So I wrote this AU oneshot after reading this passage from 'The Lost Road':

"Yet not all the Eldalië were willing to forsake the Hither Lands where they had long suffered and long dwelt; and some lingered many an age in the West and North, and especially in the western isles and in the Land of Leithien. And among these were Maglor, as hath been told; and with him for a while was Elrond Halfelven, who chose, as was granted to him, to be among the Elf-kindred; but Elros his brother chose to abide with Men." -The Lost Road, page 366

I've since come to realize that the intended meaning was likely to compare Elrond's decision to stay in Middle-Earth with Maglor's and not that Elrond stuck around with Maglor for a while after the War of Wrath was over, but I still credit it for giving me the idea.

I own nothing.

'Twas dark enough a night with only Elrond's campfire burning, and now clouds threatened to hide Ithil's face from his sight as well. He prodded the flames with a bit of driftwood he'd found down on the shore, and when the fire popped and crackled and shot gleaming sparks up into the air, he managed for once not to flinch at the sharp noise of it.

Elrond did not like—had never liked—darkness such as this. In the Edain encampment he had lived in for the last few years there had been more campfires than this, burning merrily even in times of danger, burning low only when Anor began at last to creep over the eastern horizon. In Amon Ereb, the watch-fires ever burned upon the weathered battlements, and within the fortress burned the blue-white flames in the inextinguishable Fëanorian lamps (And truth be told, Elrond had one with him now, but he kept it wrapped in cloth in his rucksack, for fear that its light would draw unwanted attention). Even in the Havens of Sirion, though Elrond's memory of that place was not always clear, Elrond recalled torches that blazed in the hallways and cast light under doorways into dark rooms.

(There was other light there too, brilliant white light that could make even the darkest of nights seem as day. That light alone Elrond had not loved, and would never love.)

It seemed to him that in darkness like this, when the world shrank to the span of the firelight and always shadow behind it, that evil things could all too easily lie in wait. He did not trust the sea as a ward against them. Elrond kept his ears pricked, both for sounds of any such evil thing, or for the return of his companions.

He was alone here. The war was over, the issues summoned—the Edain he had lived with for several years now had gone to Lindon to join their sundered kin. The few Edhil of Amon Ereb who were not dead or scattered to the winds had gone with them. So had Elros.

"You'll not join me?"

"No…" Elrond licked his lips, and turned about to look at the spot at the edge of the copse where they had camped, where Maedhros and Maglor stood, conversing in hushed tones, their faces troubled. "Perhaps soon." Though Elrond could not make out the words, Maedhros's tone became sharp. "I hope."

Elros followed his brother's gaze and nodded meaningfully. "I get your meaning."

At their side, Sírien reached out and rested her hand on Elrond's arm. "You will be careful, though? The future of all is uncertain, especially those who would…" She broke off, staring at the ground with her brown eyes narrowed. A spasm of commingled anxiety and frustration crossed her face.

Elrond felt a spark of guilt shoot in his stomach. He had always held himself at arm's length from his sister-in-law, for more reasons than one, but she had never been anything but kind to him. "I will… Safe travels to you both."

There was nothing left for Maglor or Maedhros among the Edhil. Elrond knew that. The knowledge was ground into his bones, written in the blood of the fallen of the Havens of Sirion (At least those who had fallen at the hands of Edhil and not the sea and the crumbling earth). The only summons that had come from the Host of Valinor for the two of them was a demand that they surrender themselves to Eönwë to face the judgment of the Rodyn. No matter what they had chosen to do next, it would not have made Fëanor's eldest sons any less outcasts. Surrendering themselves to Eönwë would only have made them prisoners as well.

Elrond swallowed hard, frustration coursing through his veins. And yet, they decided to do this.

He knew where they had gone, what they had purposed. Maglor had not bothered hiding it from him, and even if he had, the harsh tones and raised voices of Maedhros and Maglor's last quarrel over the Silmarils must have carried far.

Elrond prodded viciously at the fire with his stick, scowling. He knew from his earliest years (Maedhros probably would have tossed his head and given a bitter laugh to hear Elrond describing himself in any terms other than that of a stripling) what damage even a single Silmaril could wreak. He remembered his mother, waxen, listless, worn near to nothing by suffering and worn even closer to nothing by the Silmaril and the weird sway it held over her. Elwing gave everything to the Silmaril, then everything to her duties as Queen over the Sindar, and then had little left of herself to give to her sons, and even less to give to herself.

