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When he is reborn in beautiful Valinor, there is no one waiting for him or wanting him.
He no longer has a mother.
He no longer has a father.
He no longer has any family.
All he has left are names, but they are like ashes in his mouth as he tries to pronounce them to fill the bitter loneliness with something.
Maeglin. Lomion. Nobody.
He should not be reborn. He should never find himself in these beautiful lands. He retreats to the stone door of Hal Mandos and strikes it with his hands. For some time he screams, then only whispers, the blood from his torn knuckles leaving grimm, sad lines on the white stone.
"I shouldn't be here... I shouldn't be alive... Why am I here?" In time, he doesn't even have the strength to whisper anymore.
Why was he allowed to return?
There is no way back. At dusk he comes to terms with this and walks away, huddled under rough clothes like those given to all returnees.
Where should he go?
What should he do?
His hands ache, his skin burns from the time he spent in the sun hitting the stone, the darkness soothes the pain in his eyes, but that's all he has.
He doesn't know where he's going, but he instinctively moves away from the sounds that might come from settlements and villages. He doesn't want to meet anyone. He is afraid to meet anyone. He drinks water from streams, eats mushrooms and berries he finds in the groves. This can't satiate his hunger, but does someone like him even deserve to be satiated?
He is a traitor.
He loved Idril.
He ruined Gondolin.
He travels at night under the light of the stars, looks at them and all he can do is cry.
During the day he hides as best he can. He crawls into caves, hides in the roots of trees, his white outfit of a reborn quickly turned into a raggs, dirty and scratched.
Perhaps that's a good thing. Shadows always followed him and the blackness better hid how skinny and clumsy he was. Here he is again.
Sometimes, when he looks at his new body in the water of the streams, he thinks he has lost weight. Probably all he is doing is losing weight.
The beautiful warm season passes very quickly. He keeps walking, his clothes don't stop the cold. He is cold.
Good. He should be cold. He deserves to feel what those who died in Gondolin felt.
It was his fault.
He is the one who led to their deaths.
He should be dead. The world around him is empty, it's just him, the plants and the animals. He should be dead, he thinks, and this thought is the only one that doesn't taste like ashes.
Maybe he could die of cold?
Maybe when one day he falls asleep in another cave or under the roots, the cold will put him to sleep forever?
He begins to hope for this, and then it hits him how much of a coward he is. He looks at the stars and cries.
Why was he allowed to be here?
Why was he allowed to be reborn?
He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be alive.
Maeglin. Lomion. Nobody.
The taste of ash on the tongue, and then the metallic note of blood. He bit his tongue. Blood seeps from the corner of his mouth and a few drops fall to the ground. He looks at it with a blank stare and then goes on.
He is cold. Slowly he no longer has the strength to walk. There are no more berries, and the waters in the streams are too cold to use any longer to wash himself or even to drink.
He is cold. His stomach is empty. He wants to drink, but is afraid of the icy water. Will it freeze his throat? Will it cause illness, then he will die? Could an elf do that?
He can't go any further.
He sits down heavily on a small hill among the gray, cold stones and curls up in a ball. He trembles. Everything hurts him. He can't feel his fingers or his ears anymore, and probably can't feel other things either.
Is it possible that he will be able to return to the Halls of Mandos?
He curls up in a ball among the gray stones, the cold crushing and overwhelming him. For a moment he looks at his icy, blue fingers.
Maeglin. Lomion. Nobody.
He closes his eyes and hopes he won't open them again. The music in his soul that he once loved sounds like the echo of a snapping string.
It's over.
There is no place for him in this beautiful land. He should not be here. There is no more mother. There is no more father. He has no family.
Why was he allowed to be reborn?
The echo of a snapping string crackles inside him.
He opens his eyes.
He is lying in a green, beautiful clearing. It's a dream, it must be a dream. He doesn't deserve dreams. As he blinks, the sky darkens, the trees twist above and around him, there is only darkness.
His eyelids droop.
He opens his eyes.
The clearing is green again, he lies on it, and the figures that could be his mother and father are there. As he blinks, he kneels on the stone floor with the body of a woman in his arms and watches the man fall into the abyss.
His eyelids droop.
He opens his eyes.
It's a dream again. He may be broken, evil, not worth anything, but he has always had a talent for magic. And he has always kept his mind tight.
He sits at the table with his cousin and uncle.... He winks. The table is empty, it's just him and the blood on his hands.
His eyelids droop.
He opens his eyes.
Beautiful mountains stretch around, the sky is blue and breathtaking, and the sun shimmers among the clouds.
He blinks, and the glare of the sun blinds him to tears, and rough black hands grab him and twist him, tying ropes around his arms and neck.
His eyelids droop.
Why do dreams persist?
He is so tired. He feels sick. He wishes he were dead.
He opens his eyes.
A warrior with thick golden curls stands on the wall and looks into the distance with eyes like two sapphires.
He is beautiful and good. He is as bright as the sun.
He blinks. The dark lord leans over him with a smile stretching his lips, golden eyes stare so hard that their glow burns into his soul. His hands reach for him, the world darkens and he lies in a dark forest, and the only thing there is an equally dark lord pressing a knife to his stomach.
His eyelids remain open.
He deserves it.
He was worth nothing, he was a coward, he betrayed. There was no mercy, forgiveness or anything good for someone like him. There couldn't be.
The nightmare continues. His eyes are tearing up. He screams so hard until blood flows from his mouth.
He deserves it.
He deserves it.
He deserves it.
Everything was his fault.
He is to blame for the fall of Gondolin. He is the one who brought darkness to the beautiful kingdom. The world would have been a better and more beautiful place if his good mother had left him behind when he was a child.
He can't move, can't feel his body, choking on blood. It hurts.
He deserve-
"STOP!" An unfamiliar voice rips through his nightmare until the darkness cracks and crumbles into dust in the sudden light.
He lies on the green grass among strange, multicolored trees. A man with dark hair gathered in a braid kneels over him, holding his hand to his forehead.
The man is a stranger, but somehow familiar. He wears blue robes and a narrow diadem. He is beautiful, and his eyes shine in an unusual way.
"Stop," he repeats quietly. "Maeglin, enough of all this. I can't watch my grandson do something like this to himself again and again. Lord- Lord Irmo will not try to heal you again, but stop, please-" when he speaks, his voice heavy with exertion.
Ah, he's the one who broke the nightmare.
Grandson, he thinks sluggishly, trying to remember what the word even means. The man gently picks him up and presses him against his chest, carefully combing his fingers through his dark hair.
"Stop. It all has to stop. It’s all the past. It's time to let go." The elf whispers. He looks tired and hurt, but his arms remain tight and sure around him.
He doesn't know what to do about it.
He cries. He doesn't deserve to cry, but he cries.
“I am here, Maeglin.”