voidtreckerexpress | (no subject)

WHO: Maglor and OTA!
WHERE: Coach B
WHEN: Bassoon Day 3, early morning
WHAT: Maglor's singing a rather painful song because certain arrivals have gotten him mopey again.
WARNINGS: See above? Probable mentions of torture, murder, dismemberment, etc...

One of the resident musicians has been having his usual trouble sleeping and has tucked himself away in one of the couches with his harp. Much as he does most mornings before the majority of people are up and about.

Maedhros is here. Alive. Full of regret for not thinking of him when it mattered most.

Curufin is here too, just as full of life as they'd all once been. He's discovered he's not angry with that little brother, but the memories of blood and war still pelt his mind just as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.

Maybe he should keep his silence, but the song he'd composed so his family's dark deeds wouldn't be forgotten East of the Sea begs to be sung again. They'd done too much evil for it to be forgotten or passed off as fantasy.

So his fingers strum over the strings of his harp and he raises his voice in an odd, almost sorrowful, almost light tone.

"Seven sons there were, fell and fair
Bright the light in their grey eyes
Swift their rage against the night
But where now the swift arrow, the bright sword?
Where have they gone, the brave warriors?
They are lost, lost, fallen to shadow
Fallen to flame and madness

"Oh, the blood on the sands, the tears on the ground
Fallen, fallen are they, lost forever
Oh! Fingolfin the mighty, puissant and great,
And Fingon the brave, slain at the gate
Gondolin's walls are broken and Turgon lies slain
Felagund lies silent, his death not in vain
And where are they now, Feanor's sons?
Hands stained forever, oathsworn?" *lyrics come from

bookwormfaith

There is more he sings, but it continues on that vein. Those who hear it will hear the rest as an impression of great grief and sorrow. Of regret.

Maglor won't- can't forget. So why should his family be so spared? He's not angry with his father. Not anymore. Now he's just grateful to see his father (and now younger brother, Curufin) alive and much as they used to be, rather than mad with the terrible Oath they'd sworn.

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The last days were rather eventful and Feanor definitely felt way too comfortable with his situation. Getting three of his sons back is more than he hoped for. Even if that turns to be temporary it won't cease to be a miracle in his eyes. It won't stop feeling as if he is absolved, in part at least. As if he is allowed to feel anything other than anger, sorrow and regret. It was almost too good to be true.

Because it was...

For the first time Feanor is grateful he took the bottom bunk. It is in the dangerous state of not being fully awake that he hears it. The voice he would never mistake for another. There's only one who can sing like this. No other has the skill nor the art to shape the music that way. To play not on an instrument but on the hearts of all who listen to him.

Suddenly, the last two weeks feel like a dream. Something he would wake up from and find himself in that same dreary place he was for so long. With the last slivers of life and colour fleeting, turning into grey, slipping from his hands no matter how much he tries to hold on to them. Memories of laughter fading away until he can barely recognize what they were. Mere echoes, only there to further torment him.

And yet, the surroundings do not change even when the music stops. Feanor lifts his hand to touch the bed above. He has to make sure it's really there. It is. A solid surface above his head. He can hear the others breathing. Higher, on the top beds, one of the spider kids is stirring nervously. Trouble sleeping? That's probably Peter. He's still on the train. There's only one thing he can do. Go and search for Maglor.

When he finds him he's not coming in. Just stands in the carriage door, staring into the void lights no matter how much it hurts to do this. As if one pain could alleviate the other. It can't. But he can't look at his son either.

"So it is true," he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. "What they say." It's pretty clear who he means by they. "That it is all I am remembered for. The Oath."

That he brings all to ruin. Everything he touches turns into ash. That cursed fire of his. He can't hate the very essence of his own being but it also destroys everyone he loves. So it's not that difficult to envy the Men their Gift. He does manage to look at his son eventually. He has to. He has to know.

"Do you hate me for it?"

Feanor would be welcomed, even while Maglor sings this particular song. Eventually, when the songs trails off and his father speaks, he doesn't quite turn to look at him either. Emotions too raw, and he knows his right hand is bleeding again. Red and angry. He also doesn't care. He feels the angry scars are deserved of their display of pain too.

"Yes," his voice is just as quiet when he answers. Tired, rather than angry or sad. He'd expended much of his emotional energy, as the Noldolante tends to do.

But then he blinks and shakes his head, frowning to look back at Feanor. "For the Oath? ...Yes. But despite it, I do not hate you."

Not, at least, the same way he hates Maedhros. Maedhros, who'd willingly flung himself to death. The rest of his brothers, and his father, had died at the hands of another, and so they were kept from his hatred. And even then...He still desperately loves his older brother

"I do not hate you, father," he repeats, and reaches his good hand toward him in silent request.

No matter how much his pride is wounded by the fact that he's remembered for his madness rather than his genius, he'd say nothing about it. It's meaningless, irrelevant in face of what should have always been important to him. But he was too blind to see. Too self-absorbed, too concentrated only on his own pain to listen to voice of love or even reason. No amount of regret can turn back time or undo what he has done. Nothing can't change the past. It would break his spirit if his son hated him but he wouldn't, couldn't blame him even if he did. It's a relief beyond words that Maglor does not, in the end, hate him. He has all the right to. Feanor knows he had wronged all of them greatly. He comes to sit next to Maglor and takes the hand he was offered.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice shaking, the words barely coming out. There is nothing in the tongues of elves or men that could express what he wants to say but he has to try. "I'm so sorry, son. I should have never made you do it."

All he ever wanted was for his family to be happy but it was he who ruined it all. His anger, his foolish pride.

The bad had, sadly, eclipsed the good. And the good that remained, few East of the Sea even knew of the connection to Feanor. Only those who'd known him, or known of him.

Maglor shudders a little at the apology. His father doesn't say those words lightly, and never without meaning them from the very bottom of his being. He shifts to lean against Feanor, harp coming to rest on his lap.

"Love binds us now just as before. I will not see those bonds severed. I only..." he hisses out a quiet breath, fingers tightening around Feanor's hand to hold on.

"The wording should have been worked out before we all swore that Oath." The slight twitch at even the mention of it hints that even now it has its claws in Maglor. Buried. Hummed to quiet.

But still there.

Waiting for Maglor to drop his guard.

Feanor doesn't say such words lightly. Nor very often. Maybe not as often as he should. When he does they don't even seem to be enough. That's both his curse and a blessing, always taking everything one step farther. When he starts he's unable to stop and more often than not that one step end being one too far.

"I don't think the problem lied with the wording. I do, it did with the idea."

There are many things he did that can be explained - even if not justified - by the circumstances, by what happened before, what others did or did not do, but not this. If anything has ever been his one step too far, it was the Oath.

He can just hope that now he's more skilled in recognizing what he's doing earlier than in hindsight.