Well, here's the next chapter. Have fun!:)
Oh, before I forget it again: obviously, none of Tolkien's stuff belongs to us, and we don't get paid for this. Did anybody really think so?
Chapter II
"Will you shut up?" said Maglor to the shining Jewel beside his head. He was resting in the soft sand of a cold northern beach, trying his best to be lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the crashing waves.
The Silmaril had rhythm, too, unfortunately, and lots of it; the only thing Maglor had been hearing for the past eight hours was the Jewel's constant, pitchy singing of nothing other than the Lay of Leithian. It had just begun on its fifth round through, and if he had to listen to the tale that doomed him and his family one more time, he thought he was going simply to lose his mind.
"Be he friend or foe, or seed defiled of Morgoth Bauglir, or mortal child that in after days on earth shall dwell, no law nor love nor league of hell, not might of Gods not moveless fate-" the Silmaril crooned with unflagging vigour, pausing to prompt him, "Come on, Maglor, you've a lovely tenor!"
Maglor rolled over, only to be blinded by the Jewel's light, which he had previously positioned himself to avoid. He clenched his eyes shut, but the white radiance was visible even behind his eyelids; he hastily turned his back to the Silmaril once more.
"-shall him defend from wrath and hate of Fëanor's sons who takes or steals or finding keeps the Silmarils, the thrice-enchanted globes of light that shine until the final night."
That was it. That. Was. It. He rose to his feet, with his back still to the Silmaril. "That's it!" he yelled at it. It paid him no heed, continuing the incessant tune.
He knelt down in the sand, and scooped up a handful of it. Palm after palm of snow-white grains, up, up, up, and up to form a narrow hole in the faithless terrain, perhaps four feet deep, about twice the diameter of the Holy Jewel itself. His vision had begun to blur and his eyelids to droop by the time he was at last satisfied with his labour.
Shielding his tired eyes with his hand, he picked up the Silmaril even as the lines, "…and sands uncounted laid on biers and buried everlasting-deep, slow and unbroken round him creep…" escaped its nonexistent lips. It seared his hands with unbearable pain, but he managed to grip it just long enough to drop it into the freshly-formed hole. It landed on the sand beneath with a satisfying thump.
Maglor quickly caused the hole's sides to collapse, leaving no evidence of the Jewel's existence save the muffled sound of off-key singing. He ran.
He must have run for miles and miles, ever on that same untainted sand, until his legs could travel no further and he collapsed, falling instantly to sleep.
He awoke some hours later to two things: Anor's rays warming his skin, and a tone-deaf voice belting out the Lay's opening lines.
"A king there waaas in daaays of ohhhld, ere Mennn yet walked upon the mohhhld..."
Finally, reluctantly, lackadaisically, irritated, with a roll of his eyes, he joined in .
"His bloody power was reared in bloody cavern's shade, his stupid hand was over glen and glade…"
It was going to be a long day.