Day 28 - On The Eve Of Battle
Title: On The Eve Of Battle
Author: Grundy (jerseyfabulous)
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss and Tolkien. Lyrics at the beginning are from Nick Fradiani's "Beautiful Life". No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.
Summary: Everyone deals with the knowledge of what they're about to do in their own way.
Word Count: 1730
So we try to live
Like it's all we've got
Cause for all we know
This could be the last night of our lives
Maglor glanced over to the other, more boisterous campfire. He had never known any of the Atani very well, so he was unsure if what he was seeing was normal for them.
Anariel’s friends were as joyful and carefree as if this were any other day for them. As if they hadn’t followed her to the wastelands between Rhûn and Mordor expecting to fight balrogs. Multiple. He had known fear as he has not since her father was young when she had told him what she was planning. They may all die on the morrow.
Anariel thinks he had come on this quest of hers that borders on madness because she had pointed out that if he sought redemption, helping in the fight against Sauron couldn’t hurt. The truth is simpler, and perhaps more selfish - he still cannot stand, after all these years, to think of his foster son in pain. Elrond has lost enough that if Maglor can prevent the loss of his daughter, he will do it at any cost. And of course, he is here because he would not see Anariel hurt if he could help it.
His cousin sits across from him, their campfire between them. The only way this could possibly be more awkward would be if it were Artanis instead of Laurefindil. He knows the only other grandson of Finwë in Endorë was not pleased he had come - and was even less pleased to know that he dared call Anariel by the Quenya name Laurefindil had given her. He couldn’t help it, though. Nairallë suits her.
Their little sun is currently giggling like an elfling with her friends at some story involving the word ‘inconceivable’ being used frequently as they toast some sticky confection above the fire and bemoan the lack of something called ‘chocolate’.
This left her kinsmen no buffer between them. The silence is more than awkward, it is oppressive - and even more so, given that it is silent on more than just the verbal level. Maglor can remember Laurefindil as a cheerful elfling who never stopped talking unless he was eating or sleeping, so to sit across from him for hours without a word strikes him as unnatural as any work of Morgoth.
“How do they do it?” he asked finally.
Laurefindil seemed almost surprised to be addressed.
“Do what?” he asked stiffly, almost as if he suspects his cousin of malevolent intent even with this innocuous question.
“Laugh,” Maglor said. “Joke. Enjoy this night when they know what the morning brings.”
Laurefindil shrugged.
“There is very little they take seriously,” he finally replied. “Tindomiel tried to explain them once, but I do not understand it even so.”
Maglor waited to see if he would say more, and when they lapsed back into silence, he sighed.
“Laurefindil, what have I done that coming along to a fight that will almost certainly be the death of me outrages you so?”
His cousin regarded him coolly.
“Beyond the obvious, you mean?” he asked. The cold of the Helcaraxë is in his voice, and Maglor remembered that he and his mother had marched with Nolofinwë.
“I cannot undo what was done in the days of the Darkening, cousin,” Maglor said tiredly.
He has spent thousands of years ruing words spoken in the throes of grief and anger, and all that he was complicit in for their sake. He has felt lighter since agreeing to Anariel’s plea to forsake the Oath. Free for the first time since leaving Aman, even if that freedom is illusory.
He can almost hear Mandos calling his name.
Laurefindil snorted.
“If it were about your foolish Oath and the blood you shed for it - not to mention the abandonment of your kin - do you think it would bother me at all that you’ve finally found a way to kill yourself that will be every bit as painful as your brother’s chosen method?”
Now Maglor is more lost than ever.
“You gave her the idea to do this in the first place,” Laurefindil growled. “Telling her about Lungorthin. She would never have started researching the valaraukar but for you.”
Maglor blinked.
“She asked me about them,” he said slowly. “She asked me because she did not want to ask you.”
Laurefindil looked as surprised as if Maglor had just announced that he has decided to marry a dwarf.
“But-“
He stopped, and stared into the fire morosely, hunching down until he might have been a child again, arms wrapped around his legs. That is what triggered the memory. Maglor suddenly realized he’s seen his golden haired cousin look like this once before - on the march to Alqualondë. Even before the bloodshed, Irimë’s son had misgivings about the course his uncle was leading them on. The night before, he’d confessed he was afraid of what Middle Earth held for him and his family.
“You’re afraid,” Maglor exclaimed in astonishment.
“Of course I am!” Laurefindil snapped. “The last time I saw one of these things, it killed me. Dying is not pleasant, Makalaurë! And for those of us not of the blood of Fëanor, burning hurts.”
