A candle lit, a goblet of wine poured and he was ready to settle before the fire to read.
“…The seven sons of Fëanor were Maedhros the tall; Maglor the mighty singer, whose voice was heard far over the land and sea; Celegrom the fair, and Caranthir the dark…
…Of the Kinslaying at Aqualondë, more is told in that lament which in named Noldolantë, the Fall of the Noldor, that Maglor made ere he was lost…”
The elf closed his eyes, he knew the lament well. He was not a Noldo, but of Teleri descent and both peoples knew of the tragic incident. Calmly opening his eyes, he continued to read from the ancient tome as the hours passed.
“…Then Maglor desired to indeed submit, for his heart was sorrowful, and he said: ‘The oath says not that we may not bide our time, and it may be that in Valinor all shall be forgiven and forgot, and we shall come into our own peace.’
But Maedhros answered that if they returned to Aman, but not the favor of the Valar, then their oath would still remain, but its fulfillment be beyond all hope; and he said: ‘Who can tell to what dreadful doom we shall come, if we disobey the Powers in their own land…’
Yet Maglor still held back, saying: ‘If Manwë and Varda themselves deny the fulfillment of an oath to which we named them in witness, is it not made void?’ …”
Here he took another break and stretched. Rising, he walked to the balcony doors and took in the glorious sight Ithil created in its fullness. This reading was beginning to drain him; however, this was something he had to complete if he wanted to make an informed decision. With a sigh, he returned to his reading.
"…And it is told of Maglor that he could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him; and he cast it at last into the Sea, and thereafter he wandered ever upon the shores, singing in pain and regret against the waves. For Maglor was mighty among the singers of old, named only after Daeron of Doriath…”
He put the book carefully on the end table. Rising, he saw that the candles had burned near down to the base. Making his way to the wardrobe, he selected a warm nightshirt. Extinguishing the remaining candles and pulling down the bedding, he crawled beneath to seek what reverie he could. Tomorrow he would make his decision.
Waves crashed mercilessly against the stone jetty. A lone figure stood at its point, praying for all he was worth…
“I will not call for you.” The lone elf whipped around at the sound of another’s voice. The sight before him was astounding. A tall elf with charcoal hair, and eyes the color of wet slate, dressed in crimson robes, had appeared out of nowhere. The lone elf fell to his knees before the Vala.
With a bowed head the elf spoke, “I know I do not deserve a place within your halls. But I beg of you, why will Ilúvatar not let me fade into nothingness?”
“You wish to fade into nothingness?” Námo questioned.
“It is no more or less than I deserve for my crimes.”
Námo came forward. Using his finger to raise the bowed head, he pinned the other with a compassionate gaze. “So say you. However, it is not you who makes such a decision. Nor is it truly I. The Creator alone knows all the harmonies in His music. Nevertheless, whether you belong in my halls is not the point. Your time on Arda is not over; there is more for you to do.”
Tears slipped down pale cheeks. Maglor knew he deserved his extended torment for all the foolish things he had done in his life. How could he even think that he deserved death?
Námo took in the sight before him. Though the children of Ilúvatar believed him to lack compassion, or any emotion, this was a huge misconception. The Doomsman of the Valar cared deeply for every good soul. He took pride not in their judgment, but in their redemption. Still, it was not for him to offer forgiveness. Gently grasping the distraught elf by the shoulders, he helped him to his feet.
“Look at me, Son of Fëanor.” The elf lifted his eyes, not wanting to anger the Vala anymore than he already had. Námo sighed, “You remain on Arda, not to prolong your punishment, but because your part in the Great Music is not over. You still have things that must be done.” With a small smile, the dark vision turned toward the shore and vanished.
Maglor stared at the shore. He did not like being left in the dark. He had been that way for too long already. What could The Powers That Be want of him? He was sorry beyond measure for his part in the Kinslaying and Silmarils hunt. He knew there could be no forgiveness, so what was there for him do to? With slumped shoulders, the ancient elf returned to his cave at the base of the cliff. Sleep was no friend to him, but perhaps in his troubled reverie, a clue might unfold.