#he and Maglor steal the last Silmarils his hand burns and Maedhros looks around until he sees the crack in the earth and the lava

[youareunbearable]

hummm I am in the mood for some Maedhros Angst

[warrioreowynofrohan]

I can’t get rid of a Silm AU idea that’s been bouncing around my head where, just before Maedhros and Maglor go to steal the Silmarils, Maglor is looking up at the Evening Star - and, in an instant of weariness, of reluctance to go on with this, something slips. Just for a moment, his mind opens to Eärendil, and he knows what they’re planning to do.

Maglor tries to talk Maedhros out of it - they’ll know we’re coming, I just have a bad feeling about it, let’s wait just a while longer - but Maedhros isn’t interested. They go. The camp is alert and on guard. When they go to sneak in, they are glimpsed and go to flee - and Maglor halts for a second, waits, is taken captive, surrenders. Maedhros escapes.

Maglor is to be taken back to Valinor for judgement. He knows Maedhros will try again, but can’t bring himself to betray him by saying so. On the day he is to be taken aboard ship - and the Silmarils, too, are to be taken aboard a different ship - Maedhros sneaks into the camp and attacks. He sees Maglor and, in a. moment of distraction, is disarmed, but he will not stop fighting.

Eonwë commands the Silmarils be brought. He places one in from of Maedhros. Maedhros is unarmed and surrounded. He takes the Silmaril. Everyone can smell the burning. Maglor yells at him to drop it; he tries to run to him and pry his fingers apart, but he is held back (do the people around him think he wants to take it for himself?). Not until Maedhros’ hand is charred and useless does the Silmaril fall from it.

Maglor returns to Valinor. Maedhros is kept in Middle-earth for a time, and tended, or would be if he were willing. He will not speak, he will not accept food or care. It’s unclear how much is shame, how much is pride, how much is being again helpless and captive. Elrond visits him; he offers food and water, he attempts healing, he plays music even when unwanted; if Maedhros gets too angry with him playing it inside the tent, he plays it from outside. He attempts conversation. It is not pity alone that brings him; you might call it closure, you might call it a search for humanity (elfanity). Elrond too knows what it is to be helpless in the hands of his enemies.

(What he wants is vulnerability. What he wants is to see weakness. What he wants is for his childhood’s nightmare to admit to being a person. Maedhros can admit to being a nightmare. He is expending every ounce of self-control to avoid admitting to being a person. When Elrond visits, Maedhros’ expression is alternating stone and fury; but as the time wears on, sometimes after Elrond has left he cannot help breaking down.

Elrond does not stop until one day, at last, the façade breaks.)

I have a lot of thoughts about Maglor in Valinor, mostly involving Eärendil. But I can’t stop wondering about Maedhros’ story in this AU. Is it worse or better than his canon fate? He is helpless, almost incapable of doing anything for himself; he cannot even eat without someone feeding him. Perhaps that is what he needs; perhaps that is penance and healing both, to have to be dependent, to have to learn to let go, to have to submit to recieving what you do not deserve and cannot repay. Elrond thinks so.

[arofili]

The Second Kinslaying

for @feanorianweek, day 5: Curufin. this fic is my headcanons for how the Second Kinslaying went down. this is a dream/flashback from chapter 4 of a longer fic about the Feanorians’ rebirth, but it stands on its own and i’m quite proud of it so i wanted to share it again!!

CW: canonical character death, graphic depictions of violence

~

Maedhros tells them to hold back as long as they can. Curufin tries to listen, but he is so full of anger; the Oath pushes him forward...

They are met by a line of guards—marchwardens summoned home to protect Menegroth from attack. They are not enough, not without Melian's protection. Maedhros orders not to kill them unless they must. Curufin tries to obey, he truly does, but the first marchwarden cuts down one of his warriors and he sees red. Before he knows it, he has killed again.

It's never easy. Looking into the glassy eyes of another elf, their blood on your hands, their fae drained away... Your own fae is tattered at the edges, bleeding out its light. Curufin isn't just tattered, he's shredded into pieces.