Now, she was gone, lost to terror and doubt and longing. Eärendil bore her Silmaril instead, sailing far above, of no help to either of his sons. The war waged to recover the other two had broken the earth of Beleriand, sent it crumbling into the sea. Elrond had only to look out at the ocean to know what his parents had discovered at the last, about the Silmarils.

They were evil things, ruinous things. Elrond knew that, would gladly have screamed it at Maglor and Maedhros both if he'd only been able to find his tongue. He suspected, though, that they might have known that even better than him. They reeked of fear when they left him, faces pale and eyes over-bright. Maedhros's hand shook so badly while he tried to buckle his sword to his belt that, eventually, Maglor wordlessly took his brother's sword out of his hand and buckled it for him.

They did not love the Silmarils, not a whit. What was it that drove them, then? Their own pride and desperation? Or was it the terror of the Oath, the dreadful consequence of breaking it, that drove them? But Elrond remembered well what Maglor had said near to the end, when Maedhros was close to persuading him to go after them again, that they'd do less evil to break the Oath they had sworn an Age ago, no matter the consequence of it.

What will they do when they encounter resistance? Elrond fretted, his stomach churning. They might have been evil things, but the greater part of the world held the Silmarils precious beyond measure, and guarding them now were the swords and spears of Valinor, led by a Maia. If Maglor and Maedhros did manage to reclaim the Silmarils, they would be hard-won, and they would shed yet more blood to get them. If they failed?

Elrond did not know what he would do or say, no matter the outcome. He already knew his caretakers of old to have blood on their hands—he hungered not for the sight of fresh blood on them now. The very thought of the Silmarils was hateful to him. There was also the fact that Maglor had made Elrond swear that he would join Elros in Lindon rather than wait for his return. But if they were killed…

Elrond doubted he would breathe easy until he saw them again.

The hours dragged on as they always did on lonely nights—every sound, be it an unexpectedly loud crashing of the waves, the rushing of the wind over dry grass, a few rocks coming loose from their place in the new shoreline, set Elrond to jumping and staring wildly around, searching for any evidence that he was not alone. Sleep eluded him; it was not what Elrond desired, and even if he had been tired, he was not sure he would have been able to sleep that night.

I think I'll go mad if I have to stay by the sea for too long, Elrond mused, trying not to let his gaze be drawn too long to the ever-tossing ocean. There was no denying what lied beneath the waves now, what cities were now the mansions of the sea as opposed to the dwelling-places of the Children of Ilúvatar. Elrond could imagine (as much as he might not wish to) what and who now drifted in the deeps. Who was to say how long it would be before they resurfaced?

Then, a new sound caught Elrond's attention. There came a harsh, low noise, louder than the surf breaking against the jagged rocks and boulders of this new coastline. It came in shuddering gasps, thick and slow. After a moment, Elrond realized that it was the sound of someone sobbing.

He stood, drawing his cloak closer about him. The voice wasn't one he recognized, though Elrond doubted he would have recognized even Elros's voice over the roar of the ocean. Brow furrowed, Elrond began to make his way towards the source of the sobbing, picking his way carefully over the broken stones of the shore. Whoever it was who was in such distress, he had little to offer them beside his campfire, but even that was better than to let them sit alone, wasn't it?

Elrond's progress over the rocks and boulders, slippery as they were, was a slow one. However, before too long, he caught sight of a lone figure huddled amongst the rocks near the water. The person wept inconsolably, shoulders shaking. He paused for a moment, frowning. In the darkness, he could not tell if the person was one of the Edhil or the Edain. The most he could guess was that, from their size, the person sobbing was male. His frown deepened. Now that he had drawn closer, that voice sounded familiar…

"Maglor!"

Suddenly, the terrain was no obstacle for Elrond. He rushed to his foster-father's side, his heart in his throat. Maglor was alone—where was Maedhros?—with no Silmarils in sight, and visibly distraught; that didn't bode well for the brothers' objective. Was Maglor injured? Had Maedhros been captured or killed? Elrond slowed as he neared Maglor, calling his name out once again only to receive no answer. Maglor sat with his head bowed, his long, loose hair covering his face, and his tatty cloak covering the rest of him.

