When he walks away, he never wants see a familiar face again. The sea is crashing against the cliffs beneath, calling him, shouting his name. But Maglor burns with anger and ignores Ulmo. In his imagination the Silmaril hit somewhere it hurts. Throwing the jewel away had been easier than he thought it would be. After everything he had done, had lost, the Silmaril should be more worth to him. Unfortunately he's accustomed to power. He doesn't need to the light of the Two Trees to twist and bend the world to his likening.
His palm burns a little, but after a quick inspection Maglor realizes that the scar will fade over time. He's too familiar with the Silmaril and how the jewel truly works in order to suffer from it's effects.
Maglor turns south and starts walking. He needs to get away, put some distance between him and ... everyone else. He's not made for company as long as he feels like tearing down mountains and filling the sea with blood. Death is easy. He has killed so often, so many times that he barely needs to flick his wrist. He's an expert with the sword, good with a knife and sufficient with the bow. He's in possession of all three, when he walks down the shore, ready to fade out of history.
The Eldar can take care of themselves. None of them wanted their help in the end. Never asked for advice despite the general confusion what to do with the reclaimed Silmarils.
One day Maglor might tells them that he and Nelyo saved a majority from a severe poisoning, but it's unlikely. They aren't going to listen anyway. They never did. They never wanted to be saved.
With great effort Maglor buries his hate and his anger. Spite is what keeps him from lashing out, spite is what keeps him alive. Just because he's sick of their company, it doesn't mean that he's going to do them the favor of dying. Seeking death, because a few hypocrites guilt tripped him into feeling remorse is out of question.
They succeeded with Nelyo. For that alone the remaining Eldar deserve to stumble and fail. Nelyo was a better person than he ever was.
With his brother gone, Maglor doesn't see any reason why he should stay and help those, who don't want it from him anyway.
Hurting and full of raging grief, Maglor vanishes. For centuries he'll evade the Eldar, explore realms and countries beyond Eriador.
Fëanor always had been driving by his curiosity. The least Maglor can do is stay true to his father as far as it's possible. If they don't want him as a Lord, as advisor or at least as warrior at their side, his former friends and followers can stay right where they are. In the past days a lot of people have made it abundantly clear that they neither need nor want his help.
Let alone his company.
Maglor walks until his feet are bleeding. He doesn't care in which direction he's going as long as the realms of the Eldar lay behind him. After a short break, in which he eats, sleeps and rests a little, Maglor resumes walking again. Anger drives him and he refuses to care. It can't get any worse than it already is.
If his heart throbs from time to time, out of grief and loneliness than Maglor pretends not to care.
Sometimes he meets other travellers or ends up in a harbor. Since they're alone men, who are far friendlier to strangers than Elves, Maglor usually stays for a few nights. Restocks his supplies, gets a new coat and enjoys the change in his diet. Yet men are far more observant than the Eldar usually give them credit for, because they're bound to notice his abrasive behavior. Since the war in the north is a well known fact, most do the math and don't ask if he has lost someone.
Instead they want to know if he's alright? If he's hurt?
His answer is always the same.
He's fine. He doesn't a healer and he'll be on his way tomorrow.
He's so fucking fine he could scream.
Of course he's bound to run into an Elf sooner or later. The Avari spread out wide, after refusing to make the journey.
In the first century Maglor avoids them. He only talks to them if he has and thankfully they don't ask too many question. Though his appearance should be enough to tell them, what's going on. The light in his eyes, the dark color of his hair and the shade of his skin differs greatly from those he meets on the road. It doesn't take a lot to guess that he belongs to the Tatyar.
Over time his hate and his anger fades a little. The desire to see the world burn subsides and when he meets a Clan of Elves, who is related to Míriel and he stays for a while. He lives at the edge of their community, sings during the evenings and entertains them with songs and tales. He wouldn't call it friendship, but the tribe is less annoying the all of the other Elves he met after leaving Beleriand behind.
Unfortunately news travel wide, even among the Avari tribes that mostly keep to themselves.
One day the tribe gets a visitor, who met someone who fought in the war against the dark god. The tales is a little outrageous but mostly true.
"They have lost any sense and reason," the wanderer tells them. "Rumors have that Elves were killing Elves. Over leader- and kingship. Over jewellery."
Maglor's face twist into a dark and horrifying expression. Thankfully no one is paying attention to him. Murder isn't unknown among the Avari tribes. Feuds happen, but it's usually the tragic end of a romance gone wrong. Anything else is considered a waste. Isn't Arda big enough in order for the fighting parties to avoid each other? He sees a lot of shaken heads that night and the wildest theories, what could be up with their kin in the west.
Most come to the conclusion that refusing to make the journey was a wise decision and that the tribe should continue the way the always have.
