One two three and turn, four five six, step back
Why was he still here?
Seven eight and bow. Again!
His hand did not hurt even though it looked black. He knew it was a bad thing. Once the burning went beyond the sinews there would be no more pain. But he did not care.
People did not understand.
It was not the oath that determined his actions.
It never had been.
Honour, loyalty to his family perhaps, pride most certain. But not the oath.
They were fools, those who thought that.
As if the Valar would not have been forgiving, as if Illuvatar himself would not have relieved them from their vow if they had repented. At least in the beginning.
What had driven them forward were their own decisions. Their own deeds, their own crimes. The suffocating knowledge that there was no way back. That they could never turn back time, never undo what was done.
That was what had driven him and all his brothers to act as they had.
Unlike them, he did not hate his father. He did not blame anyone for what he had done.
They had all been old enough to choose, old enough to understand the consequences of their deeds.
He had chosen to leave them behind, the people that were most important to him. His wife, his children. And though the insight pained him, he knew he never had regretted doing so.
It had been the only possible choice. He had wanted to see the world, to escape the golden cage that was Aman. He would never have been happy anymore if he had not gone, the longing was too strong. She did not understand, of course. How could she? But he had wished her well and he had left, eager to see what was beyond the ocean.
No, he had not left for an oath alone.
Had he ever been happy since?
seven, eight, no! try again at the third step!
The answer was crystal clear. Yes.
His long life had been dedicated to war and fighting, and strangely, that had made him happy at times. Somehow it should not have been possible for one who had committed so many crimes and when he remembered that, he felt guilty. But with time he had come to understand that one thing did not prevent the other. That there was no such thing as justice. That one who lived a pious life could still be chased by misfortune and unhappiness, while a murderer and traitor could live his life and find joy in small things.
When he was in charge of his troops with every single man listening to his command, when orders were being perfectly executed and every movement happened exactly the way he wanted, he had been happy.
When he rode through his lands, feeling the wind play with his hair, moving from one encampment to the other to defend what they called Maglor's gap now, he had been happy.
When Elwing's young twins learned how to write, they wrote letters to him to tell him how much they loved him, even though they knew very well who he was, what he had done – and he had felt happy.
When he met people that shared his thinking, friends, old and new. When he was alone with Maedhros, dearest to him of all his brothers, yes he had felt happy.
But when he wrote music, he felt sad.
When he played his harp, he grieved.
In those moments, he remembered how he had betrayed them all. Time and time again he had failed those that he loved.
By making a simple choice.
Why he had not left the Silmaril where it was, now at the end of all things, he did not know.
Looking at his charred hand, he felt regret rising. But he told himself regret was a pointless feeling. After all, he had had a choice, no? And he had chosen once more.
And one and two and three and four, slower now!
He could not suppress the memories of teaching his son how to dance, now so long ago. The boy had never heard the songs he had written while he had stayed here, in Endorre. Those of Valinore now seemed so superficial, so void of true emotions. He had never been interested either. Like his mother, he was more of a dancer than a musician. One brief instant he tried to picture him as he would be now, an adult. But his dismissed the thought. He would never see him again.
Through the years, he had taught his songs to others. Would they remember?
Would his music survive now his last brother had gone? There was probably no one left who cared. He might be remembered only as a war lord, the one that had roamed the plains, fighting the enemy. Or as one of those fighting brothers that had caused so much pain to the world. He might be, but maybe he did not have to be.
Some of his choices might have not been wrong after all, he thought as confidence rose within. Someone might remember him for his music.
Elrond, Elros, Fingon's boy. Perhaps even some of the wise. Some at least understood why they had done what they had done. The thought made him feel strangely at peace.
The earth started to shake and he could barely keep standing. Waves were rising higher, the water was coming. He did not run, did not even move. He would await the flood here, he had made his final choice.
Life was a dance, and it had to be danced till the end.
Set at the end of the first age, when Maglor has just discarded the Silmaril, and the land is being destroyed, while the bard is being consumed by the thought that life is malleable, and all his wrongdoings were the consequence of his own choices.