1. One Last Look of Grief
Emptiness was something Maglor had gradually become more used to over the endless years, the endless years he had suffered and worked through, one heartbeat at a time. Maglor, mighty singer amongst the Eldar, known and renowned for his voice that had once been heard during the bliss of Aman. Bliss was something Maglor felt he would never feel again.
Maglor did not want to feel anything.
The cursed jewel that glinted in his hands drove him to the point of maddening pain and insanity. So much pain and needless slaughter: Just because of three damned jewels. An evil, concealed by the brightest and purest of lights that existed, an evil that would not go away.
Flashes of his life taunted him like sleepless fëa from abroad.
Amrod and Amras, alike in mood and more so in face. Celegorm the fair and Caranthir the dark. Curufin, closest in hand to their father and Maedhros the tall.
Gone, all of them were gone, passed to the edges of Arda Comprehensible into the Everlasting Darkness. Withered, faded, ashes and dust. All that he had known and believed in had wasted way, ebbed beyond the confines of the world. What lay behind the darkness? Maglor did not know.
Fëanor.
His father: Creator and ada. Who was Maglor to question his intentions? As with all the rest, Maglor had done what had been expected from him: he had taken the Oath.
To what end, adar? And for what price?
Kinslaying, murdering, ravaging and scavenging. Wrecking and burning as they went, rebels and outcasts, the Seven Sons of Feanor. Maglor had been one of them. Pathetic and beyond reason, clouded in all their intentions and blinded by their greed, hate, stubbornness and short-sightedness. Rampages and killings fuelled by naught but raw passion and the urge to lay claim to what was theirs. What they claimed was theirs.
Who can lay claim to the Light?
They had defied, they played the deviant, Exiles from Aman forever.
Existence.
What use was existence to him now? Maglor felt the need to weep and loose himself from the grip of Arda. Why?
he cried, Why? What had driven him and his kin to do the unmentionable? To kill, kin versus kin, to pillage, taking what was not theirs, to hack and to burn? Crazed delusions, nothing but crazed delusions. Demented thoughts and erring visions. Maglor did not know, could not begin to understand and Maglor no longer cared. How could he, when he had seen before his naked eyes the body, the shell of what had once been his brother, Maedhros and no less, eldest and wisest, hurl itself into a fiery chasm bottomless?
Or maybe not so wise.
Father and sons. They who had doubted words that were wiser, beings that were higher. Now came sorrow, and all that Maglor felt was sorrow. Voids of Nothingness sounded cheerful in drastic comparison. Emptiness, devoid of emotion, hardened and cold. Pitiless. Merciless. Barbaric.
Ai Elbereth, ai Elbereth!
Why now do you sing to the Lady, Maglor? Why bother to put your voice to use, to forever be melded with the crashing of the waves? Why turn your gaze across an ocean you were fated never to cross?
Gilthoniel, a Elbereth!
The spark faded into the eternal waters as Maglor turned away to face forever.
Silivern penna míriel!
Maglor did not want to feel anything.
The cursed jewel that glinted in his hands drove him to the point of maddening pain and insanity. So much pain and needless slaughter: Just because of three damned jewels. An evil, concealed by the brightest and purest of lights that existed, an evil that would not go away.
Flashes of his life taunted him like sleepless fëa from abroad.
Amrod and Amras, alike in mood and more so in face. Celegorm the fair and Caranthir the dark. Curufin, closest in hand to their father and Maedhros the tall.
Gone, all of them were gone, passed to the edges of Arda Comprehensible into the Everlasting Darkness. Withered, faded, ashes and dust. All that he had known and believed in had wasted way, ebbed beyond the confines of the world. What lay behind the darkness? Maglor did not know.
Fëanor.
His father: Creator and ada. Who was Maglor to question his intentions? As with all the rest, Maglor had done what had been expected from him: he had taken the Oath.
To what end, adar? And for what price?
Kinslaying, murdering, ravaging and scavenging. Wrecking and burning as they went, rebels and outcasts, the Seven Sons of Feanor. Maglor had been one of them. Pathetic and beyond reason, clouded in all their intentions and blinded by their greed, hate, stubbornness and short-sightedness. Rampages and killings fuelled by naught but raw passion and the urge to lay claim to what was theirs. What they claimed was theirs.
Who can lay claim to the Light?
They had defied, they played the deviant, Exiles from Aman forever.
Existence.
What use was existence to him now? Maglor felt the need to weep and loose himself from the grip of Arda. Why?
he cried, Why? What had driven him and his kin to do the unmentionable? To kill, kin versus kin, to pillage, taking what was not theirs, to hack and to burn? Crazed delusions, nothing but crazed delusions. Demented thoughts and erring visions. Maglor did not know, could not begin to understand and Maglor no longer cared. How could he, when he had seen before his naked eyes the body, the shell of what had once been his brother, Maedhros and no less, eldest and wisest, hurl itself into a fiery chasm bottomless?
Or maybe not so wise.
Father and sons. They who had doubted words that were wiser, beings that were higher. Now came sorrow, and all that Maglor felt was sorrow. Voids of Nothingness sounded cheerful in drastic comparison. Emptiness, devoid of emotion, hardened and cold. Pitiless. Merciless. Barbaric.
Ai Elbereth, ai Elbereth!
Why now do you sing to the Lady, Maglor? Why bother to put your voice to use, to forever be melded with the crashing of the waves? Why turn your gaze across an ocean you were fated never to cross?
Gilthoniel, a Elbereth!
The spark faded into the eternal waters as Maglor turned away to face forever.
Silivern penna míriel!
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.