“Burning hurts us, too,” Maglor whispered, a scream echoing in his ears even now.
Please, brother, do not do this!
Maedhros had refused to heed his pleas. His brother had burned. It had been quick. But it had not been painless.
For the first time, something like pity showed in his little cousin’s eyes.
“Why did you come if you did not want to face another of them?” Maglor asked hoarsely. “I thought-“
“That I could not wait to slay another balrog?” Laurefindil asked wryly. “I could happily live until the remaking of the world without laying eyes on another of them. I came because I wasn’t about to let Nairallë do this alone.”
Neither of them doubt that she would have. Much as she would resent the comparison, Elrond’s daughter is in her own way as single-minded as Fëanor when she sets herself a task, and as stubborn as any other member of the House of Finwë. It was impressive and terrifying in equal parts.
“Why did you come?” Laurefindil asked. “Since you seem surprised to hear that this is all your fault…”
“I came because I know more of fighting Morgoth’s creatures than she does,” Maglor said slowly. “And because it is really of little account if I am killed. Her death would pain those few I may still love.”
Laurefindil hesitated, and Maglor supposed that meant the conversation was over. He looked away, still trying to puzzle out Anariel and her mortal friends, merry as children in summer. He was surprised to feel a tentative hand on his shoulder.
“You’re not so lost to hope, cousin,” Laurefindil said softly, and in his face, just for a moment, Maglor glimpsed the elfling he remembered from the days of the Trees. “Love who you will. There are those who would still love you, if you would let them. Not just Elrond and his children. Artanis would be relieved to know you have not faded. She would welcome you to her realm.”
“I am not so sure that two ages is enough for Artanis to forgive me the last few times we met,” Maglor snorted. “And even if she would welcome me, I doubt her husband would.”
Two ages is certainly not enough for Celeborn of Doriath to have forgiven him for Menegroth.
Laurefindil laughed.
“Celeborn is something of an acquired taste,” he admitted. “I look forward to his first meeting with Uncle Ara.”
They both laughed at the thought of the proud Sinda having to explain himself to his law-father the Noldaran. He’d managed to avoid him during the War of Wrath, but they doubted their uncle’s temper would have cooled in the ages since. Artanis was his only daughter - and together with Irissë, the baby of the entire family.
“Only Uncle?” Maglor asked. “If I were him, I’d worry about Aunt Eärwen as well.”
That sets Laurefindil laughing again.
Maglor abruptly realized that he and his cousin were behaving just as the children around the other fire.
“Perhaps this is how they do it,” he murmured thoughtfully.
“I rather doubt they are laughing at the idea of Celeborn getting his comeuppance,” Laurefindil pointed out.
“No,” Maglor said. “But they have probably found other memories and thoughts to laugh at.”
“They must know,” Laurefindil said quietly.
Maglor raised an eyebrow.
“That they are unlikely to survive tomorrow,” Laurefindil explained. “We are frightened of what will happen tomorrow. How can they not be?”
He sighed.
“Tindomiel said that they are always like this. That they simply expect they’ll save the world, because they always do.”
“Of course we will,” came a new voice.
Anariel is looking at them, and they both start like guilty elflings who have been caught in mischief. She has certainly heard them discussing her sworn siblings’ imminent deaths.
“We save the world. It’s what we do,” she shrugged. “And then we party.”
She gave both of them a long look.
“I was going to suggest you join us. We’re all going to fight together tomorrow, togetherness tonight seemed like an idea. But if you'd rather not...”
She shrugged, indicating they could suit themselves.
“No, you should spend time with them,” Maglor told her firmly.
I know, ok? she said quietly in their heads, where the Scoobies couldn't overhear. This might be the last night of our lives. But it’s always been like this. It’s always been possible that it was going to be the last night of our lives, ever since we were teenagers. You don’t understand how lucky we are. And if tonight it finally is that last night… we’ll have this much to hold onto. We’ll remember each other happy and laughing.
---
Buffy rejoined the Scoobies, trying not to let her mind linger on the conversation she’d just had with Maglor and Glorfindel.
“Ok, there, Buffmeister?” Xander asked.
She nodded.
“Yeah, just trying to reassure the grownups that we’re taking this seriously,” Buffy sighed. “Apparently having fun before battle is frowned upon around here.”
Anya rolled her eyes.
“Yes, we definitely should all focus on the possibility of our imminent death by orc, troll, balrog, or high-yield explosives mishap.”