"You were one of them," Maglor's distantly related uncle says after the visitor has left. "I've noticed how your eyes changed during the tale. While you often keep to yourself and don't talk that much, in general you're a person who doesn't complain and does as he's told. Last night your entire composure changed. You wanted to speak out. I knew you were a warrior, given your skill with the sword and your relation to Míriel, but that's not how you learned how to lead, isn't it?"
Maglor snorts and doesn't answer. Why, if his distant uncle guessed the truth already?
"You're a Kinslayer," his uncle concludes. Sadness and disappointment shines in his eyes. It's impossible to tell, if it's because the fact itself or Maglor's lies. "You killed your own kin. In large battles and without any personal reason."
"It's complicated," Maglor says. He doesn't expect his uncle to understand.
In this part of the world the tribes know each other by name. Are related to another twice over due to marriages and children marrying cousins back and forth. For them it's inconceivable not to know the name of your neighbour. That Maglor mostly killed Elves, who were just another face in the crowd is beyond them. Nor would they understand Thingol's refusal to aid the Noldor.
What Maglor expects is ... harsh words. Exile. Accusations. Being called a monster. A knife at his throat. Maglor waits for the blow.
The hand on his shoulder makes him look up in surprise.
"Canafinwë," his uncle tells him and pulls back to the fire. He does it with great care, of he's afraid Maglor will break. Or run. "Tell us the truth. Tell us your story."
He does. Maglor talks, sings and screams, depending on which part of history he currently tries to get across. The fire reacts to each of his moods and there's a guard specifically assigned to keep Maglor from accidentally burning down the clearing. That Maglor barely notices the fire, it the tribes greatest concern of all. They suffer with him, listen closely and shed tears, when Maglor is unable to do so.
It takes the entire night. When Maglor is finally done, breakfast is being handed out and he falls quiet. His throat his sore and he wants to hide.
Being allowed to stay isn't something he excepted.
"Why?" He asks his uncle in confusion.
"Family is important," his uncle says and reminds Maglor of his own father. "I can't claim to understand what motivated you to go so far, yet I can't say that my reaction would've been much different, had I found myself in your place, when the world went dark."
The kindness in his uncle's voice almost kills him. Little has touched him ever since Fëanor died and stopped making sense. Shouldering another weight and another didn't seem to matter anymore. Crying, laughing ... feeling. Any of this didn't seem to matter anymore. So Maglor just stopped.
His uncle asks, "Do you still have family, Canafinwë? Someone, who's waiting for you?"
The question is so bizarre that Maglor laughs. He doesn't know what, but ... it's just funny. Of course he has family. Lots of it. It's just they're either dead or they hate him.
"I've sons. Two of them. Strong beautiful children," he finally answers. "And I miss them terribly."
From the moment, where Maglor threw the Silmaril into the sea he has wondered what he's supposed to do with his life. Apparently it took him five centuries and journey of thousands of miles to find the answer.
Maglor departs soon after the fateful night. Delaying the inevitable would just end up hurting everyone. Maglor sharpens his sword and waits until his throat has healed. A few of his companions worry for him, but he assures them that it's all he ever needed in order to defend himself. The day he finally leaves the tribe behind he has come to love, he receives more hugs than he anticipated. Well, at least this time he had the decency to say goodbye.
His grand-uncles, brother to Míriel as he has learned, nods quietly and accompanies him to the edge of the forest.
They part in silence, but it's enough. They've said what is to be said.
"You're always welcome," his uncle offers him and Maglor is glad, though he doesn't believe he's ever going to return.
Guilt drives him to Eriador. The world is large and he'd like to travel again, but he departed in haste after the war. Even if they have no particular wish to talk to him, he needs to know if his sons are doing well. Since it's the fastest way to travel, Maglor swallows his pride and his fears and steps on the next ship that will carry him to Númenor.
"I must be mad," he murmurs to himself, when the ship slides across the ocean.
For he can feel the sea singing to him. The sailors don't ask for his name or for payment. Not after Maglor has smiled and summoned enough wind to carry them out of the harbor. It should make the journey pleasant enough, but his fingers are tingling. Whenever he looks at the water, the surface shines. Reflects the sun at day, the moon and the stars at night. It seems as if the Silmaril is just beyond the surface. All he has to do is dip his hand into the water.
Perhaps it'd even work, but Maglor doesn't want to risk drawing attention to himself.
During the months of the journey that the Kings and Queens had settled on a new reckoning. They called it the Second Age now. Maglor doesn't know how he feels about that. Apparently he's ancient history already, but he listens to the sailors and adds their songs and their language to his ever growing collection.
The Haven of Rómenna is loud and busy. Maglor is a little taken aback how vast and beautiful Númenor is. High towers, white stones and races mingling on the street. No one bats an eye, when a dark-haired elf walks by. At least a quarter of Númenor's citizens are Elves. Not just any kind of Elves, those coming from Middle Earth. Maglor stumbles over Vanya Teleri as well.
