Chapter Text
As the ship of the Mariner traversed through the night sky, Eärendil sang softly to himself.
Elwing perched on the mast; ever since she turned into a bird the first time, she remained so more often than naught. They had never discussed it in all these years, but sometimes he thinks she hates him. She had fled Sirion without their sons many years ago, and he'd been devastated. Yet the first and only time he commented on their sons, she'd turned on him.
He still felt a chill down his back recalling the way she'd frozen mid-step, back stiffening before she'd whirled back around. Her chest heaved as she stared up at him, nose scrunched in revulsion, eyes blazing.
She reminded him viciously that he was not there, had never been there.
That was not completely true, although he knows she was referring to the actual Kinslaying, not their lives at Sirion as a whole. And when he sailed, he was looking for a sustainable solution to their unsustainable situation.
Yet little about their lives at Sirion mattered after the Kinslayings. Their sons were gone, taken in by Maglor, the Son of Fëanor who sung the twins songs sweeter than Eärendil could ever. While the twins were growing up, he'd sailed over them and watched. Elwing had remained in her tower at Tol Eressëa before starting to join him on his journeys.
He had seen the twins read with Maglor, train with Maedhros, and play Maglor's instruments that were probably crafted by Fëanor himself. Or Curufin—he is really not sure who is worse. For Fëanor had started it all, but it was his sons that carried his bloody legacy.
Instinctively, his hand drifted to the shimmering Stone at his brow. It was beautiful, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. All the tragedy surrounding it cannot change this, Eärendil thought. Even his wife, who had lost everything because of the Stone, coveted it dearly. Perhaps it was because she lost everything that she did. Eärendil remembers not wanting to see Gondolin after his loved ones had died.
They could rebuild the city like new and he'd never smile upon it again, he'd cried to his mother. So he does not truly understand, but it is her right.
Sometimes, he thought he resents Maglor for that more than the twins. The twins were his sons yes, but he'd known the Lords of Gondolin much better. It was not his sons' fault; it was the Fëanorians' fault—and theirs, he thinks privately—but that is what it is, nonetheless. It was Ecthelion that taught him to sing. The fairest voice in Gondolin Ecthelion had, and Eärendil had been most devastated when finding out he died. What was life in Gondolin without Ecthelion's song, or the light notes of his flute?
He wondered if Maglor ever found out how Ecthelion had slain the Lord of the Balrogs who'd slain his grandfather. Fëanor, whom his sons sought so desperately to avenge, was avenged by the grandson who never swore the accursed Oath. If Eärendil ever met Maglor, he'd tell him all that. A voice that sounded awfully like his wife snarled that if he met Maglor, he would be fighting for his life.
Eärendil was not so stupid, but he cared not.
"Maeglin." Maglor coughed. "Are you—“
"Still alive." His perhaps-nephew croaked brokenly. "Unfortunately."
They had barely made it out of Sauron's lair, but they had indeed. He had gone in looking for his own nephew, only to find a corpse in a cell. It was odd that Sauron did not come, but his servants did. While fleeing through the passageways, Maglor had come upon Maeglin, son of Aredhel, who was alive against all the odds. He found out Maeglin could not walk due to his fall from the walls of Gondolin. How he survived, Maglor did not know, and he assumed it was hardly an act of mercy that saved him.
Nonetheless, he'd seen the younger elf's exhausted yet visible flinch as he heard the Orcs and Maglor had made his decision. He used the set of keys he stole to find his nephew, and hoisted Maeglin on his back. Maeglin was painfully light, and Maglor feared the slightest jostling would break him.
Nevertheless, here they were, both of them still breathing, if only barely.
"Why...you come?" Maeglin grit out as Maglor had them both stumbling further on.
"Because I had nobody but myself to risk this time,” he grunted. "And I did not come for you—"
"...course not...nobody would." Maeglin's voice, tired as it is, sharpened at the end.
This time, Maglor thought upon his own word choice. They both know the last time was in Angband, when Maedhros had gone and left Maglor in charge of their people—and the more burdensome responsibility, their brothers.
Eventually, he had to stop and he slid Maeglin down a tree as gently as he could before nearly collapsing next to him.
"The Orcs...their knives are laced," Maeglin muttered next to him. "I see one brushed you, but that is enough."
"I know,” he grit out.
As the sun rose, Eärendil noted a shadow growing behind him.
"I see what you have found,” his wife said crisply. "I do hope you are not considering letting them come aboard."
"They are dying,” Eärendil said. "My uncle and...I suppose Maglor is somehow my uncle too."
"As were my people, by Maglor's hand. And yours. He should be glad we do not go to finish him off ourselves,” Elwing retorted. "And your uncle tried to kill you."
"He may go to the Void if he dies,” Eärendil whispered softly.
And Ecthelion would never get closure with his father—it should be the least of his worries, but Eärendil had loved listening to Ecthelion's stories and songs growing up. He had the loveliest voice and all around him could not help but be enraptured by what he had to say.
Eärendil, a child of wonder and joy, had been fascinated. Sometimes, Ecthelion would delve into his life in Valinor regarding his parent and the folk of Gondolin would shy away. But Eärendil never did. He'd always spoken of his father as Makalaurë, never Maglor. His mother was Malënis, always. He'd sung of a joyful life, adored by his parents, grandparents, and many uncles. His father had the sweetest voice in Valinor, and he'd been kind in personality too. A bit snarky but soft at heart.
"I do not know what my parents have become,” he told Glorfindel one night.
Eärendil had been bored and had wandered off in search of his two favorite caretakers, while his parents mooned over each other at the feast. His grandfather had already retired for the night. Turgon loved him, but his mother told him his grandfather was never the same after losing his grandmother. He needed to be alone sometimes, and never stayed too long.