Perhaps he is injured. I hope his wounds aren't severe, in that case; I don't have the supplies to treat anything more serious than lacerations. But what's happened, for him to behave in such a way?

Elrond dropped to his knees in front of Maglor, paying no mind to the freezing water soaking his cloak and trousers. Tentatively, he reached out and pressed his hand onto Maglor's shoulder. "Maglor? What's happened?"

Again, Maglor made no verbal response. He drew his shaking hands to his chest, clutching them into fists. The sobbing that wracked his body grew, if possible, even more violent.

This time, Elrond brushed Maglor's hair out of his face, determined to ensure a response. Something in him stung to feel moisture against his fingertips. "Maglor, what's happened?" And this time, Maglor did lift his head, though truth be told, his pale, bloodshot eyes were unfocused, and Elrond wondered with a sinking feeling if Maglor even recognized him. What happened at Eönwë's camp to leave him in such a state? And where is Maedhros? He wouldn't just abandon him, especially not if Maglor was in such a state as this. "Please, I want to h—"

His voice trailed away.

For the first time, Elrond noticed it, the stench of burned flesh. It was similar to the odor of burned pork, but somehow, somehow Elrond knew it to be something quite different from that. Slowly, inexorably, his gaze was drawn to Maglor's hands. They were still curled shut, but Elrond thought he could make out a certain blackness to the fingers, a certain shake to those hands.

Elrond swallowed hard, his heart beginning to hammer even harder than it had when he first happened upon Maglor sitting among the rocks. "Maglor," Elrond said, and to him his voice sounded faint and far away. "Let me look at your hands."

Without waiting for a reply, Elrond tried to pull Maglor's hands away from his chest. At that, Maglor finally stopped sobbing. He jerked away from Elrond, hissing in pain at the younger nér's attempt to grab at his hands. Maglor fixed Elrond in a piercing stare, glaring fiercely; distrust rolled off of him in waves. "Don't," he said warningly, his voice hoarse and raw but still possessed of every ounce of power it possessed at its mightiest.

Despite himself, Elrond hesitated. The tones of paternal sternness, though rarely heard (or perhaps because it was so rarely heard), always gave him pause, and the compelling strength of Maglor's voice only sharpened it. However… "Maglor, please." Later, Elrond would never understand how he had managed to sound so calm. "Just let me look at your hands."

The aura of distrust surrounding Maglor persisted—Does he not even know who I am? What on earth happened in Eönwë's camp? How long will it be before he comes back to himself?—but when Elrond tried again to pull Maglor's hands away from his chest, he met with no resistance. He pried Maglor's fingers away from his palms, his stomach already starting to churn when he felt the skin on Maglor's fingers flake away at his touch, and when he saw the state of Maglor's hands in full, his gorge rose in his throat.

His hands…

When he was young, Elrond had been fascinated with Maglor's hands. He had loved to watch him write or play the harp or just gesticulate as he spoke, for the skill with which those dexterous fingers performed any task set before them. And now, those hands…

The skin of Maglor's trembling hands was charred black, flaking away to reveal muscles and veins beneath. The palms, the fingers, even his fingernails had not been spared—even as Elrond tried to inspect Maglor's hands more closely, one of his blackened fingernails broke away and fell to the ground, crumbling into pieces as it did so. Uncovered, the reek of burned flesh was nearly overpowering.

Despite the past few years Elrond had spent learning healing and treating injuries just as gruesome as this, it took Elrond every ounce of self-restraint he possessed not to vomit at the sight and smell of Maglor's mangled hands. His breathing became ragged and labored. The pain must be driving him out of his mind. But how did this happen?! Who on earth would do something like this to him?! Was it some sort of punishment from Eönwë for trying to take the Silmarils?

When Elrond looked back at Maglor, he saw new tears pricking at his eyes, his face screwed up with pain. He must be in agony… "Come back with me to the camp. I-I have salve and bandages with me." Elrond tugged on Maglor's sleeve, but he wouldn't budge. He shook nearly convulsively, tears spilling down his waxen face, but not a single sound escaped his lips. "Maglor, please! We can't stay here!"

Still nothing. Elrond made an anxious noise in the back of his throat and sprang to his feet. "J-Just stay here, then," he stammered. "I'll come back soon."

