As the Silmaril burns bitterly cold in his hands, Maglor wishes he'd never sworn the Oath.
Now that he looks back, he had done it for his father. For the father his brothers had always admired, had respected, had loved. For the father who every last one of them wanted to be like. For the father who used to cherish them as much as they cherished him. For the father who chose revenge and death over the peaceful, happy futures Maglor and his brothers would've had.
Maedhros would've become a father. Maglor can see it in the gentle, almost fearful way he held Elros and Elrond - as if they were made out of glass, as if they needed all the protection in the world.
Celegorm would've spent his life teaching his children and grandchildren the tongues of the beasts. Maglor can almost hear his voice, the voice he'd had before he'd sworn the Oath; a gentle, clear voice, call the birds toward him.
Caranthir - if only he'd had the chance to marry the maiden Mother was about to engage him to. She had been Caranthir's complete opposite: calm, loving, and easy to forgive. Perhaps one day he would've gotten married, and given his brothers the smile he was so reluctant to show.
Curufin - Curufin, of course, thinks Maglor, might have become a great smith, known to the rest of the world for his fingers that yielded such beauty. Maybe if that had come to pass, Curufin would not have let his hands wound to such an extent.
And Amrod and Amras. They were far too young, too innocent.
Maglor doesn't let himself think about them.
He sees fire and water. Swan ships and sea foam.
The Silmaril burns in his hands, reminding him of his mistakes. Of his transgressions. Of the evils, of the horrors, that he can never atone for, never be redeemed for, never be forgiven for.
In the light of the setting sun, his hands are stained red, as if they are soaked with blood.
Maglor's hands burn.
He remembers the days when he still could play the harp beautifully, when he could see the world in all its splendor. Maglor used to sing of the trees, the mountains, the skies, the stars.
Now his hands no longer clutch the smooth wood of his harp. They now grip the hilt of a sword.
His palm does not show any sign of curling red flesh, or black-burnt corners. His fingers are still long and pale. But the Silmaril is ice and flame, bitterly cold and blindingly hot, searing in the cool evening wind.
In that one moment, he wishes he'd never sworn the Oath.
Will the Valar forgive him for all his deeds? Will Manwe and Ulmo, Aule and Orome, say to him that the blood has been wiped away? Will Illuvatar allow him into the West, where he will never again feel the horror of slaying one of his kind?
Maglor feels the weight of the Silmaril, that of which he has fought for his entire life, press against him.
He lifts it high above his head, and throws it to the waves below, where the water, glinting silver as the sun slowly disappears, churns over the rocks.
He throws it, wishing that it will take all his darkened hopes, his broken dreams, and his empty wishes far into the depths of the ocean.
And Maglor - Maglor the Minstrel, who was once known as Feanorion, who was once named Kanafinwe, who was once called Makalaure - becomes simply Maglor once more as he turns his back on the sky, as the stars wink into existence, as the Silmaril sinks into the darkest, deepest abysses of the sea.