Caranthir charges forward, wreaking a path of destruction. He screams Dior's name, taunting him, goading him to come out and fight. "Or are you content to let your people die for you?" he cries. Curufin is too caught up in the battle to feel anything other than a brief pang of fear for his brother. Caranthir fights alone: it is his way, has always been his way.

Maedhros and Maglor are together, bellowing commands to their warriors, trying to keep the bloodshed to a minimum. Maglor weaves between Maedhros' swordstrokes, dancing in a rhythm only he can hear. He is preparing for something, Curufin knows. Something powerful. Maedhros stands tall, defending. He cuts down only those who come for him, never seeking out an opponent. He doesn't have to: he is the leader, the eldest, the fiery beacon burning through the gaping wounds in his fae. He is the target.

The twins are hidden in the trees. They and their archers rain arrows upon the warriors; the strategy is not as effective as it would have been in their own lands. The marchwardens know their home too well, and clamber up the branches to fight them closer.

He and Celegorm are back to back, working together as they always have. They are better as a unit, fiercer and sharper and faster. United with his brother, Curufin is unstoppable. Celegorm is wildness, he is cleverness. Together they are a force to be reckoned with.

The carnage outside the throne room is sickening, even to Curufin. He wades in blood, widening his stance so he does not slip; he watches less experienced fighters trip over the bodies of their fallen kin. When one marchwarden falters in such a blunder, Curufin lunges, splitting him open from groin to gullet.

At last they see Dior. He is radiant, glowing like a Calaquendi, but all seven Fëanorians can see at once that he has hidden the Silmaril. It may still be on his person, or it may be elsewhere—where is it? where is it? where is it?

Caranthir screams and rushes forward into the throne room. He babbles some nonsense about a Maia's bastard, coming completely unhinged. Curufin exchanges one look with Celegorm, and they hurry to their brother's aid.

They can't get close enough. Behind him, Curufin can hear Maglor's voice raised in a song of power, and the earth trembles—the walls outside the throne room collapse. They are trapped inside. The fighting intensifies; Curufin and Celegorm protect Caranthir's back, holding back anyone who tries to assault him in his march to Dior, but they cannot reach him.

"What is he doing?" Celegorm bellows. "This is madness! He'll be killed!"

Caranthir has cast down his shield. He holds a blade in either hand, and he leaps toward Dior, who catches those twin blades with his own curved sword.

Madness. Yes, that was the right word. Caranthir had gone mad, heedless of his many wounds, completely berserk. Celegorm cried out to him, but Curufin knew it wouldn't work. Caranthir was too far gone inside his own mind.

"NO!" Celegorm shouts, and Curufin can't find words, can't find air, can't find meaning—

Dior's blade has sliced through Caranthir's armor, through his skin, through his belly, straight through to the other side of his body.

Caranthir goes still, staring into Dior's gleaming eyes. "Kinslayer," he says through a mouthful of blood, before he falls limp, Dior's blade sliding out of him.

Fool. A damn fool, that's what he was. Curufin's hot tears blind him as he rushes forward, heedless of who he's killing as he fights his way to his brother's body. Celegorm roars, and he's no singer like Maglor, but the sound sends a wave of force throughout the throne room. Every elf tumbles to the ground—only Curufin, standing in his shadow, keeps his footing. He darts forward, slicing throats, slitting wrists, stealing life from all those around him. He isn't sure if all his own warriors had already fallen, or if he had killed them all too, but by the time he regains control of himself, only he, Celegorm, and Dior are standing.

"You know," Celegorm growls as he advances on the murderous king, "if you had surrendered and given us the Silmaril, we would have spared you. Even if we'd already started fighting. But now?" He lunges forward, nicking Dior on the arm before his blow is deflected. "Now, I don't care what you do. I'm going to fucking disembowl you."

"Oh, yes," Curufin hisses, mirroring his brother as the duel begins in earnest. "You killed our brother. I am going to enjoy your suffering, Dior Eluchíl."

(The worst thing, Curufin thinks later, after it is all over, is that it is absolutely true. He never took pleasure in murder, despite what the stories may have said. He accepted it as part of the Oath they had sworn and didn't waste time obsessing over the guilt—not the way Nelyo did—but he never liked it. But this time...)

