Aftermath by Independence1776

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Chapter 1

This is the first of two chapters; the second will be up next weekend.

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Eönwë paced from side to side across the width of his tent, not looking at either Galadriel or me, and definitely ignoring Celeborn standing beside his wife. “The Eldar are leaving Middle-earth. Even the handful of Laiquendi agreed to sail once they realized they would be, apart from the mortals, the only survivors of Beleriand left on this shore. You two have two choices.” He stopped and looked at us with his silver-speckled blue eyes, the silver matching the plate armor that he still wore. “You can remain in Middle-earth in permanent exile or you can sail with Finarfin to Aman to face judgement by the Valar.”

Galadriel laughed. “What choice is that? One is judgement in and of itself; the other merely involves formality. I will sail with my father, despite the chance to explore other lands.”

No one needed an explanation of why she would return to Aman, not after everything.

“Maglor?” Eönwë said.

“I’ll sail,” I said softly. “I will not remain behind like a coward afraid to face battle; I know my crimes.” Nor did I wish to live forever in a land where soon the only people who had known Beleriand were Dwarves, three mortals, and a Half-elf who had chosen to be mortal. Elwing and Elrond were leaving in three days to escort Elros, his wife, and Elros’ mothers-in-law to a little village named Bree that the Dwarves had mentioned still existed. Rumor had it Elwing and Elrond would remain there for several months before sailing West.

Eönwë nodded. “You sail the morning after next.” He glanced over my shoulder at Ohtarë, the Maia who had guarded me since Thangorodrim fell. Whatever he saw on her face or heard through Ósanwe-kenta was enough to satisfy him. “The Teleri will be informed you are sailing, Maglor, and they will not harass you.”

I couldn’t avoid the Teleri forever. That had been made easier in the camp due to them never stepping foot onshore and my being mostly confined to the healers’ tents. Now I would be sailing on their ships again. They would obey Eönwë, but I did not anticipate a pleasant journey Westward.

“I will shortly make public the announcement of your current sentencing. Unless either of you have further concerns, you are dismissed.”

Galadriel shook her head, leaving hand in hand with Celeborn. When I heard the flap shut behind them, I asked, “What will happen to me in Aman?”

Eönwë sighed. “While I wish I could tell you, I do not know. My mandate ends when we reach home and I am leaving tomorrow with the Silmarils.”

Was it home anymore? My sole brief discussion with Finarfin had neither stressed nor ignored that Aman had changed. But what I considered home was likely vanished into the unreachable past.

As for the Valar… The Valar could leave my further punishment in Finarfin’s hands, in whose custody Sedil, the five surviving Gondolindrim, and the lone survivor from Balar had been remanded to. Or they could do what they did to Morgoth all those Ages ago: imprison me in Mandos, though I doubted they would do that to Galadriel since they hadn’t to Finarfin. Due to my Oath and the two Kinslayings, I could imagine plenty of scenarios, ranging from likely to not.

He continued, “That you gave the Silmarils to me may make some difference in judgement. But I cannot guess the Valar’s plans.”

I nodded and asked the question I had been wondering for weeks. “Why did you let me redeem my Oath?”

Eönwë smiled. “My orders are to not release the Silmarils from my custody once I have them. They were not yet in my custody.” He sighed, the smile vanishing. “Under different circumstances, I would have removed the crown myself. I knew that no matter how well we guarded the Silmarils, you would have tried to regain them, even if it meant your death. But you were Morgoth’s captive, tormented by both him and the Oath, and one of the forty-five free survivors of Beleriand. It seemed fair to me that you have the opportunity. A splitting of hairs, yes, but a kind one.” He met my eyes then. “I didn’t know what you would do with the crown, but I gambled that after everything, you wanted nothing more to do with the Silmarils.”

He hadn’t been wrong. “They will go to the Valar, then.”

Eönwë nodded. “They are no longer your concern.”

A part of me still cried out that they had belonged to my father and thus now solely to me. Yet the burn scar on my finger that showed even the Silmarils no longer accepted that logic. I jerked my head to Eönwë in brief politeness, spun on my heel, and left the tent, stepping into the late morning sunshine. When I turned onto the main path through camp, I nearly ran into Elwing. A tiny smile quirked her lips as I caught my balance. “What did Eönwë decide?”

“He gave me a choice: sail West for judgement or remain in Middle-earth. I chose the former.”

“Good.” Her smile vanished. “While I am glad you survived, I hope we don’t meet again for a very long time.”

I stepped aside to let her by and caught Ohtarë’s eyes. She shrugged. “As far as conversations go, that was not terrible.”

I laughed. “I suppose I couldn’t have avoided her entirely.”

Though whether or not I’d be able to avoid her in Aman was entirely dependent on my punishment. I hoped so. She may have in some ways considered my brother and me her people during that week after we gained sanctuary at the Havens, but Doriath and Alqualondë would always stand between us.

