our footprints marked beneath the dirt by queerofthedagger

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our footprints marked beneath the dirt

Written for Day 2 of the Maedhros & Maglor Week: Mithrim, Maedhros' Abdication, Leadership. Thanks so much to the mods for running this! <3

In truth, Maglor knew that it was coming.

It had been obvious through endless days in Maedhros’ sick room. Through his talks with Fingolfin and Fingon, shut away behind closed doors. Through the way he watched them, Maglor and his brothers.

Maglor knew that it was coming; it makes the unshakeable fact of it no less impossible to bear.

“I will abdicate the throne to Nolofinwë,” Maedhros says, standing tall and proud before them as if that can hide the scars making a wreckage of his face. As if that can hide the shorn hair, the thinness of his body, the dimmed light in his eyes.

The lack of a fucking hand.

Predictably, their brothers start talking over each other. Voices and tensions rise.

Usually, Maglor would step in. He has done little else these last few years, after all.

But then, clearly, what is the point.

He lingers in the background and watches as Maedhros bears it all, inexorable like the stone that Fingon had cut him from, like the curse that Námo had sent them off with.

The Dispossessed, indeed. Maglor slips from the room without anyone taking notice.

Of course, it is no surprise when Maedhros finds him later. Maglor had hoped that escaping down to the lake would buy him some time, but then he really should be past underestimating his brother’s tenacity.

Maedhros falls into step with him, hiding whatever strain he surely must feel.

Maglor has seen him practice with a sword again whenever he can convince Findekáno to accompany him. A graceless dance that makes Maglor burn with impotent rage, reminding him of their father.

They walk silently for a while, measured space between them. The sky is overcast, clouds rolling in from the north. Maglor lets the sharp wind bite his skin and does not think of retribution.

“You are wroth with me,” Maedhros says, when the first drops of rain begin to fall. “I expected it from the others. I expected you to understand.”

Maglor clenches his teeth, tries to breathe through it. “And did you think to talk to me before you made such a decision?”

“Of course I did. Unfortunately, whenever I asked you to see me, someone else seemed to come along.”

Maedhros’ voice, when he says it, is mild. The freezing rain makes the shame that flushes Maglor’s cheeks burn all the hotter.

He has no answer. They keep walking along the shore, the earth growing soft beneath their feet.

Eventually, Maedhros sighs. “Am I so unbearable for you to look at, brother, that you will not even do so when you clearly have recriminations against me? At least afford me the dignity—“

Maglor stops, his feet carrying him no further. There is a ringing in his ears that rises with each thunderous beat of his heart. That travels to his tongue, presses against the back of his teeth like a scream begging to be let loose to level the forest and the camps around them.

“Maitimo,” he says, his tone like a declaration of war. “Stop talking.”

Maedhros remains unmovable. He has stopped beside Maglor, and Maglor can feel his heavy gaze; can feel the judgement and disappointment in it. He knows, all the same, that if he were to look at Maedhros, he would find nothing in the unfamiliar face.

He used to be able to read his brother better than his own mind. He used to think that he would do anything, would bear anything, to have him back.

Maglor’s worst crime to date, he thinks, is that in this, too, he has proven himself a liar.

“I do not understand why it bothers you so. You were never keen on ruling; in fact, you seemed all too ready to pass the crown back to me. You refused to be called—”

“Thirty years,” Maglor presses out. “Thirty years, I wore that crown. Thirty years, I kept it for you. Thirty years I held our brothers back, held myself back from going after you, because I knew, I knew, what you would expect of me.”

He is breathing harshly. Beside him, Maedhros has gone very still.

“Thirty years, Nelyo. If I had known that it meant so little to you, I would have cast the accursed thing away on the first day. I could have found you, with song, of all things. I could have—I could have—“

He cannot go on.

Maedhros, after a long pause, “You blame yourself.”

Maglor makes a sound in the approximation of a laugh and turns away. Across the lake, the fires of the Nolofinwëan Camp try their best to push back against the gloom. It is useless, Maglor wants to tell them. This land belongs to grey hopelessness the way we all belong to the Doom. This is the fate we wrought for ourselves.

“Makalaurë,” Maedhros says, and then nothing else. He reaches for Maglor, fingertips brushing his shoulder, and Maglor flinches.

Maedhros’ hand drops. All the rage fuelling Maglor withers and dies so swiftly, it leaves him hollow.

He inherited the Finwëan temper but not the Fëanorian skill at its longevity. It has been a long time since he felt anything other than regret for that.

“I am sorry,” he says, words forced past his teeth like wrong notes. “I am sorry, you are—I know you are right. But I cannot bear it, Nelyo. I cannot.”

The thought of Fingolfin wearing the crown after everything they had lost for it. The weight of the guilt, an impudence in the face of all that Maedhros had to bear. The selfishness of still demanding more, more and more and more.

Maglor leans back until his shoulder rests against his brother’s chest and knows that he will never be forgiven. By Maedhros, perhaps, yes; not so by the powers. His brothers. Himself.

Maedhros is silent, and this, too, is a kindness. After moments or eternities, he presses his mouth to Maglor’s temple, though; lingers there, a distortion of the tenderness they once held for each other; sighs, finally, and then steps back.

“We will go East,” he says, and at last, Maglor looks at him. The rain is coming down heavy now, and whatever fire Maglor had left within himself disappears into the earth alongside it. “I will need you then, Makalaurë.”

I will always need you, he does not say. It is as close to a plea, Maglor realises, as Maedhros will ever allow himself, in this new world they have found themselves in. That they have brought themselves into, and what else is there to do, then, than to lift his chin, to keep his head held high, and to bear it?

“Of course,” Maglor says, and he may not be swearing fealty to Maedhros as his king, but he makes it a vow, all the same. “I will always be there.”

He leans in and brushes a kiss to the ruined cheek. Beneath the touch, Maedhros shudders.

Not a King, Maglor thinks, lingering. Someone he will follow to the very end, all the same.

Maedhros curls his hand around the back of Maglor’s head, holding him close, and perhaps—

Well, perhaps, then, Maglor understands, after all.

Chapter End Notes

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