This time, he relishes every second of Dior's pain and fear. He draws it out, longer than he needs to, balancing Celegorm's impatient fury. Dior knows he's losing, but he holds his own against the two most fearsome warriors left living in Beleriand. He must have known this day would come, must have been raised in fear of the Fëanorians.

Well, good, Curufin thinks as he cuts one of Dior's sleeves off, then the other, grinning as Dior gasps from the pain of the shallow grazes on his arms. He deserves every second of terror, for what he had done to Caranthir.

"Shall we finish him, brother?" he asks Celegorm.

"I think we shall," Celegorm growls. He raises his sword for one final, heaving blow—

And Dior, faster than Curufin thought anyone could be, twists away from Curufin and drives his blade right into Celegorm's chest.

Celegorm finishes his movement, thrown off balance by the deadly wound but still managing to slice open Dior's stomach. His guts spill across his body with an acidic stench that rises to Curufin's nostrils, but he barely notices as Celegorm heaves his last breath and falls, glassy-eyed, to the blood-drenched floor.

Dior tumbles to the ground, groaning horribly, his sword clattering out of his hand. Curufin turns away from him, kneeling beside Celegorm's body, howling his grief. He feels as if half his soul has been torn from him. Celegorm is dead.

Curufin rises, trembling. He casts aside his own blade and picks up Dior's sword, advancing on his fallen foe.

"Where is it?" he hisses. "The Silmaril! Where is it?"

Dior laughs, an awful, guttural sound. "You'll never get it," he rasps. "Never. Not even—" he coughs, choking on his own blood— "not even if you slaughter everyone in Doriath. You'll never find it."

Curufin's rage is controlled, precise. He has honed it over his entire life like he would any other weapon, and even now he does not lose that control.

"My brother was always true to his word," he says softly, almost conversationally. "He promised to disembowl you." Curufin prods the mass of putrid guts spilling out of Dior's stomach, chuckling. "And he did it. I, however, am a known liar. I said I would enjoy your death. Now I am not so sure. Perhaps I will let you lie here until the rats come to feast upon you. I should let you bleed out, long and slow. You are going to die, you know."

Fear flickers in Dior's eyes. Curufin smiles.

"Yes, I think I'll do that," he says. "Let you go at your own pace. That will delay the inevitable."

"You..." Dior rasps, but Curufin cuts him off.

"Ah ah ah," he tuts. "Talking only makes it worse."

He shifts as if to turn around, letting Dior think he's gotten off the hook, that perhaps there may some way his Ainur blood could stitch him back together. He sees Dior relax slightly out of the corner of his eye.

Then he spins back around, shoving Dior's own blade down his throat until he chokes on it, bursting through his esophagus and pinning him to the floor. Dior screams, as much as a dying man with a sword through his throat can scream, and the awful noise causes a thrill of sadistic joy in the pit of Curufin's stomach.

The scream trails off into a hideous gurgle, and Curufin's shoulders slump. Grief at last overtakes him, and he shakes as sobs rack his body. Caranthir is dead. Celegorm is dead. Dior is dead, also, but the Silmaril is not on his body. Unless the others have discovered it, this horror is all in vain...

The others. Maedhros, Maglor, Amrod, Amras. He must tell them what had happened. He must be the one to deliver the heartbreaking news that two of them had fallen. He must—

"Oh," he says softly as he feels cold steel run through his back and watches as a sword slides through his belly. He is dizzy all of a sudden, though his rhaw has gone numb and all sense of pain is dulled.

Curufin topples backward, falling on the hilt of the sword, the weight of his body pushing the blade deeper into his torso. He looks up, mouth hanging open in surprise, to see a slight and silvery figure hovering above him, her bloodstained hands clasped over her mouth in horror. Nimloth has taken vengeance for her husband.

He locks eyes with her. He is barely aware of what he whispers in his dying breath, but she hears it, the echo of Caranthir's last accusation:

"Kinslayer."

~

[read more about Curvo’s thoughts “after it is all over” in ATATYA, the fic i pulled this snippet from! and please, please leave a comment if you enjoy!]