*

At dusk, Finarfin walked into my tent. I raised an eyebrow and put the book Sedil had lent me next to where I sat cross-legged on the bed. Apart from the brief conversation where he expressed his joy in my survival (though he had refrained from commenting on my changed appearance), Finarfin had ignored me. He glanced around, almost distracted, before sitting in the camp chair placed at the foot of the cot. I said in Sindarin, “What do you want?”

Finarfin looked at me then. In Quenya, he said, “We have not had much opportunity to talk. I wished to learn how my nephew is recovering.”

I switched languages. “Why now?”

“We are sailing soon and I wished to at least try to make the journey less awkward.”

“There is no chance of that,” I said, fingering the raised scar that ran from just under my right eye to my right ear. “Beside the usual difficulties our family has, the ship is crewed by the Teleri.”

He sighed. “I should have talked with you earlier; there was enough time during the evacuation from the imminent eruption of Thangorodrim and the few weeks we’ve had here. But I did not dare to speak with you when we thought it was possible that you were as daunted as the rest of Morgoth’s freed thralls, not after one of them tried to kill me. By the time Eönwë cleared you, we were preparing to leave.” He glanced away and then back at me. “Also, I wasn’t sure you wished to see me.”

Maybe I wouldn’t have. Maybe it would have been nice to see a familiar face, apart from Sedil and Elrond. Sedil never stayed long; I suspect Ohtarë ignored the visits, though out of sympathy or pity I didn’t know. Elrond was apprenticed to one of the healers treating me and despite my curiosity how he’d ended up a healer, I didn’t know if he even wanted to speak to me outside of a healer-patient conversation. So I shrugged.

He sighed again. “Makalaurë, I am not going to open the conversation with recriminations and might-haves. I suppose you are not aware that I saw you in the original camp having the chain cuffs removed.”

I wasn’t. “Why didn’t you speak to me then rather than stare at me as if I was a prize sheep?”

“I realized what was happening and left. You had no privacy with Morgoth; I would give you the courtesy he refused to.”

That quenched the igniting embers of anger. I had forgotten my uncle was the most understanding and the most private of the Finwëan half-siblings. “Thank you,” I finally said. “I’m not sure what else you wish to discuss, then. I may be living with the healers and under guard, but I am not ignorant of the camp news. I know Galadriel, her husband, and twenty-two Laiquendi survived by sheltering in Belegost. I know everyone is leaving these shores, including the seven survivors from Doriath who aren’t Elwing. I know all three hundred and sixty-five former thralls are daunted by Morgoth; all of them are Sindarin; and all are headed straight for Lórien upon arrival in Aman. I know the fates of the Half-elves. I know only nine of us Exiles from Aman survived. Nine.”

“I am sorry about that, Makalaurë. I am sorry Ulmo did not force the Valar’s hands sooner.”

I closed my eyes. “He couldn’t. If Morgoth hadn’t ambushed us, there would have been a Third Kinslaying. I don’t know what else would have happened. But we were not ready to accept the Valar’s help if they offered it. And they were not ready to. Only when Beleriand was devastated could they freely do so.” I opened my eyes and looked at him. “I hate being in their debt, Uncle, given I still do not fully accept their authority. I deserve to be executed-- yet I am free to wander the camp under guard. Eönwë's mercy is uncomfortable and what I face in Valinor is unknown. Yet I am grateful for my very existence.”

I glanced down at the faint tracery of scars on my forearms, visible thanks to my shirt’s short sleeves. “Morgoth would have defeated me eventually. Not because he would have succeeded in daunting me, but because the Oath would have devoured my mind. Or he would have grown tired enough of me that he would have killed me.”

“What did he do to you?” Arafinwë said softly.

“He tortured me, mind and body,” I said just as quietly. “He pushed hot needles into my arms; he hung me from the ceiling; he fed me poison; he isolated me in the dark to the point when an orc would come in with whatever scraps I was given to eat, I cried to see another person holding a bit of light. He restrained me in a cell, his crown just out of reach on his head, dazzling me with the Oath, and I wasn’t even aware of him torturing my body until he left. He chained me in his hall within sight of the Silmarils for months at a time, not needing to lay a finger on me to hurt me. Yet it hurt more to not see them, knowing they were so close and yet inaccessible.” I leaned forward. “What else do you want me to say, Uncle? Shall I detail every aspect of my captivity for you?”

His face was pale, but otherwise unflinching. “Only if you wish to.”

I had half-expected to drive him away with that bare litany. To cover the details when I knew he would not expect much of what Morgoth had done… I was capable of discussing them, but not without knowing for sure that the person listening wouldn’t flee. And I could not trust Arafinwë with that. I shook my head.

From the sad expression that crossed Arafinwë’s face, I suspected he guessed. But rather than leave, he moved from the chair to the bed, pushed the book out of the way, and embraced me. Shocked and grateful he hadn’t waited for me to ask, a few tears leaked out of my eyes and onto his woolen tunic.