Elrond had never had to treat such serious burns in the Edain camp, and neither Maeloth (the healer in Amon Ereb, ere it fell) nor the Edain healers ever taught him much about them. Elrond had been taught enough, however, to know the incantations to sing as he put salve on Maglor's horribly burned hands and bandaged them. One to alleviate the pain (It must have been unbearable). One to encourage quick healing (Who knew how long it would take these burns to heal on their own?). One to ward off infection (An infection in wounds like these could cost Maglor his hands).

Elrond could barely keep his own hands from shaking as he tended to Maglor's burns. He had seen horrific injuries in the time he had spent as an apprentice healer, but Maglor had always been able to escape anything more serious than a slash wound in need of stitching and Elrond had never been the one to treat him, or Elros, or Maedhros. He had never had to stare at their injuries and think about how easily they could have died while treating them.

The only mercy to this, he supposed, was that it seemed that Maglor had removed his wedding ring before whatever it was that had happened to so badly burn his hands. There was every chance the gold would have fused with his skin in the course of the burning. But this was still…

His hands bandaged, Maglor followed Elrond back to their camp in the hills overlooking the new coastline willingly enough. Elrond could get nothing from him, though—no tale of what had happened in Eönwë's camp, no explanation as to how his hands had been burned, no answer concerning Maedhros's whereabouts. That, he supposed, would have to wait until the morning.

As Elrond settled back down to tending the fire, Maglor curled up in a ball on the opposite side of it from him. His pale gray eyes stayed open, staring unblinkingly into the flames.

-0-0-0-

The morning dawned gray and chill, a stiff wind blowing from the west. Sore and tired, Elrond began to root through his rucksack, looking for the bread he'd been given when he, Maedhros and Maglor parted ways with the Edain.

Only three days left of this, Elrond thought to himself as he weighed the bread in his hands, brow furrowed. Maglor and Maedhros might have a little more—they barely ate anything yesterday—but we'll have to get more supplies soon either way. And I'll have to find more bandages for Maglor in about a week as well. He glanced over at Maglor, frowning. Can we even go into one of the settlements right now?

Just as Elrond cast his gaze at Maglor, Maglor sat up, blinking furiously and shaking his head slightly. He stared down at his bandaged hands, a look of apparent confusion crossing his face. "How…" he murmured to himself, turning his hands over to look at his palms. Then, he looked up, and stared at Elrond as though seeing him for the first time. Maglor's frown deepened. "You should be in Lindon."

This was solid ground, what Elrond had expected to hear before he had found Maglor in the state he was in last night. "Yes," Elrond admitted, nodding briskly. "'Tis a good thing I didn't, though."

Maglor said nothing, only stared at him with a flat, uncertain look in his eyes. He stretched his bandaged fingers, wincing and making a sharp, whistling noise through clenched teeth. His gaze darted to the gray, tossing sea, the look in his eyes turning wild and abstracted.

At least he was conscious. At least he had acknowledged him. But as Elrond looked at Maglor, the worry of last night did not abate, but only mounted. "Maglor… What happened when you went to Eönwë's camp?" he asked cautiously, unsure if it would be wise to bring up the Silmarils or even Maedhros directly.

A shrill, bitter laugh tore from Maglor's throat. He held his hands, palms up, out towards Elrond. "What do you think?"

"Maglor, I don't know how your hands came to be burned."

At this, Maglor's thin mouth turned up in a twitching, almost vicious smile. The hairs on the back of Elrond's neck stood up at the sight of it. "What burned upon the Enemy's brow? Why did they burn?"

Elrond blinked in confusion before realization washed over him like ice.

The Silmarils did that?

Much was made of the tale of Lúthien and Beren in Sirion, enough so that even though it was never performed and rarely spoken of in Amon Ereb, Elrond remembered much of it. He had always enjoyed hearing of the exploits of Lúthien, Beren at her side, and the episode that had lingered most clearly in his mind was that of Lúthien enchanting Morgoth, and Beren cutting a Silmaril from his crown.

The Silmarils burned Morgoth, caused him horrible pain. They rejected him on the grounds of the deeds which had defiled him—the despoiling of the Trees and the murder of Finwë. If Elrond was honest with himself, he wasn't entirely shocked that the Silmarils had rejected Maglor (and likely Maedhros as well) the way they had rejected Morgoth. His hands were hardly clean of blood.