[sunflowersupremes]

Thief

After years of solitude, Maglor is starving and hallucinating.

Characters: Maglor, Celeborn

Read on AO3

Look at you, Kanafinwe, said his father’s harsh voice in his mind, the last son of Feanor, reduced to petty thievery.

No better than Melkoro, agreed Curufin, ever the parrot of their father’s words.

Maglor pulled his hands through his dark hair in frustration, whining aloud, “Shut up! I have not eaten this week, and I see none of you doing anything to help it.”

You’re too noisy to be a thief, scolded Celegorm. Thieves must be like hunters, silent and blending in with their surroundings. You’re making enough noise to wake an orc pack.

“Shut up!”

Go on. There’s no shame if you must, came a quiet voice, his least favorite one to hear. Maedhros always sounded the most disappointed, never angry, never raising his voice. Not even when Maglor raged at him for abandoning his last brother. Somehow, Maedhros’ permission made it far worse.

But despite all that, he needed to eat.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, but he knew it had been far too long. When the small group had set up camp beside the cave he called home, Maglor had seen it as a gift.

But sneaking into the camp proved to be more difficult than he’d thought. He sat in the entrance to his cave, watching them for hours and debating with himself on the best way to get inside. His brothers had offered no help, leaving him to devise a plan all by himself.

So when he’d seen the wagon at the edge of the camp, well out of the ring of firelight, he’d headed toward it.

As Celegorm had so helpfully pointed out, he was hardly quiet, but thankfully the elves in the camp hadn’t been expecting trouble, and their security was lax at best. It was far too easy to merely walk up to the wagon and dig through one of the crates.

He didn’t even notice the person walk up behind him.

-----------

He’d been aware that someone had been prowling around in the woods, but he hadn’t expected this.

Celeborn recognized him the moment he saw Maglor Feanorian. Even with ragged clothes and a too-thin frame, he was still every bit the prince he had once been.

But Maglor didn’t seem to recognize him.

He’d considered leaving the other, letting him steal whatever it was he wanted and then disappear off into the night. But curiosity had drawn him closer. Close enough that Maglor should have noticed, but he didn’t.

The Feanorian remained unaware of Celeborn until the other was right beside him, and then he just glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and muttered, “Not now Celegorm.”

For a long moment, he was almost able to convince himself that the other had said Celeborn, not Celegorm, but no, he knew he hadn’t misheard the other.

“Maglor-”

“I am not listening to you anymore.” Maglor’s face was flushed red, but his eyes were unfocused. Fever? Dehydration? Celeborn wasn’t sure (and he wasn’t sure why he cared). Even if Maglor was barely able to open the buckles on the bag he was attempting to rob, he was still a killer, Celeborn reminded himself sternly.

He also raised your son in law, said another voice in his head. It sounded far too much like his daughter for comfort, and although he knew she wasn’t communicating across distances as she occasionally did, it still left him with a pang of guilt.

“Let me help you.” He opened the bag, unhooking the buckles, and offered Maglor a piece of dried meat. The starving elf thanked his deceased brother and gulped it down.

Celeborn sighed, placing a hand on Maglor’s forehead. The other swatted him away, but not before he was able to confirm that he wasn’t feverish. A small victory.

Still unsure why he was doing what he was doing, Celeborn lifted himself into the wagon, rummaging through the boxes until he’d procured a fresh change of clothing for Maglor.

He threw them out of the wagon where they landed on Maglor’s head, then Celeborn swung himself out.

“I’m not stealing clothes,” Maglor said, shaking his head firmly. “I’ve stolen enough already.”

“It’s not stealing if they’re mine to give-”

“Your’s to-” Maglor trailed off, his confused mind seeming to have difficulty following Celeborn’s statements. Then he seemed to create a narrative he was content with and murmured, “Yes, yours. We- where are we?”

“Traveling to visit relatives.” It was true enough. Celeborn had been on the road, visiting with Cirdan in Lindon, and was currently on his way back to Lothlorien where Galadriel had elected to remain with their daughter.