She had perished on the Ice, to which the Fëanorians had abandoned his grandparents and mother to cross, along with so many of their folk.
Ecthelion had quietly told him it was not so simple, that not all of them had meant it as a cruel thing, but more in an effort to encourage them stay back in Valinor rather than come to Beleriand. His grandfather was not satisfied, insisting that the Fëanorians cared nothing about them, and that Maedhros had only stood aside for strategic purposes to weaponize against them later.
Eärendil had been too young to understand, and nobody explained, but even he had realized the polarized nature of discussions regarding the Fëanorians. Some of their kin were more kindly to them. Apparently Aredhel was one of them, and his grandfather was not. His own mother tried to stay out of it, although she did make some pointed remarks about her aunt and her mother. It is the thought of the beloved Aredhel that even makes him consider saving her son.
"Maeglin tried to kill you,” Elwing murmured behind him, bringing him back to the present. "I do not know why you would want to spare him, but even if you do, you must be practical. What if he tries again?"
"Then you shall be free of me,” Eärendil spit impulsively.
"If I wanted to do that, I'd fly away,” Elwing argued. "Eärendil, our lives are not easy. Neither of us are happy with the choices the other made, but I am your wife, and I have stayed by your side all these years. I've no intention to rid myself of you, much less let someone who has tried to murder you try again."
Elwing watched her husband, knowing he debated with himself.
She wanted to yell and scream, telling him that...that... what if she contemplated allowing the Balrogs onto his ship? He would insist that it is not comparable, that the Balrogs were literal monsters in body and spirit.
Elwing thought that while the Fëanorians may be Elves, that did not make them less terrifying to her. It was worse that they were Elves, to her. They were not creatures of Morgoth and whatnot, but Elves. Elves are good, unless they choose not to be, her father had insisted.
The Fëanorians chose their evil.
In the days leading to the Kinslaying at Doriath, they had sent messages, saying that they'd leave Doriath in peace if only they could have the Silmaril. The Stone created by their father, which their grandfather was slain for.
Yet when her father refused, they'd come and spilt blood on the stones of the city.
It was a choice they made, she sees it that way.
When the survivors of Gondolin met with her kin at Sirion, some of them—not all Kinslayers, but Noldor still—criticized her kin.
"Why did you not simply hand the Stone over? They asked, did they not?"
She, so young, had already asserted herself quite coolly. This was her settlement, she'd said sternly. If they were not satisfied, they could find somewhere else. The Noldor quieted; there was safety in numbers, and...by the Silmaril, yes. But after Elwing had made her way back to her tent, she'd cried. She'd cried tears of both anger and sorrow, for her brothers and for her parents. She loved them very much, but she could not help but resent them for leaving her to navigate her way through the aftermath of their choices.
Elwing had liked to think, at the time, if she had the choice, she would have handed over the Silmaril. Not to excuse the Fëanorians, but to salvage her people, her dear brothers especially. Yet by the time Maedhros sent those dreaded letters again, the people of Sirion were inconsolable, and unanimously decided that no, they would not hand the Silmaril over. Her husband had gone, and Elwing had, once again, been left alone.
She had never considered herself a vain person, but the Silmaril was more than a jewel. It was a symbol, it was Light in the Darkness of Beleriand. She even thought it had some kind of protective properties, although she did not understand the craftmanship of Fëanor, nor did she want to. All she knew was that she needed the Silmaril, they could not give up now. So the Fëanorians had come once again, relentless as usual. Her people told her to flee, get away. But they were by the Sea, and so she ran in the only direction she could. As she leapt, she called upon the heritage of Melian, which, once again, she did not understand.
Everything was so confusing, and fast, and then...light. She'd flown like a bird, bearing the Silmaril to Eärendil. When he'd stared at her in wide-eyed shock, and she'd looked down upon a bronze surface, she'd seen a bird indeed.
And she transformed into a bird now, drawing closer to the Fëanorian and his nephew. There was a brand on his hand, shaped like the Silmaril. Then, she realized, and a plan came to her.
Looking up at her husband, she finally spoke.
"It is your ship,” Elwing told him. "But the Fëanorian shall answer to me first. I also have a way in which we can stop him from killing us over the Silmaril. And...I suppose Maeglin is your grievance alone, but as your wife, I reiterate that I shall not stand for you to be slain, especially not to leave me with the Kinslayer and the traitor."
Maglor looked up cautiously as something glistened in the sky, and as it lowered, he realized it is a ship.
Dread and shock dawned upon him. There was only one ship that flew, and its Mariner.
When he looked upon Eärendil for the first time, he blurted out, "So you could land this entire time?"
The Mariner looked sheepish, before a familiar lady with dark hair and grey eyes slipped out from behind him. She was small and slim compared to him, but her presence frightened him more.
"Maglor." Her voice was cold. "You are hardly one to question us."
"No, my lady,” he mumbled.
"Your nephew is dying as a consequence of his decisions,” Elwing drawled. "And so are you. We have a preposition for you."
She raised a necklace with a familiar Stone on it and he felt Maeglin stiffen next to him.
As Elwing came closer, he impulsively plunged a thumb into his own wound. Eärendil winced in the back but Elwing was unfazed.
"I will not withhold it from you now,” she said serenely now but her eyes glanced noticeably at the brand on his hand.
She knew.
As the Silmaril settled on his throat, it seared and he gasped weakly.
"I do not think you ever introduced yourself properly when you came to Sirion. Or Doriath," Elwing continued in that faux gentle voice. "Well met, Maglor, whose legendary voice was heard across Land and Sea."
He wanted to respond but his throat burned and the slightest intake of breath was excruciating, much less a single word.