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He probably could have escaped the men if he’d tried, but he hadn’t tried. Not really. Not from any suicidal impulses, but because he’d heard their talk as he hid among the sand dunes, just as he’d heard many men talk while he hid himself from view.
He had known things were going wrong in the kingdom that had once been Elros’s.
He had not known that this had included human sacrifice to Morgoth.
The Numenoreans seemed to think an elf would be just the thing to celebrate some big voyage that was soon to launch.
Maglor thought he’d rather like to get face to face with whoever thought it was a good idea to try to bring Morgoth back.
The sea was dark and furious as they sailed with a cargo of captured Men.
“The Valar are angry we’ve taken one of their firstborn,” one sailor muttered.
“They’re always angry,” another said angrily. “The seas ain’t that much worse than before. Now get to work before the cap’n hears you talkin’ like that!”
Maglor wondered which was right.
Or maybe the Valar were just angry that he was sailing west, even if his final destination wasn’t home.
The land of Numenor was beautiful, but the cities …
The harbor was a crush of human misery as slaves were shuffled off of ships and into the waiting hands of cruel priests and auctioneers. The streets beyond were no better, cluttered with the poor, the desperate, and a few brave souls crying out that the end was near.
Maglor saw one of those clubbed and dragged off.
He was just dragged on, through cleaner streets, past temples that warped the very song of the world, past homes white as bleached bone, bereft of growing things, and surrounded by grand statues of the glorious dead, at least according to one of the guards.
The blood staining his lips was worth the answered question.
Not for him was any of that, though. For him was the capital, he was informed, where the high priest himself awaited.
The more he heard, the more Maglor looked forward to meeting this so-called high priest.
Once, Maglor had welcomed the sight of eagles.
Now great storm clouds of them gathered over the island, casting everything in dim, dangerous light. The whole land was heavy with anticipated wrath.
The song would reach a climax soon. Maglor was beginning to think he didn’t want to be on the island when it came.
He was exhausted, bloodied, and wary when he was at last dragged before the temple they’d told him of.
The very stones cried out with the weight of innocent blood.
Maglor knew that sound all too well.
And the high priest -
The Numenoreans had called him Zigur, but Maglor doubted that was his name.
Because the being before him was not a Man. Not even an elf.
It was a Maia, and he could think of only one who could feel so dark and look so fair, though he’d never before seen him face to face.
“Sauron,” he said, and it was only a lifetime of performance that let it come out as a challenge, and not a horrified, enraged shout.
Sauron, who had left scars on Maedhros’s body and scars on his mind that left him wild eyed and desperate when he woke from dreams in the night. Sauron, who had wrought the chain that cost his brother his hand. Sauron, whose torments had helped pushed Maedhros over that edge.
Sauron, who had tormented Finrod in the dark. Sauron, who had picked off his cousin’s followers one by one. Sauron, who had seen Finrod horribly, messily dead.
Sauron, who had betrayed Celebrimbor. Sauron, who had tortured him beyond endurance. Sauron, who had held up his broken body like a banner.
Sauron, who now sought to turn Elros’s hope to evil end.
Sauron.
He couldn’t actually rip a Maia’s throat out with his teeth as Huan had. That didn’t stop him from wanting to.
“An elf,” Sauron said with a darkly delighted smile. “And one with the light of the Trees still lingering in your eyes, no matter how ragged the rest of you has become! What discarded relic might you be?”
No doubt he would recognize the name, but Maglor had no intention of giving it to him. There was only one thing he would give in answer:
Maglor opened his mouth and sang with a fierceness he had not for an age of the world.
He did not make Finrod’s mistake. He did not try to sing of goodness and light. He knew too well that he had no defenses there.
He sang of wrath instead.
Sauron’s eyes widened and in the first moment, he actually took a step back.
The courtyard stirred.
Sauron stepped forward and sang back.
The wrath of the elves, shining armies charging forth and sweeping down rank after rank of the enemy’s corrupted creatures -
Those same armies, lying crushed and dead, their blood soaking into the desolate ground -
Their songs shook the stone of the pavement before the temple. The altar began to crumble. The pillars trembled in their place.
The wrath of the dwarves, carving their way relentlessly, unstoppably, out of the battle once their king lay dead -
The dwarf cities sacked by the elves, and their dead lying crushed by a river -
The gathered people - masters, slaves, worshippers, all - began to back away, and then to run. The air trembled with unchecked power.
