Disclaimer: My apologies to Tolkien, whose characters and world I am borrowing here.
The bards are already weaving songs and tales of the battle, and with typical Noldor melancholy are calling it the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Which is foolish, because Maeglin was there, and as far as he remembers nobody on the field was shedding any tears at the time. When the ground is littered with the bodies of your allies and you're half-choking on dust and blood and fear, sobbing your heart out is hardly a good survival strategy.
Then again, it was not as if Maeglin cared about the fate of any of those who had fallen in the Nirnaeth. After you've seen your mother die at your father's hand (at the tip of a weapon intended for yourself, more specifically), the death of a few Gondolindrim is hardly the sort of thing you're going to mope over. Especially if you know that they would have hardly wept over your death had your positions been reversed.
There is only one in Gondolin who he would shed tears over now, and she has already made it more than clear that she has no interest in anything he might feel for her, whether it be rage, love, or grief. He wept for his mother; and somewhat less and more guardedly for his father, too. He is unwilling to display such weakness again. No, better they say that Maeglin, sharp-eyed and dark-spirited, Lómion who takes too much after his father's side of the family, is so selfish and heartless that he has not shed a single tear for the dead.
After all, he has heard them say much worse things of him than that.
His response to the greatest defeat of the Quendi is more direct than tears or songs. There are smudges of charcoal on his fingers from last minute changes made to the design, and in the heat of the forge he watches his creation emerge. The Last Gate. Even the smallest pieces of steel they cast now are as wide as an armspan, stronger than rock. This will be a thing of myth and song; better they remember Maeglin's creations, not Maeglin himself.
He should be moving down to the edge of the Orfalch Echor, to make sure that those fools who are supposed to be laying the foundations are doing it right. But for now he is content to watch the steel take shape, here where the air is thick with steam and sweat and there is no way to prove that the moisture on his skin, sweet-salt, is anything more than a sign he's been standing too close to the fire.