Author: Grundy (jerseyfabulous)
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss and Tolkien. Lyrics at the beginning are from Nick Fradiani's "Beautiful Life". No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.
Summary: Everyone deals with the knowledge of what they're about to do in their own way.
Word Count: 1730
So we try to live
Like it's all we've got
Cause for all we know
This could be the last night of our lives
Maglor glanced over to the other, more boisterous campfire. He had never known any of the Atani very well, so he was unsure if what he was seeing was normal for them.
Anariel’s friends were as joyful and carefree as if this were any other day for them. As if they hadn’t followed her to the wastelands between Rhûn and Mordor expecting to fight balrogs. Multiple. He had known fear as he has not since her father was young when she had told him what she was planning. They may all die on the morrow.
Anariel thinks he had come on this quest of hers that borders on madness because she had pointed out that if he sought redemption, helping in the fight against Sauron couldn’t hurt. The truth is simpler, and perhaps more selfish - he still cannot stand, after all these years, to think of his foster son in pain. Elrond has lost enough that if Maglor can prevent the loss of his daughter, he will do it at any cost. And of course, he is here because he would not see Anariel hurt if he could help it.
His cousin sits across from him, their campfire between them. The only way this could possibly be more awkward would be if it were Artanis instead of Laurefindil. He knows the only other grandson of Finwë in Endorë was not pleased he had come - and was even less pleased to know that he dared call Anariel by the Quenya name Laurefindil had given her. He couldn’t help it, though. Nairallë suits her.
Their little sun is currently giggling like an elfling with her friends at some story involving the word ‘inconceivable’ being used frequently as they toast some sticky confection above the fire and bemoan the lack of something called ‘chocolate’.
This left her kinsmen no buffer between them. The silence is more than awkward, it is oppressive - and even more so, given that it is silent on more than just the verbal level. Maglor can remember Laurefindil as a cheerful elfling who never stopped talking unless he was eating or sleeping, so to sit across from him for hours without a word strikes him as unnatural as any work of Morgoth.
“How do they do it?” he asked finally.
Laurefindil seemed almost surprised to be addressed.
“Do what?” he asked stiffly, almost as if he suspects his cousin of malevolent intent even with this innocuous question.
“Laugh,” Maglor said. “Joke. Enjoy this night when they know what the morning brings.”
Laurefindil shrugged.
“There is very little they take seriously,” he finally replied. “Tindomiel tried to explain them once, but I do not understand it even so.”
Maglor waited to see if he would say more, and when they lapsed back into silence, he sighed.
“Laurefindil, what have I done that coming along to a fight that will almost certainly be the death of me outrages you so?”
His cousin regarded him coolly.
“Beyond the obvious, you mean?” he asked. The cold of the Helcaraxë is in his voice, and Maglor remembered that he and his mother had marched with Nolofinwë.
“I cannot undo what was done in the days of the Darkening, cousin,” Maglor said tiredly.
He has spent thousands of years ruing words spoken in the throes of grief and anger, and all that he was complicit in for their sake. He has felt lighter since agreeing to Anariel’s plea to forsake the Oath. Free for the first time since leaving Aman, even if that freedom is illusory.
He can almost hear Mandos calling his name.
Laurefindil snorted.
“If it were about your foolish Oath and the blood you shed for it - not to mention the abandonment of your kin - do you think it would bother me at all that you’ve finally found a way to kill yourself that will be every bit as painful as your brother’s chosen method?”
Now Maglor is more lost than ever.
“You gave her the idea to do this in the first place,” Laurefindil growled. “Telling her about Lungorthin. She would never have started researching the valaraukar but for you.”
Maglor blinked.
“She asked me about them,” he said slowly. “She asked me because she did not want to ask you.”
Laurefindil looked as surprised as if Maglor had just announced that he has decided to marry a dwarf.
“But-“
He stopped, and stared into the fire morosely, hunching down until he might have been a child again, arms wrapped around his legs. That is what triggered the memory. Maglor suddenly realized he’s seen his golden haired cousin look like this once before - on the march to Alqualondë. Even before the bloodshed, Irimë’s son had misgivings about the course his uncle was leading them on. The night before, he’d confessed he was afraid of what Middle Earth held for him and his family.
“You’re afraid,” Maglor exclaimed in astonishment.
“Of course I am!” Laurefindil snapped. “The last time I saw one of these things, it killed me. Dying is not pleasant, Makalaurë! And for those of us not of the blood of Fëanor, burning hurts.”
