Trinkets by Independence1776

Failure

Maglor dreams about his family. Horror. Ficlet. Rated Teens.

Written for Scribe of Mirrormere for the 2015 Trick or Treat Exchange. Many thanks to Elleth for the beta.

“Makalaurë.”

Maglor turned from the strange, wispy, dark trees, their bare branches only half-seen through the fog, and faced his father. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t--”

“You failed.” Tiny flames flickered on the outline of Fëanor’s body. “You lost against Morgoth. Your brothers are dead. You tossed away the Silmaril you regained like it had been no more than rubbish. And you dare call yourself my son.”

Maglor took a deep breath to steady himself, to push back the heartache, but suddenly three of his brothers were there beside Father, their own forms hardly more substantial than the fog closing in from behind, leaving only the sight of Thangorodrim far in the distance. Curufin said, “You failed us. The Silmaril fled from Doriath. You were not strong enough to retrieve it.”

“It was not--”

“It was,” Amras said, appearing out of the fog with Amrod at his side, both with their bloody mortal wounds. “You failed to keep Elwing from leaping into the sea with it. Now no one can retrieve it.”

“I at least held mine until death,” Maedhros said in Maglor’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine, before walking around and joining the group. “I did not willingly release it.”

The seven of them stared at him, Thangorodrim wavering in and out of sight behind them in the fog. “You have failed in your duty as my son. You failed to keep the oath that you willingly swore twice over.” Fëanor stepped forward, the flames roaring to life as he did so. “And for that, you will never know peace.”

Maglor woke with a gasp, breathing heavily as he tried to force the memory of the dream to fade. But it was not the first time he had dreamt it and he knew that he would fail, the memory hindering his chores and attempts to make this seaside cabin into a proper home.

He flung back the fur covering him, put on his boots, and padded over to the fireplace to stir the embers back to life and use the kettle to heat up water for a cup of raspberry tisane. The warmth would help dull the terror, though it could never banish the thoughts that tormented him during the day and crept into his dreams at night.

He rubbed his face with his free hand when he swung the kettle into place over the low flames; from the weight of it, he’d forgotten to fill it last night so he wouldn’t need to go to the well until after breakfast. Going out in the false dawn did not appeal, though any chance of returning to sleep required a hot drink. And that was more important. He took the kettle off its hook and fumbled with the latch on the door. When he pulled the door open, he froze at the sight of seven ghostly figures on the patch of bare ground between him and the well, the nearest wreathed in flame.