Part 1

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It was at times like this that Maglor begrudged Men the gift of death, when the burden of immortality lay heavy on the soul and the thought of the horrors he had taken part in threatened to tear him apart. Grappling with the events at Ëonwë's camp, his mind tried to protest his innocence. It wasn't his fault; Maedhros had pushed him into it, reminded him of their duty to fulfil the oath... But no, it wasn't fair to blame his brother. Maglor was sure Maedhros would rather lose his other hand than try to bear the pain of what they'd done.

The light of the Silmaril flared through his fingers, a sharp reminder of all the lives taken to attain it, all those meaningless deaths. Elf slain by Elf in pursuit of the jewel resting in his hand, and was it worth it? Teleri murdered on the beaches, the killing at Doriath and the Havens, and Maedhros... Maglor nearly choked when he thought about what would have happened to his older brother had it not been for Fingon's compassion, the only one willing to look past their terrible betrayal and save his closest cousin from a tortured end.

Then again, there might still be time for a tortured end for them both. Two Silmarils lay with the last two sons of Fëanor, but Maglor knew they no longer deserved them. He felt the jewel beginning to sting his palm and realised that all the evils done in their name had rendered the oath void.

Far off in the mist, he glimpsed Maedhros wandering aimlessly across the desolate landscape. After the release from Ëonwë's camp they'd fled so far that neither of them knew where they now were, and Maglor suspected that his brother wouldn't have cared even if they'd walked into Angband.

An acrid bitterness hung in the air. The mist seemed to be getting denser, and the ground grew hot under his feet as he drew nearer to Maedhros, close enough to hear his sobs as he stared down into a rift so large and deep that to their tired eyes it seemed to go on forever. The ground around it was pitted and cracked, veined with rivulets of fire. Maedhros' auburn hair appeared alive, lit by a fiery glow. The air became warmer as Maglor approached. "Maedhros? We must keep going."

Tears traced paths through the dust on his face as he turned and said in a voice cracked with grief, "Why? What do we have to live for now? We may have the Silmarils, but what good are they when the oath is in vain and they burn our hands? It torments me, Maglor, as does the thought of those I killed to gain it."

"We killed," Maglor said. "The oath did not drive you alone. I have had as much a part in the Kinslayings as you, as did all our brothers."

"Yet it was I who pushed you into the final battle. You were right to speak against me; less evil would have been done had I listened to your counsel. I was blinded by the desire to take back what was ours, and it has caused nothing but sorrow. Now I would rather cast myself into this fire, and end this unhappiness, than continue the journey any longer."

Maedhros' expression held a trace of madness; his eyes were haunted, and Maglor knew that he meant it. "Maedhros," he pleaded. "Death is not the way out of this. Think of all we left behind in Aman; we could still go back and ask forgiveness. And remember it is our duty to keep the Silmarils safe - these were Ada's greatest treasures, his most prized possessions."

"Did he prize them over his sons, I wonder? Over all of Arda? You know as well as I do that our father would have let Middle-Earth fall to ruin if it meant he could regain his beloved Silmarils."

"Ada would never have allowed such destruction. His quarrel was only ever with Morgoth."

"But ours was not. Surely you remember the words of the oath?"

Of course he did; Maglor would never forget them.

"Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala; Elda or Maia or Aftercomer..." Maedhros trailed off, and Maglor saw a shiver run through him. "From the beginning we were against our own people, and even the Valar themselves! Is it any wonder we were shunned from the moment we set foot in Middle-Earth?"

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