“Burning hurts us, too,” Maglor whispered, a scream echoing in his ears even now.
Please, brother, do not do this!
Maedhros had refused to heed his pleas. His brother had burned. It had been quick. But it had not been painless.
For the first time, something like pity showed in his little cousin’s eyes.
“Why did you come if you did not want to face another of them?” Maglor asked hoarsely. “I thought-“
“That I could not wait to slay another balrog?” Laurefindil asked wryly. “I could happily live until the remaking of the world without laying eyes on another of them. I came because I wasn’t about to let Nairallë do this alone.”
Neither of them doubt that she would have. Much as she would resent the comparison, Elrond’s daughter is in her own way as single-minded as Fëanor when she sets herself a task, and as stubborn as any other member of the House of Finwë. It was impressive and terrifying in equal parts.
“Why did you come?” Laurefindil asked. “Since you seem surprised to hear that this is all your fault…”
“I came because I know more of fighting Morgoth’s creatures than she does,” Maglor said slowly. “And because it is really of little account if I am killed. Her death would pain those few I may still love.”
Laurefindil hesitated, and Maglor supposed that meant the conversation was over. He looked away, still trying to puzzle out Anariel and her mortal friends, merry as children in summer. He was surprised to feel a tentative hand on his shoulder.
“You’re not so lost to hope, cousin,” Laurefindil said softly, and in his face, just for a moment, Maglor glimpsed the elfling he remembered from the days of the Trees. “Love who you will. There are those who would still love you, if you would let them. Not just Elrond and his children. Artanis would be relieved to know you have not faded. She would welcome you to her realm.”
“I am not so sure that two ages is enough for Artanis to forgive me the last few times we met,” Maglor snorted. “And even if she would welcome me, I doubt her husband would.”
Two ages is certainly not enough for Celeborn of Doriath to have forgiven him for Menegroth.
Laurefindil laughed.
“Celeborn is something of an acquired taste,” he admitted. “I look forward to his first meeting with Uncle Ara.”
They both laughed at the thought of the proud Sinda having to explain himself to his law-father the Noldaran. He’d managed to avoid him during the War of Wrath, but they doubted their uncle’s temper would have cooled in the ages since. Artanis was his only daughter - and together with Irissë, the baby of the entire family.
“Only Uncle?” Maglor asked. “If I were him, I’d worry about Aunt Eärwen as well.”
That sets Laurefindil laughing again.
Maglor abruptly realized that he and his cousin were behaving just as the children around the other fire.
“Perhaps this is how they do it,” he murmured thoughtfully.
“I rather doubt they are laughing at the idea of Celeborn getting his comeuppance,” Laurefindil pointed out.
“No,” Maglor said. “But they have probably found other memories and thoughts to laugh at.”
“They must know,” Laurefindil said quietly.
Maglor raised an eyebrow.
“That they are unlikely to survive tomorrow,” Laurefindil explained. “We are frightened of what will happen tomorrow. How can they not be?”
He sighed.
“Tindomiel said that they are always like this. That they simply expect they’ll save the world, because they always do.”
“Of course we will,” came a new voice.
Anariel is looking at them, and they both start like guilty elflings who have been caught in mischief. She has certainly heard them discussing her sworn siblings’ imminent deaths.
“We save the world. It’s what we do,” she shrugged. “And then we party.”
She gave both of them a long look.
“I was going to suggest you join us. We’re all going to fight together tomorrow, togetherness tonight seemed like an idea. But if you'd rather not...”
She shrugged, indicating they could suit themselves.
“No, you should spend time with them,” Maglor told her firmly.
I know, ok? she said quietly in their heads, where the Scoobies couldn't overhear. This might be the last night of our lives. But it’s always been like this. It’s always been possible that it was going to be the last night of our lives, ever since we were teenagers. You don’t understand how lucky we are. And if tonight it finally is that last night… we’ll have this much to hold onto. We’ll remember each other happy and laughing.
---
Buffy rejoined the Scoobies, trying not to let her mind linger on the conversation she’d just had with Maglor and Glorfindel.
“Ok, there, Buffmeister?” Xander asked.
She nodded.
“Yeah, just trying to reassure the grownups that we’re taking this seriously,” Buffy sighed. “Apparently having fun before battle is frowned upon around here.”
Anya rolled her eyes.
“Yes, we definitely should all focus on the possibility of our imminent death by orc, troll, balrog, or high-yield explosives mishap.”