FICLET: WRETCHED AND ACCURSED, Maglor/Gildor, Low R
TITLE: WRETCHED AND ACCURSED
AUTHOR: Ennorwen
FANDOM: LOTR
TYPE: FPS
PROMPT: #32, “The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.”
WORD COUNT: 679
BETA: Minuial Nuwing
RATING: Low R
WARNINGS: Non-explicit description of coupling.
SUMMARY: Maglor’s final descent
A/N: This is written for weepingnaiad, who gave me the pairing and the keywords: melancholy/sadness.
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Ashes and smoke. He raises his hand to his face, futilely clawing at the grit that is ever-present in his eyes. He sees only muted color now. Sepia and gray. Takes a breath and the acrid air burns all the way down, the aroma nothing more than soot and decay. Death and more death.
Soon, it will end. And he knows nothing more than the cloud of dust that surrounds him, masks everything but his own being. Enshrouded in dirt and sweat and his own overwhelming foulness, jeering at every beat of heart. Why do you still live?
He huffs out a small laugh and lays back, taking another breath, inhaling the odor of his own failures. Suck it in and hold on to it, he tells himself. Know what you have become.
A cool hand reaches out to cup his face. For but a brief moment he glimpses the sea, and feels the water soothe. For a brief moment, he feels the wind move across the plains of Eldamar. The palm warms on his cheek and the moment is gone.
His head turns into the hand and he curls into himself, holding the fingers to his lips.
A voice, distant, a clarion from another time, penetrates the haze.
“Maglor.”
Then more softly.
“Makalaurë?”
His mind stretches, the rippling rhythm of memory trying to regain its foothold. And then he inhales, begins the whole process of slow suffocation all over again and his mind retracts. No.
“Do not call me that. I am Maglor. Maglor, the Wretched and Accursed.”
Cool lips find his forehead and the kiss almost burns him, a flashpoint of life, and the spark of bright light.
He recoils and closes his eyes.
Arms tighten around him, the voice soothes and calms.
“It is a warm day and Laurelin envelopes us with her silver light. You take my hand and lead me to the glade behind your father’s house. You love me, Makalaurë, taking me so gently and filling me so completely that I feel as though the whole world coalesced in we two. And then you held me and sang softly, until my quivering body settled, and I fell asleep in your arms. Do you remember?”
“No,” Maglor answers, pushing away even the glimpse of what Gildor has conjectured. “I do not remember. The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow, and I sing no more.”
Gildor shudders, head dropped as tears well in his eyes. Nestles into the crook of Maglor’s neck to hide his grief.
“I never wanted this, Inglor. I do not want it even now. All I ever wanted was to sing, and perhaps, in some impossible way to be a father. At least, as a father.”
“You were,” answered Gildor, “and they do not look the worse for wear. You have cared for them.”
“More than you will ever know. You will take them, then?”
“Yes, I will take them and I will keep them safe.”
The bitterness hangs in the pit of his stomach as a tumor, black and vile, a tangible place to take root. He feels the tendrils moving outward through his lungs and slowly surrounding his heart. Constricting and suffocating. Even now, he begins to choke on it.
“I am sorry.”
“As am I.”
This time the kiss is on his lips and the pain of it is almost too much to bear, but he allows it and inhales, taking Gildor’s breath and with it the last gasp of clean air that he will ever know.
He stands, locking his knees into as much of solid stance as he can muster. Looking forward he sees Maedhros, the hair, once fiery and lush, disheveled now, and brown amber, the face determined but no longer passionate. Maimed. In all the ways it is possible to be.
He closes his eyes for a brief moment and sucks in polluted air. He takes one step, stops, but does not look back. He moves forward and follows his brother into the oblivion of smoke and ash.
END
AUTHOR: Ennorwen
FANDOM: LOTR
TYPE: FPS
PROMPT: #32, “The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.”
WORD COUNT: 679
BETA: Minuial Nuwing
RATING: Low R
WARNINGS: Non-explicit description of coupling.
SUMMARY: Maglor’s final descent
A/N: This is written for weepingnaiad, who gave me the pairing and the keywords: melancholy/sadness.
----------------------------------------------------------
Ashes and smoke. He raises his hand to his face, futilely clawing at the grit that is ever-present in his eyes. He sees only muted color now. Sepia and gray. Takes a breath and the acrid air burns all the way down, the aroma nothing more than soot and decay. Death and more death.
Soon, it will end. And he knows nothing more than the cloud of dust that surrounds him, masks everything but his own being. Enshrouded in dirt and sweat and his own overwhelming foulness, jeering at every beat of heart. Why do you still live?
He huffs out a small laugh and lays back, taking another breath, inhaling the odor of his own failures. Suck it in and hold on to it, he tells himself. Know what you have become.
A cool hand reaches out to cup his face. For but a brief moment he glimpses the sea, and feels the water soothe. For a brief moment, he feels the wind move across the plains of Eldamar. The palm warms on his cheek and the moment is gone.
His head turns into the hand and he curls into himself, holding the fingers to his lips.
A voice, distant, a clarion from another time, penetrates the haze.
“Maglor.”
Then more softly.
“Makalaurë?”
His mind stretches, the rippling rhythm of memory trying to regain its foothold. And then he inhales, begins the whole process of slow suffocation all over again and his mind retracts. No.
“Do not call me that. I am Maglor. Maglor, the Wretched and Accursed.”
Cool lips find his forehead and the kiss almost burns him, a flashpoint of life, and the spark of bright light.
He recoils and closes his eyes.
Arms tighten around him, the voice soothes and calms.
“It is a warm day and Laurelin envelopes us with her silver light. You take my hand and lead me to the glade behind your father’s house. You love me, Makalaurë, taking me so gently and filling me so completely that I feel as though the whole world coalesced in we two. And then you held me and sang softly, until my quivering body settled, and I fell asleep in your arms. Do you remember?”
“No,” Maglor answers, pushing away even the glimpse of what Gildor has conjectured. “I do not remember. The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow, and I sing no more.”
Gildor shudders, head dropped as tears well in his eyes. Nestles into the crook of Maglor’s neck to hide his grief.
“I never wanted this, Inglor. I do not want it even now. All I ever wanted was to sing, and perhaps, in some impossible way to be a father. At least, as a father.”
“You were,” answered Gildor, “and they do not look the worse for wear. You have cared for them.”
“More than you will ever know. You will take them, then?”
“Yes, I will take them and I will keep them safe.”
The bitterness hangs in the pit of his stomach as a tumor, black and vile, a tangible place to take root. He feels the tendrils moving outward through his lungs and slowly surrounding his heart. Constricting and suffocating. Even now, he begins to choke on it.
“I am sorry.”
“As am I.”
This time the kiss is on his lips and the pain of it is almost too much to bear, but he allows it and inhales, taking Gildor’s breath and with it the last gasp of clean air that he will ever know.
He stands, locking his knees into as much of solid stance as he can muster. Looking forward he sees Maedhros, the hair, once fiery and lush, disheveled now, and brown amber, the face determined but no longer passionate. Maimed. In all the ways it is possible to be.
He closes his eyes for a brief moment and sucks in polluted air. He takes one step, stops, but does not look back. He moves forward and follows his brother into the oblivion of smoke and ash.
END