Maglor seemed to buy the lie, nodding and pulling at his shirt, no doubt deciding to change into the far cleaner and warmer clothes Celeborn had offered him. “Yes, Timo. Timo was just-” he turned, looking behind him at the woods, as though expecting his elder brother to appear at any moment.

“He’ll be here soon,” he said, reasoning that it wasn’t exactly a lie. If Maglor wasn’t careful, he was going to be reuniting with all his brothers very soon.

As the other’s shirt fell away, Celeborn winced at what he saw. He’d been expecting scars - Maglor hadn’t led an easy or peaceful life, even before his self imposed exile - but he still found himself startled by how thin the other was. His mind was made up, he wasn’t going to let Maglor just wander off again in that state.

Helping Maglor into the shirt, not trusting the minstrel to manage it himself, he leaned farther into his lie. “You were separated from us, I stayed to look for you. The others are just ahead.”

“Yes. I did, didn’t I?”

“Hmm. You need to drink.” Celeborn lifted the waterskin from his belt and offered it to Maglor, who took it willingly.

As much as he was determined to help him, he also wasn’t about to take the elf back into his camp. He didn’t have an exact count off the top of his head, but he knew for a fact he wasn’t the only survivor of a kinslaying that was present.

Instead, he wrapped an arm around Maglor, grabbed a bag of supplies, and followed the elf’s footsteps back to where he’d come from.

He wasn’t surprised to find that Maglor’s tracks led back to a cave, but the fact that he’d clearly been there for a long time did. The last they’d heard, Maglor had been living on the shore, not in a dank cave in the woods. But he pushed his questions aside and helped Maglor to sit down.

“I hope I didn’t worry anyone,” Maglor said after a moment, tapping his foot against the ground. Celeborn sat a pair of boots in front of him, waiting for the other to put them on.

“We knew you could handle yourself.”

“But I didn’t,” Maglor said suddenly, thrusting his hand in front of Celeborn’s nose. “I- I burned myself on- I don’t remember what I burned myself on.”

He wasn’t prepared for that. Maglor’s hand, burned by the Silmaril, caused Celeborn to pull back in alarm. The other had wrapped bandages around it, but they did little to hide the smell of charred flesh. Fingers shaking, Celeborn couldn’t help but unwrap the bandages, baring the wound.

It could have been burned yesterday. There no no hint in his wound that it was several thousand years old, and he had no doubt that Maglor must be in great pain.

“A fire,” Celeborn lied, feeling slightly ill. “You burned your hand in a fire.” Maglor seemed to believe him.

A part of him wanted to treat it - seeing anyone in that much pain was horrific - but he had no doubt it wouldn’t make any difference. Instead, Celeborn pulled out fresh bandages and rewrapped the wound. “It will be better soon,” he said. Another lie, but it seemed kinder than the truth.

He offered Maglor more water which the other drank greedily and without comment. “This is for you,” Celeborn said, pushing the bag toward Maglor. “It has food and water.”

Maglor blinked at him. “I- I have to ride ahead,” Celeborn lied. “You’ll have to catch up with us.”

His men would be looking for him soon anyway. They hadn’t been stopping for the night, only for a short rest. He’d been gone far too long already. If he kept telling himself that Maglor would be fine, perhaps he’d believe it.

Maglor watched him walk away, then he softly said, “I’m not going with you.”

He turned, looking back over his shoulder at Maglor, one eyebrow raised.

Maglor met his gaze with far clearer eyes than when he’d found him. “You’re not Celegorm,” he said after a moment. “I know that. I don’t know who you are. But you’re not my brother.” His face twisted. “My brothers are dead. I’m not going with you.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest it,” he lied.

[rise-above-the-grave]

vii: natural

Deep inside me, I'm fading to black, I'm fading Took an oath by the blood of my hand, won't break it I can taste it, the end is upon us, I swear Gonna make it I'm gonna make it

They slay the Elf standing guard over the tent—what is one more life on their hands? one more heart’s blood on their souls?—and steal into it like thieves in the night. But, then, that is what we are, is it not? Maedhros thinks, laying his hands upon the first of the two bags lying on the table within. The bag gleams with holy light, even through the thick leather, casting white shadows across the inside of the tent walls.

