The End of All Things by Philstar22
Author:Philstar22/DragonofMordor
Title: The End of All Things
Rating: PG13
Theme: Rainbow
Elements: Orange (fire orange)
Author's Notes: This is a Silmarillion fic featuring Maedhros with a side appearance of Maglor. Please note that this features suicide and mentions of death and torture (just mentions of them happening, no specifics). This is all canon-based, but it is pure angst, so if any of this is going to bother you, probably best to stay away
Summary: When all is said and done, all Maedhros has left is the fire.
Word Count: 1016 (just a short ficlet here)
Maedhros stared into the bright orange glow of the flames that filled the chasm below. This color had been with him as long as he could remember. It haunted him from the moment he was born. His mother’s hair was red-orange. His father always said that he knew they were meant to be because her hair was the color of his spirit. Truly they both had the fire in their hearts. She had been a match for him in every way. She was kinder and yet no less fierce. They could have loud debates for days and still hold hands and kiss as if nothing was amiss. How Maedhros missed them both. His mother, refusing to join their hopeless quest. His father, downed by Morgoth’s forces so early in the war, the first true loss Maedhros felt on this earth, though there would be so many more to come.
Maedhros shared his mother’s hair, and he shared some of his father’s spirit of fire and iron. He had no love of the forge, nor was he quick to enrage the way Feanor had been. He had always tried to emulate his mother’s caution and spirit of kindness. Yet centuries of suffering had hardened his heart. Twenty years in the Hells of Iron had given him a focus he had never previously shown. The defeat of Morgoth was all, even perhaps above the return of the Silmarils to their rightful owners. Yet, too, the Oath sung in his heart. The two echoing purposes led him in all things. The only bright spots in his life had been Fingon and his brothers. Yet Fingon was gone, murdered by Morgoth’s balrogs, and the sons of Feanor were hopelessly divided over their various sins and deeds. Maglor alone remained.
Maedhros’s hair was perhaps all he had left of the person he was. Beautiful, he was called, handsome and strong with his long, flowing fiery hair and his tall, firm frame. That was before. That was the younger him, the one before the horrors of Angband and of war hardened him and broke him. At times he could barely remember being that man. No one spoke of his beauty now. So many scars covered his body, what was left of it anyway. And his hair, his glorious hair, he kept pulled back and short. He had no time for such vain fancies, and what did his hair matter when the rest of him was so damaged?
Truthfully, he had rarely allowed himself pleasures at all since his rescue from Thangorodrim’s peak. He could not afford to stop, even for a moment. He barely slept, and all wakeful moments were spent at war. Morgoth’s defeat was all that mattered, and besides, anything else was too painful. If he closed his eyes, there was only the orange flame of Angband’s forges, the deep black of Morgoth, and the red of his own blood. No, busyness was better. Victory and Silmarils were all he had thought of for so long. And yet it was done. There was nothing left to strive for, and Maedhros himself was ended.
For now, before him, all he could see was the fire. Maglor’s voice echoed in his head, but he could not focus on the words. He hurt. It burned in his hand, his skin had gone from red-orange to black, but he did not care. He was used to pain. This was but what he deserved. His hand still burned even as he gripped the Silmaril more tightly. What use was any of it? All his efforts, all his suffering, had been for naught. True, Morgoth was defeated, but that was not of Maedhros’ doing, nor any of his kin. No, this here was the judgment that was on his head. The flames were all that he deserved.
“Maedhros!” Maglor cried out, his voice finally loud enough to be heard in the fog of Maedhros’ mind.
“I’m sorry, brother,” Maedhros whispered. The wind flowed through his hair, blowing orange strands into his face that merely echoed the flames below.
“What? No, brother, you have nothing to be sorry about to me. We were in all of this together. It is both of us who have let the blood stain our souls and ruin any chance of fulfilling our oath. We will figure this out. Put the stone down, and we will go somewhere and talk,” Maglor said. Maedhros could see the worry in his brother’s eyes.
“There is no more need for words,” Maedhros said. “All that could be spoken has already been heard. I am tired, brother. So achingly tired. I have nothing left.
“You have me,” Maglor replied. “You always have me.”
“It is not enough. I am truly sorry. All I can see are flames. Everything is burning. The drums of Angband echo in my head. I’ve stayed strong for so long. I did it for you and for Fingon and because Morgoth and his allies needed to be whipped from these lands. But it is over, brother. It is over, and I am tired. Just let me sleep now.”
“Yes, brother. Come, we will sleep. I am tired too, Drop the stone, now, and come.” Maglor did not understand. He could not. Maglor knew him as well as anyone ever could, but he did not understand.
“Goodbye, brother. Think of me as I was, in the days of old. Remember when we would ride together in Valinor. See that and not these endless flames. I go to our father and to Fingon and the rest.”
“No, Maedhros, please.” Terror now at last crept into Maglor’s voice.
Maedhros could not bring himself to care. This was but one more failure, one more person who would suffer because of him. He was to weary to give Maglor a chance. One step, two steps, three, and then he was falling. Heat was all around him. He closed his eyes as his hand opened and dropped the Silmaril into the flames. The last thing he saw was the orange-red flames as the rose up to claim him.