But what did this mean for the Oath Maglor had sworn? He had regained the Silmarils, only to be rejected by them. And for that matter…

"Maglor, you said you had recovered the Silmarils. Where are they?" Truth be told, Elrond bore no real curiosity about the fate of the Silmarils. He would have gladly gone the rest of his life without knowing what had become of them. But as it stood, it would likely cause trouble for them both in the future if Elrond didn't find out where the Silmarils were. Ignorance was not his ally, and would never be.

Maglor shook his head violently, and stared back at the sea as he murmured, "I cast it to the waters. The burning…" He shuddered. "…The burning… Nelyo could bear it no more than I… To flame he…"

Elrond perked up. "What about Maedhros? Where has he gone?"

The look Maglor turned on Elrond made his blood freeze in his veins. "To flame he consigned himself, him and his prize."

-0-0-0-

Soon, Maglor began wandering south along the shoreline, his pace slow and unsteady, given to almost drunken lurching. He showed no desire to leave the sea behind him, his eyes ever gazing longingly out at the waves and the western horizon beyond them. Elrond saw nothing to do but follow after him. He didn't see how he could go to Lindon, not now when Maglor's hands still demanded attention and he had no idea how to tell Elros what had happened. And…

Solitude had always been Elrond's escape, whether it be from company he did not want or questions he did not wish to answer, or conversations he did not wish to have. He would not go to Lindon.

(As time wore on, he would wish for his brother's company, at least.)

It was not as though he found peace in Maglor's company, however. All Elrond could do was watch as Maglor slipped further and further into his own world, his eyes constantly glazed over, uncaring of the sea water soaking his clothes, and now barely seeming to notice the state of his hands. Elrond followed after him, setting up camps come nightfall, changing the bandages on his hands, marking the progress of healing from horribly charred flesh to pink masses of scar tissue, trying at all times to push any thought to the current situation—there wasn't even a body to bury; how well will he even be able to use his hands; what are we supposed to do now—from his mind.

Then, one morning when the mountains were barely lined by golden light for the dense clouds obscuring the sky from view, Maglor began to sing.

He sang with the voice of sorrow, sang without words. Never had there been more power or beauty to Maglor's voice than when he sang his sorrow to the sea (to the Silmaril that lied within it), but when Elrond heard it, he did not weep. He could not weep. He only felt tired.

-0-0-0-

Maglor's wordless singing became an incessant source of noise. He would not stop while Anor wheeled overhead, and only when darkness fell did he too fall silent.

In time, his hands healed as much as they would, and Elrond no longer dressed them with bandages in the evenings. Whether it was owed to Maglor's strength as one of the Calaquendi or Elrond's skill as a healer, Maglor's hands had healed far sooner than Elrond thought they would. Still, they were frightful things to behold, gnarled and landscaped with thick, bumpy scar tissue, his fingernails only now beginning to grow back. It seemed unlikely that those hands would ever play upon the harp again.

But that mattered little to Maglor. Nothing seemed to matter to him, except the songs he sang to the sea.

-0-0-0-

One warm afternoon found Elrond wading in the shallows of where the sea met the mouth of a river, his trousers rolled up to his knees, looking for mussels in amongst the rocks. Maglor sat on the shore singing his wordless songs, a ring of seagulls gathering around him to serve as his bewildered audience. Elrond wasn't sure that anyone but he would eat what he found; lately, he couldn't get Maglor to eat anything while the sunlight still spilled over the waters and the hills behind them.

As he cast about in the shallows, Elrond spotted something twinkling in the sand. Curious, he reached down for it, and brought up from its spot half-buried in the sand, a necklace.

The necklace was one of small beads, amber and jet alternating one after the other, held on a chain of copper links. Elrond paused in looking at it, his throat dry. It… He'd often seen some of the Laegrim in Ossiriand wearing necklaces or bracelets similar to this one. Jet and amber were both highly prized by them, and what little blacksmithing the Laegrim did was often concerned with the creation of ornaments such as this.

Should I be surprised that I have found one here?

Elrond sighed and tucked it into his pocket. He supposed he could barter it off for supplies at some point. He carried on looking for mussels.

