I was forty one when my brother and I were made to choose – he, the race of men, I, the kinship of the elves. I was forty one (the beginning of old age for men; the end of childhood for elves) when the most precious being in my life told me he was starting to die.
I was fifty five when I lost my foster-fathers, the murderers of my people, my guardians. I was called Peredhel, half-elven, and no one (including me) knew if was to take it as an adult fully grown or a very young elf. Perhaps this was the moment when I started to be described as "ageless". No one quite knew what to make of me, or formed uneducated but strong opinions that proved, more often than not, utterly false in the end.
Most of those people saw me as a poor, defenseless, misguided victim: poor little Elrond with his (not-so) dead parents, abducted by those bad, bad fëanorians, and how hard his life must be, how terrible, how sad. No one wanted to hear my own version: that poor little Elrond had grown into a loyal fëanorian, wasn't missing his (mostly unknown) parents, and wasn't actually sad until self-entitled, holier-than-thou saviors from the West came and managed to divide him from his brother.
I was a survivor. My fathers had taught me to be loyal to my words and family above all; yet, the sons of Fëanor weren't named after the greatest scholar of my people for their blood alone. I was taught to be clever and critical; living with the remnants of a once great people taught me to adapt and live dangerously. I was born in a time of war, and made far wiser to its dubious logics than the host from Aman.
No one suspected poor, sad little Elrond of spying. When my fathers cut the guards throats and stole the Silmarils and were caught, none of those dumb idealists surrounding us took notice of me (standing right there, in their midst). No one questioned my presence in the camp several days before the theft, nor my frequent travels to the outside, where I could report my observations. Likewise, none followed me when I left after them, more or less happy, because helping in fulfilling the Oath weighted more than the few valinoreans killed in the process.
There I saw Maedhros Fëanorion die, and my heart, already fractured after Elros's betrayal, broke.
Current copies of the Silmarillion state that love grew between my fathers and I; such a note I added myself, and made sure every copies after I did recorded my modification, for surely Maglor must have loved me, for he found in himself the strength to comfort me still. He hadn't touched "his" silmaril yet, but his brother had just died, and by their last attack on the camp, he had forfeited all means of returning to our people. Yet he held me and dried my tears, and told me to return to the great host (for surely, they would accept me still, and as a friend to be welcomed).
I almost believed his promise that he would be fine.
Almost – not enough not to come back, and dive in the waves, and pull him out of the water where he was trying to drown himself.
Loyalty runs deep in the fëanorian's blood. I took Maglor (mute and shocked to the point of mindlessness) to Celebrimbor, whose "abandonment" of his line was a show rather than a personal belief. I had been told by Maedhros, long ago, that Celebrimbor had remained in Nargothrond only at his father's explicit orders, though his influence hadn't been enough to sway the kingdom back toward friendship to his family. My cousin by adoption's position wasn't easy, but who else could help us?
We managed to hide him for months before we agreed (after the valinorean had left) to tell Gil-Galad of our protégé. In this, Celebrimbor was spurred by genuine guilt, for Gil-Galad had proved a firm protector for him, and he was loath to betray his trust. I hoped to play once more the pathetic cards handed to me by life (even if I wasn't, never was poor, little sad Elrond, the illusion was useful).
That last part didn't work. Perhaps Gil-Galad knew me too well by now, or perhaps my game was getting old, but he told me quite frankly that no pity was needed or desired between us. He agreed to let Maglor under Celebrimbor's guard, though, since the last son of Fëanor (being unable to talk or even move on his own) posed no apparent threat.
I choose to become a healer, not because of my kind soul, which was rather absent in my youth, but for Maglor. It wasn't until my talent and knowledge grew that I started to enjoy the arts of healing, the taboo about killing enacted for all healers, the grateful looks in people eyes. Being a fëanorian had taught me to belong to a despised people, renowned for its brutality; now I learnt how to be respected by most, and how to look them in the eyes without expecting disbelief, pity or hate. Even the novelty of my birth started to wear out.
We moved east like everyone else. Maglor recovered with time, until even the burn on his hand turned into barely more than slim, white scars, the facets of the jewel, almost invisible unless someone knew of them. He was healed enough to be able to decide between remaining with me or following Celebrimbor to Eregion; healed enough to chafe at being restricted to an isolated home, in a world were those who could recognize him weren't so numerous anymore. Surely, after years of good conduct (of no conduct at all, Maglor would say), Gil-Galad could allow him out?
The King let him go the day the news of Celebrimbor's death landed on his desk.
With Celebrimbor had died the last of Fëanor's line. Maglor was politically dead, and no one saw me as a legitimate heir of this house. The destruction of Eregion, the massive loss of our people shifted Gil-Galad's views toward leniency. He made Maglor swear an oath never to unsheathe a weapon, unless his life hung in the balance, and let him loose.
I welcomed my father and friend into my host. Together we built Rivendell. He saw me leave for war while he remained, forbidden to fight, devoured by worry, envious, and at the same time oddly comforted but the impossibility of crime restraining him. He saw me marry Galadriel's daughter (whose mother feigned not to recognize the elf called Lindir), my children be brought into the world. He taught them, with a voice the shadow of what it was but still beautiful, the lullabies of Valinor and the great laments of the First Age.
When finally I left Middle Earh, toward my wife and to run from the last great sorrow of my life, Lindir followed me, even as the legends claimed, and will keep claiming for centuries to come, that Maglor Fëanorion wanders the shores, alone, full of grief, but still singing.