Maglor is behind him. He takes the second of the leather pouches, and then together they sneak out of the tent, feet soft in the grass. They bear swords on their hips, daggers at their waists, but no other weapon or armor; this was not meant to be a war, or a battle, and so they had not dressed for such. If they had been stopped, if they had been defended against, both brothers had agreed that they would die on the swords of their kin.

But they were not. There is no one to stop them as they flee the tent city on foot; no guard halts them, only nods in deference and respect to the lats remaining sons of Fёanor as they pass. They are not even challenged when they reach the border of the encampment, only bowed through the gateway and down the road.

And then they are free. They turn to look at one another, eyes wide in the darkness, and cannot believe that the Oath that has driven them to such wrath and ruin has been, at last, sated.

“We did it, brother,” whispers Maedhros, pushing aside all guilt and remorse and horror at what he had done to reach this point.

“We did,” says Maglor, but there is bitter sorrow in his voice. Maedhros feels that same bitter sorrow within his heart, but will not give voice to it. “What now?” he asks.

“Now we separate,” says Maedhros. “They will surely pursue us as soon as they realize what we have done and what we took.”

Maglor nods, his dark head nearly invisible in the darkness.

“Farewell then, brother,” says Maglor. “Until we meet again.”

“Until we meet again,” repeats Maedhros, and he turns the other way.

He is three leagues away before he dares to open the pouch and pull out the Silmaril from its depths. He is half lost within a splitting forest, half of the trunks shattered like matchsticks and foliage hiding the game trail he is following, the ground heaving every so often beneath his feet with groans and the sound of cracking stone.

The jewel falls into the palm of his hand, gleaming white and brilliant like a small star in the glade in which he had stopped. For a second—an instant, a heartbeat, a breath—all was as it should be: bright, and beautiful, and perfect. The Oath, which had devoured his heart and soul and mind for so many centuries, was at last silent within him; the Silmaril was stunning, breath-taking, and instilled in him a sense of peace and rapture that he had been missing ever since that first, fateful night of darkness.

And then, abruptly, comes the pain.

Maedhros screams, the Silmaril burning his palm, his fingers. His hand spasms around it, clutching it closer to him as once more the Oath sinks its cursed teeth into him, refusing to allow him to throw it away. It burns—oh Eru, it burns.

Maedhros can feel the skin bubbling on his palm. He can feel the flesh peel away from his fingertips, baring blood and bone. He screams again—and beneath him, the ground shudders and groans, creaks, tears.

He falls to his knees, still screaming, unable to bear holding the Silmaril any longer, unable to bear to let it go. He is caught, trapped in between to impossibilities, bound between to dead ends. He cannot release it and so forsake his Oath; he cannot hold it and let it burn him to ash.

Despair swallows him, devours him, consumes him. He has his prize—has sated the need in his soul for this holy gem—but in doing so he has rendered himself incapable of holding it. What, then, is left to him? What, then, can he do? What, then, is there left to live for?

The ground buckles, and then with a loud and ear-splitting crack the earth tears open in the glade before him. The night’s darkness is swallowed by the hellish glow of the depths of the world, the Silmaril’s light by the ruddy red of fire.

Maedhros’s scream goes on, and on, and on, echoing and reechoing between the trees and stones and sky. He staggers to his feet, staring down at the Silmaril clutched within the burning prison of his fingers, one thought in his mind only: Let it end.

He stumbles forward, tripping on the stones and chunks of earth that have broken free from the buckling ground.

There is nothing left for me, he thinks. There is no hope, no life—nothing but despair.

What is there, then, but to end it all?

He reaches the edge of the chasm that split open. The fires of the earth roar beneath him, reaching for the sky, for the air, for the freedom of the world. He stands there for one long, terrible second, staring once more at the Silmaril searing in his hand, still screaming.

I am sorry, he thinks, though he does not know to whom he speaks—to Elrond, to Elros, perhaps even to Maglor. But there is no hope for me. I have lost myself in the pursuit of this gem—and it has rejected me. There is no hope for me now, no life, no purpose. There is only my sins, and only judgment.

He leaps.