves had been a horrific chaos, with ambushes and attacks coming from everywhere and nowhere.

There could be no excuse at all for Sirion.

At least he had rescued the children. That time. Elrond and Elros might even remember him fondly.

He – his head snapped around. Voice from over the rise, away from the Sea. He couldn’t escape, so he tried freezing in position, as silently as possible.

It was no use. They’d found him. He waited as the inevitable shouting died down and the lead element – all Elves, he noted, no Edain here – reached him.

The leader looked like he was of the Noldor. That would probably not help him

“I am Elluin, son of Aranel.” The leader looked, to Maglor, to be somewhat full of himself. “Are you in need of assistance?”

In need of – did the fool not recognise him? Maglor said nothing.

Elluin glanced at his companions. Maglor thought he looked more hesitant.

“Are you injured? Did you flee the War? It is over. Morgoth is taken; his empire is fallen.”

Maglor sighed. “I am aware of that. I believe anyone on the continent is aware of that. Beleriand has crumbled into the Sea, the ground has finally stopped shaking, and there have been no Orcs seen for weeks. It is finally over.”

“Then – you were involved? Good sir, did you fight? We might need to bring you back to camp to be honoured…”

He interrupted them with a peal of true laughter. “No, younglings, I will not be honoured. Not there, not anywhere, not ever again. I, who once had halls and hosts hanging off my every word, enthralled to my songs and music, exalted above so many others – I will not be honoured.” He paused, and his voice dropped. “Nor should I be.”

He caught Elluin’s eye and sighed again. These Noldor were young. They had obviously be born since the Darkening, to those left behind in Tirion – or those who had returned under Arafinwe. No, ‘Finarfin’. His uncle’s name had been Sindarinized as had the rest of them, and been cast similarly to Uncle Fingolfin. Obviously to increase his legitimacy as the true High King of all Noldor – not that he could begrudge him that. Of all the House of Finwe, Uncle Arafinwe had been the wisest, as events had finally proven.

Their youth was why they hadn’t recognised him. He would have to tell them, though it hurt. This, then, was merely a fraction of his penance.

“I will not return,” he said. “I cannot. I – you do not know me, so now you shall. I am Kanafinwe Macalaure Feanorion. Known as Maglor in these lands, and I am the last Son of Feanor. And I am a Kinslayer.”

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They were gone. Horrified at first, disbelieving, and eventually – most painful of all – pitying. He didn’t want their pity. He didn’t deserve their pity.

He’d had to tell them his story, of course, otherwise they’d never have left him alone. How he and Maedhros, heartsick, had pleaded with Eonwe for the Silmarils. To redeem that Oath – the Oath that drove them. Had driven them. With a force that was beyond any words. In their folly, they had taken it on themselves with the power of the Name of Eru, taken in full knowledge of what it meant, bound beyond anyone’s capacity to break. It had, in the end, hounded their every waking hour, tormented them in their sleep, pushed them, demanded of them, and they had capitulated. No-one could have resisted it.

By the time Morgoth had been taken, his Iron Crown ripped from his bowed head, and the two remaining Silmarils levered from it and taken into the care of the Maiar, the Oath had been irresistible and rapid. Neither of them could hold out for long, and, in full certainty that they would be slain in the attempt, had raided the camp of the Host of the West. Cutting down the guards, seizing the jewels, and fleeing into the night.

And being rejected by the very jewels they had given their souls for.

The burning had been enough to push Maedhros over the edge. And he was gone.

Maglor’s own jewel had insisted on coming to the Sea. Maglor had explained that it could have been no other way. One for Fire, one for Air, one for Water. The Fates of Arda had been tied up in the Silmarils and to those Fates had they been driven to return.

So he’d told them of his own compulsion to come to the Sea. He’d told them of taking out the jewel even as it burned him, and hurling it as far as he could into the Sundering Sea. He’d told them he couldn’t leave the shore of the Sea and would now wander there for the rest of the life of Arda.

And they had gone. They had taken away his story and would pass it to the others and the quest for the Silmarils was finally done.

He had told them so many things, and only one of them had been a lie.

Maglor felt the lump in his pocket, carefully wrapped around and around with cloth, so greatly that not a glimmer of light could escape and not a hint of burning would come through to his flesh. They would not search for the final Silmaril. Not if they believed it was in the Sea.

His lips quirked upwards in a mirthless smile. His theft and lie meant that his penance would be truly for the length of Arda. Unlike the rest of the Eldar on these shores, he and he alone had the ongoing Light of the Two Trees. He and he alone would never – could never – fade.

He and he alone would see out all the unnumbered years until Eru Iluvatar finally chose to bring an End to Days, and he would see them out alone on the shoreline, shunned and exiled, trapped by his own Oath and actions, all the way to the very End.  

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Chapter End Notes

Reading Dawn Felagund's Heretic Loremaster blog, as well as a tumblr blog I stumbled across called "The Feanorians send their regards," I was convinced by the explanation of in-universe fallibility of historical sources - and the biases inherent in such.

Musing over the near-total lack of stories from the Feanorian kingdoms of Beleriand through the First Age (because those who wrote the histories were not close to the Feanorians and had no contacts there), I suddenly wondered over the source of the information on Maedhros' death and Maglor hurling the Silmaril into the Sea.  They were, after all, canonically alone at the time.

So who could the source of the information have been?  e of them have I seen even a hint that he might not have thrown it away - even though it logically has to be one of the least reliable and least attested events of the entire First Age. After all - what sources could there have been?

Eonwe? All he would know is that Maedhros and Maglor attacked the camp, slew the guards, stole the Silmarils and escaped into the night.

Unnamed witnesses? Well, they'd have marked where the Silmaril was thrown into the Sea and, given how literally everyone yearned for them, you'd have seen hundreds of Elves diving for it within hours. And given that it was, you know, bright and glowy, they'd have found it pretty quickly.

Maglor himself? Literally the only plausible answer. Which means we're taking his word for it, when the Oath itself would very probably have precluded him throwing the thing away and would make him willing to try almost anything to stop anyone taking it from him. And if everyone believes he hasn't got it and it's irretrievable - well, job done, right?

I can't remember if it was from Heretic Loremaster or "The Feanorians Send Their Regards" that I came across the explanation of the Light of the Silmarils being a way to preserve the benefits of the Light of the Trees - in preserving, hallowing, strengthening, improving the power of the fea over the hroa, and so forth.  A power that would mean Elves obtaining the benefit of the Light would, uniquely, not fade.

It seemed poetically fitting that this way of events unfolding would mean that Maglor would retain his corporeality and be forced to wander the shores all the way to the end of the World.