Trinkets by Independence1776

Desolation

Maglor after the War of Wrath. This was written for Tic_Tac_Woe, the apocalypse mini-bingo community on Dreamwidth, for the prompt "Wizards’ War/War of the Gods." Triple drabble; rated Teens for mature themes.

Maglor sat on a boulder and stared at the boiling waves. The Silmaril had long sunk out of sight, not even a hint of light shining from the deep, dark water. He had wrapped and cleaned his hand as best he could, ignoring the pain.

There was nowhere for him to go. He would not return and beg Eönwë for mercy. The lands of Beleriand he had grown familiar with no longer existed, lost under the waves as a result of the fight between Morgoth and the army from Aman.

He suspected now one of the reasons the Valar had not fought Morgoth’s entrenchment: innocents would die, never suspecting why.

They should have listened to the legends from Cuiviénen, of the terrors and horrors of the Ainur at war, only hints then, never experienced.

Now he had. Now they all had.

Little was left of Beleriand, only a narrow strip of Ossiriand left between the Blue Mountains and the newly widened sea. Hundreds of leagues of land, gone. Any survivors eking out an existence in the wild that had not been found or had not fled into the ever-retreating refugee camps, dead. Lands where the Sindar and the Laiquendi and the Dwarves had lived and died, gone. The lands where his father and brothers had died, gone. The only exception was Maedhros, and Maglor had put as much distance between that crack in the land and himself as possible before throwing his own Silmaril into the Sea.

He rubbed the tears from his eyes with his unburnt hand. There was nothing left for him here. Let him wander until he found a new home or peace, whichever came first.

His own actions had started him down this road. Others’ actions had sealed his fate.

Maglor the Kinslayer.

Maglor the Wanderer.