Elrond's searching took him to a cluster of boulders sitting upright in the water. Dozens of little silver fish darted back and forth through the channels cut by the rough, dark stones, their scales flashing in the sunlight. Over the omnipresent odor of brine (mixing with brackish water from where the river met the sea), Elrond detected another odor: heavy and sickly sweet, a faintly putrid smell that made his skin prickle with foreboding. And all too soon, he discovered its source.

He made a turn round the outermost boulder, and immediately fell back with a yell, his eyes round with horror. There, caught against the boulder furthest out, was a decaying, reeking corpse. Elrond could not have guessed whether the corpse had once been an Edhel, an Adan, or even an Orc—it was bloated almost beyond any recognition, skin grayish and sloughing off, its empty eye sockets boring holes into Elrond's face. The stench of decay hit Elrond like the flat of a blade striking his nose; he doubled over and vomited, again and again until all that came was bile and his vision swam with sweat and tears of pain.

All of a sudden, it was as though a floodgate had been wrenched open. Elrond clambered back to his feet and tore away from the boulders and the corpse they had caught there. He ran back to where Maglor sat singing, scattering the bemused seagulls who had come to listen to his song.

"Maglor, please… We can't stay here!" Hot tears dribbled down Elrond's cheeks. The sour taste of bile in his mouth threatened to choke him and clog up any words he had to say. "By the water if you wish, but not the sea! Not the sea!"

At that, Maglor ceased his singing, and frowned. He sat silent for a long time, and though he never said anything, Elrond thought he understood, for Maglor stood, and began to follow the path of the river inland. Elrond hastened to follow.

-0-0-0-

Night had fallen, deep and quiet, and there were no clouds this night, so the tapestry of the stars could unfurl unhindered. Sitting alone in the darkness, Maglor asleep beside him, Elrond stared at the spot where one star in particular had dipped below the horizon.

What was it about the Silmarils, he wondered, that gave them such power over so many, that they could do such wondrous things, such monstrous things? His family had always come to ruin over them—Thingol and Lúthien, Beren and Dior, Nimloth, Eluréd and Elurín, Elwing and Eärendil, and now Maedhros and Maglor as well. The Silmarils were the land's ruin, as well, so that the flotsam of lost lives washed up on the new shore like seaweed and shells.

Elrond felt that impulse that had been well-known to him in the early days of his captivity—the desire to be comforted, and the accompanying unwillingness to seek comfort out. As a child, he had not wished to pour out his fears and tears on one of his kidnappers. Now, Maglor was in no state to comfort anyone, and Elrond knew the cares he had gathered to be beyond reassurance.

The thought was beginning to come to him: he had no desire to leave Maglor as he was now, but the sea and its deeds, they were evil to him.

The darkness would carry that thought, and the sea.

Nelyo—Maedhros

Ithil—the Sindarin name for the Moon; of the Sun and the Moon, it is the elder of the two vessels, lit by Telperion's last flower; in an early version of 'Of the Sun and Moon and the Hiding of Valinor' was said to be "the giver of visions" (The Lost Road 264). As this form is very similar to 'Isil', the Quenya form (which is likely to be its original form, as the vessel of the Moon was made in Aman), it is likely that 'Ithil' was adapted from 'Isil'; all I can suppose is that the Valar got in contact with Melian at some point during the First Age to share information.
Edain— Men of the three houses (the Houses of Bëor, Hador and Haleth) who were faithful to the Elves throughout the First Age; after the War of Wrath they were gifted with the land of Númenor and became known as the Dúnedain; after the Akallabêth they established Arnor and Gondor (singular: Adan) (Sindarin)
Anor—the Sindarin name for the Sun
Edhil—Elves (singular: Edhel) (Sindarin)
Rodyn—Valar (singular: Rodon) (Sindarin): a common Sindarin name for the Valar
Nér—man (plural: neri)
Calaquendi—"Elves of the Light"; the Elves who came to Aman from Cuiviénen, or were born there, especially those born during the Years of the Trees and had born witness to their light; the Vanyar, the Noldor, and the Falmari (singular: Calaquendë) (Quenya)
Laegrim—the Green-Elves of Ossiriand (singular: Laegel) (plural: Laegil; Laegrim is class-plural term); the division of the Nandor who followed Denethor, son of Lenwë; the name was imposed upon them by the Sindar, both because of the lush forests of their land and because the Laegrim often dressed in green as camouflage