Disclaimer: Tolkien owns everything, I am but a humble minion.
A/N: Surely Maglor could not have been emotionless, watching his family cut down to nothingness? What was he thinking before the Sea? One of my first serious approaches the the beloved Silm.
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Emptiness was something Maglor had become gradually more used to over the endless years, the endless years he had suffered and worked through, one heartbeat at a time. Maglor, mighty singer amongst the Eldar, known and renowned for his voice that had once been heard echoing through the bliss of Aman. Bliss, however, was something Maglor felt he would never feel again.
Maglor did not want to feel anything.
The cursed jewel that glinted in his hands drove him to the point of maddening pain and insanity. So much pain and needless slaughter: Just because of three damned jewels. An evil, clouded in the brightest and purest of lights that existed, an evil that would not go away.
Flashes of his life taunted him like sleepless fëa from abroad.
Amrod and Amras, alike in mood and more so in face.
Celegorm the fair and Caranthir the dark.
Curufin, closest in hand to their father and Maedhros the tall.
Gone, all of them were gone, passed beyond the circles of Arda Comprehensible into the Everlasting Darkness. Withered, faded, ashes and dust, all had wasted away, ebbing beyond the confines of the world. What lay behind the darkness? Maglor did not know.
Fëanor.
His father: Creator and ada. Who was Maglor to question his intentions? As with all the rest, Maglor had done what had been expected from him: he had taken the Oath.
To what end, adar? For what price?
Kinslaying, murder, pillaging and scavenging, wrecking and burning as they went, rebels and outcasts, the Seven Sons of Feanor. Maglor was one of them. Pathetic and beyond reason, clouded in all their intentions and blinded by their greed, hate, stubbornness and short-sightedness. Rampages and killings fuelled by aught but raw passion and the urge to claim what was theirs. What they claimed was theirs.
Who can lay claim to the Light?
They had defied, they played the deviant, Exiles from Aman forever.
Existence.
What use was existence to him now? Maglor felt the need to weep, fail with sorrow and loose himself from the grip of Enndore. Why? he cried, Why? What had driven him and his kin to do the unmentionable? To kill, kin versus kin, to pillage, taking what was not theirs, to hack and to burn? Crazed delusions, nothing but crazed delusions. Demented thoughts and erring visions. Maglor did not know, and Maglor no longer cared. How could he, when he had seen before his naked eye the body, the shell of his brother, Maedhros and no less, eldest and wisest, hurl itself into a chasm bottomless?
Or maybe not so wise.
Father and sons, rebellion and folly. Doubted words that were wiser, beings that were higher. Now came Sorrow, now all Maglor felt was sorrow. Voids of Nothingness sounded cheerful in drastic comparison. Empty, devoid of emotion, hardened and cold. Pitiless. Merciless. Barbaric.
Ai Elbereth, ai Elbereth!
Why now do you sing to the Lady, Maglor? Why bother to put your voice to use, to forever be melded against the crashing of the waves?
Gilthoniel, a Elbereth!
The spark faded into the eternal waters as Maglor turned away for forever.
Silivern penna míriel!
Just one last look of grief.
