Written for Back to Middle Earth Month 2018. Prompt: Suicide

Shattered

Maedhros cradled his left hand against his chest. 

The sun was nearing the horizon. They had been shuffling northwards for five or perhaps six leagues. Maedhros had lost count. He tripped over the rough ground and only Maglor's hand on his shoulder kept him from falling. It was hard going. The waves had scoured away the plants and topsoil leaving behind a desolate landscape of dark basalt. The further they traveled, the worse it became, the bedrock broken by steaming rents. It was like a tapestry unraveling, and Morgoth's Power was the threads.

Maedhros was aware of nothing but the wild crashing of the Sea, his own stumbling footsteps and the ceaseless pain. 

Much of the skin of his palm and fingertips were blackened while the rest was left blistered and weeping. They had no bandages or even reasonably clean cloth so his hand remained unbound, curled into a claw of agony. The pain seemed to have settled into his very bones, radiating through his arm to the rest of his body. It had even reached into his stomach in the form of gut-clenching nausea that made even sipping mouthfuls of water difficult. His limbs ached with exhaustion yet he did not stop their wearisome journey.

Without warning, Maglor paused, causing Maedhros to bump into him. Looking up, he saw why: before them was impassable fissure, its depths fiery with the molten blood of the earth. Maedhros all but collapsed to the ground, his strength spent. His brother followed suit, more gracefully, face liberally streaked with soot and flecks of dried blood. The waterskin was proffered silently but he shook his head. Maglor's open mind revealed nothing but concern and love, his features contorted into a mask of caution and worry. 

It was the same expression that he had worn as he cut the Silmaril free from Maedhros' charred hand. 

"I do not think any have followed us. We will rest here for the night. Tomorrow we can heat southeast to more clement lands."

Maedhros did not answer. He knew, perhaps had always known, that his father's hallowed gems would not abide his touch. He had grasped one anyway. Maedhros knew he would never stand in the Ring of Doom to face the judgement of the Valar. But he could find some atonement from the Power blessed jewel. His vision went white as he forced his damaged fingers to slip into the leather bag at his brother's belt. Once more he held the Silmaril and, as the fire of it coursed through his sinews, he wondered if this was what justice felt like.

"What are you doing?" his last remaining brother demanded as Maedhros shakily rose.

His faithful Maglor, who followed him into Doriath and the Havens despite his vehement protests. His gentle brother, the only artist among them, whose talents in shaping song was the only reason they had survived until now. Tenderhearted Makalaurë, who ensured that two half-elven children had the best childhood as was possible among a harried and bereft people. Maedhros' favorite brother, a feared warrior among Men, Eldar and the servants Enemy alike, yet who had hated learning swordplay even before any had fallen to their blades.

The pain was not enough. It would never be enough. 

"Something I ought to have done years ago," he replied quietly. Then he leaped into chasm and the river of fire below, welcoming the penance of the Everlasting Darkness.