"Oh, after the war the host took an awful long time to leave," an older man recounts for him. He is four centuries old, because the Valar offered the brave Edain a gift of longevity.
Maglor doesn't know if he should be bitter or happy about it. Andreth enters his mind, as does Haleth. Both women greatly suffered, because their elvish lovers would out-live them. Not that it would've helped, Aegnor still died decades before Andreth did. But it'd have made their time together a lot of easier. Haleth relocated her people, because she couldn't stand the thought of Caranthir remaining young while she got older each day. But it's not a surprise, in the end. It's just another sin, just another oversight which can be placed at the Valars feet.
It's early morning and the capital still very quiet. Elros loves the brief time, when the Elves had retried after spending the night singing to the starts and his own people hadn't rising yet.
"Ada, you shouldn't be up yet," his oldest son scold him. Elros smiles when Vardamir offers him tea. "The day will be hectic enough. I don't understand why you don't use the change to sleep in, when you get the opportunity."
"It's an old habit, my son," Elros laughs. "Besides I'm growing older. I'll enjoy the time I've left in this world. I fear I'll be tied to the bed soon enough."
Vardamir sighs. Of course, his father is right. Númenor might be prospering, but it's undeniable that it's King had grown old in the last years. Practically over night his hair turned white, he stopped sailing to Middle Earth, because the journey proved to be too stressful and he surrendered most of his duties to his children. Elros Tar-Minyatur had turned into the elderly grandfather, who was happy to watch his descendants run over the yard and play pranks.
What worried Vardamir more than anything else, was that his uncle Elrond already stayed far longer than usual. Perhaps he sensed, what the entire family dreaded.
Elros was dying. They had to face the fact that the King might go to sleep one evening, but would never wake up again.
Just when Vardamir intents to reprimand his father for sprouting such pessimism, a figure appears at the end of the stairs. Too tall for a servant or a guard. Just as Vardamir turns around to politely ask the Elf to leave the King alone for the next hour at least, he hears his fathers gasp. Elros' wrinkled hands grasps Vardamir's arm, reaching out to steady himself, because his knees threaten to give out under him.
Noticing the tears in his father's eyes Vardamir wants to ask if he's alright, if he needs a healer. That's until hears the word leaving the King's mouth.
"Ada?" Elros voices his insane day dream. It has to be a dream. So often he wished for the Fëanorian just to appear, but it never turned out to be true. Like Elrond and many others, he came to believe that Maglor had perished in the sinking of Beleriand. "Ada, is that you?"
Elros takes a few unsure steps to the man, who raised him.
He expects Maglor to say something, yet in the end the Fëanorian only crosses the remaining distance and takes his son into his arms. Strong arms press the King of Númenor against a broad chest and it's as if no time had passed at all. Forgotten are the hours of endless wondering, the wishful sighs and Elros aged body. The paternal embrace turns him into a young boy again. It's exactly the same as back then. He is exactly the same.
Maglor is smiling at him. Kind and with full of love, though he doesn't have to. He didn't have to love and care so much for them as he did. As he does.
"Look at you, Elros," Maglor finally says and strokes Elros white hair. "You've grown beyond what I've ever imagined. A beautiful kingdom full of peace and tolerance. Visitors from all over the world. Even in the remotest part of Arda children know your name."
"Are you proud?" Elros asks as if they aren't talking about a kingdom, but the drawing of a child.
But Maglor understands. It breaks his heart, seeing Elros like this. He heard rumors during the war that the Peredhil had been given a choice, but he never thought much about it. Yet he can see why. Elros always wanted to build, shape and create. He had plans, ambitions. It would hurt him seeing his people wither and die, seeing a descendant fall into darkness or his own family turn cruel and greedy.
"Of course, I am proud of you," Maglor says with enough conviction he can manage. "You've archived more in four hundred years than I ever managed in my entire life. It humbles me, seeing you happy and surrounded with children of your own."
Maglor's eyes travel to Vardamir, who slowly realizes who exactly the elf must be.
"Makalaurë Fëanárion, I'm deeply honored," Elros' son finally says, when he regains his senses. "My name is Vardamir Nólimon and as Prince of Númenor I'm telling you that you're welcome to stay in my house for as long as you desire."
Eyebrows up at his hairline, Maglor answers with dry humor, "That's a far warmer welcome than I expected to receive."
Elros pulls away a little, but ultimately refuses to let go of his father. He puts more weight on the Fëanorian that it's necessary, but to the hells with proper decor. He's an old man and has just been reunited with the only parent that matters to him. He's allowed to indulge.
"Well, Elrond is visiting as well," Elros mentions. "I bet, he'll be happy to shout at you for as long as you desire. It'd be good for him to get it off his chest."