Only one woman, with fine clothes and a weary face, steadied herself on a shaking pillar and remained.
The wrath of Men, fighting relentlessly on, grimly fighting despite knowing they might never live to see the end -
Descendants of those Men crying out in ecstasy as blood was poured out on Morgoth’s altar, faces twisted by the need for blood -
The woman walked forward, a stone shaken loose from the temple gripped tightly in both hands
The wrath of the Valar. Pitiless and absolute. Inescapable. Wrath that already lay heavy on the sea, on the land, on the air.
Maglor threw the full weight of his Doom into his song and thrust it upon Sauron. This is what you’ve courted. This is what you’ve called down upon yourself.
Sauron opened his mouth to answer.
The woman brought the stone crashing into his head.
A Maia could not be killed by such things, but his form was injured, and he stumbled.
At that moment, Maglor called out with all the terror, all the despair, all the desire to flee that had kept him wandering hopelessly on the water’s edge for an Age.
Sauron’s form flickered. Changed to something small, vicious, and winged.
And fled.
Their songs slowly faded from the air. The woman stared at him with wide eyes. “He’s gone. After all this time - Who are you?”
Maglor had no idea how widely his name was still known. “No one important,” he said quietly, his voice strained almost past his ability. “And yourself?”
“Someone of equally little importance.” Her mouth twisted bitterly as she walked closer. “I’m called Tar-Miriel.”
Maglor flinched. At the name, and at her eyes. They were Elros’s eyes, infinitely wearier than Maglor had ever seen them.
It was only then, in that quiet moment, that he realized the terrible clouds of Manwe’s eagles were gone.
Tar-Miriel followed his eyes upward and realized the same thing. A bit of hope brought warmth to her eyes. “Now that the accursed one is gone and my husband,” there her mouth twisted again, “has sailed away with the worst of them, perhaps the Valar have had mercy.”
She couldn’t feel what Maglor could.
“The Valar are gone,” he said hoarsely. “Entirely gone.” Never before had he felt such a complete absence of their power. “Something’s coming.” He turned to her. “We need - “ They needed to leave, but they were days from the coast. “There must be somewhere safe here. Safer than elsewhere at least.”
She didn’t doubt him. Hope fled quickly, and her eyes hardened with resolve. “The Meneltarma,” she said. “The Holy Mountain. No matter how angry they’ve become, they’ve never struck there.”
A sacred place. Maglor very much doubted he’d be welcome there.
But Miriel perhaps could find safety there. “Show me,” he ordered. He felt the world tremble around them. “Run.”
She fled towards the mountain, Maglor keeping pace behind.
They were at the base of the mountain when Maglor could no longer ignore the beautiful, terrible song of the world. It filled something in his soul in a way he’d never felt before even as it sent forth a tide of dread. He turned.
Water rose up in an impossible wall behind them, growing every moment.
Miriel turned and saw it too. The prayers she had been murmuring as they ran stuttered to a halt. “Climb,” she said, tugging at his arm, “climb, we’ll be safe at the top - “
Maglor gently pulled his arm away. “Not I,” he said. There was horror building in his veins, pounding against the facade of courage he was trying to keep up.
Even now, after everything, he didn’t want to die.
But if this mountain truly was holy, it wouldn’t bear his touch. He’d learned that long ago. He wouldn’t risk her chances by trying.
He could see stubbornness rising up in her, stubbornness he remembered all too well from the boys who had once looked up at him with those eyes.
“I am Maglor Feanorian,” he told her. “The mountain will not bear me.”
Still she hesitated.
“Go!” he shouted with all the force of will he could, and even she could not withstand that.
She ran.
He heard his name in her prayers as she did.
He turned from her to the wave. Ever closer. It wouldn’t be long now.
Maglor raised his voice in wordless lament, but the roar of the wave drowned out all sound. Its power far eclipsed his own.
Climb, Miriel, climb. May you find mercy on your mountain.
He could see it clearly now. A great wave crashing down, higher than the sacred mountain, as black as the void he was sworn to.
He was about to be fed to it whole.
He cried out louder, still unheard, and raised up his arms in - surrender? defiance? He hardly knew.
The wave crashed down.