Disclaimer: J. R. R. Tolkien owns Maglor and all of his history.

In keeping with Tolkien, any love referred to here is purely platonic and that of a father, son, brother, or friend.

I see blood, and ever blood. Blood that spanned years, ages, lifetimes. Blood that covered all I did, all I had, and gave back nothing, because everything I sought became only a curse.

I see it now, with startling clarity. I wonder why I did not understand before. And I know that perhaps I should have, would have understood, had I let myself. Had I not willingly blinded myself to the truth.

From the beginning I felt, at some level I knew we would accomplish nothing but calling a curse down on our own heads. The very oath we swore was but the product of Melkor's evil, and nothing but further evil could ever come of it. But we reeled in the horror of Finwë's death, and I listened not to the persuasion of my conscience. But had we heard reason, we would have realized our revenge had no other end but horrors worse than that which we sought to repay. Horrors which have now come true.

Alqualondë shocked me, indeed, but it did not bring me to my senses. Or perhaps I did not let it. Always the least favored of my Father, still fired by the oath I had sworn, I followed in the heat of rage, in search of the commendation I had never truly known. But when my anger cooled and I stared in horror at my bloodied hands and dripping sword, I could think nothing, do nothing. The whole journey up the coast, the voyage to Ennor, I could not speak even with Maedhros, my closest brother and companion. I could not even perceive if my Father gave me the approval I had risked so much to seek.

But the night we arrived—for all was night now—ai, how I regret that night! For in my pain and weakness at last I succumbed to my sorrow and sang as I had never sung before, for in Aman grief had no basis. But while I spend my wretchedness and misery, my Father betrayed his own kin and burnt the very ships he had stolen from the Swan-harbor. The twins being young, much too young for any of this, could not truly oppose Fëanor's wishes, so Maedhros was left alone to plead for the path of reason—if one such still existed. And he did not even have my support, worthless, frail though it would have been.

How, in our arrogance, could we still not see? How did we still not understand? With high hearts our troop set forth to challenge the mightiest of the Valar. And for our folly we killed much of our host, including our king.

And Maedhros, too, when faced with a choice, did not perceive the danger of Morgoth's treachery. And, alas, neither did I. We were as yet unschooled in the arts of the enemy.

And so the crown came to me. Ai, how I despised it! How little I was qualified to make the decisions its weight entailed! But I did, if nothing else, know that a king must put his people above his personal gain, and the safety of the masses over that of those dear to him. My brother! How I longed to charge Thangorodrim and deliver you from Angband's crulest snares! But I could not see how, and I was weighed down with the cares of the people. To such a place our oath brought us and still we could not, did not see the machinations of evil.

But, Maedhros, you were restored to us, the one bright pinprick amid that early swirl of darkness. When Fingon brought you back, I wept as one who thought his heart would burst. And once again I sang of joy—but yet even that joy was tinged with sorrow, even despair, for you were not whole, you were not yourself, and ever Morgoth's power loomed, unbreakable and impenetrable.

For the time, though, our oath slept and despair with it. We concerned ourselves with the Feast of Reuniting, the dividing and settling of Beleriand, delving strongholds and building fortresses to withstand, as we claimed, even Angband's might.

But one by one our realms fell, our kin were slaughtered, and by Thingol's unwarranted bride-price our Oath was re-awoken with all the evil and horror that forged it. Oh, while Lúthien wore the Silmaril we none of us dared assault her, but she was now mortal, and would not last forever, and once the Jewel passed to Dior her son our brothers once again called our people together to take what we still so falsely claimed.

Now the never-forgotten but ever-ignored terror of Alqualondë once again gripped me, and I begged my brothers to forestall assaulting Menegroth. But while Maedhros, Amras, and Amrod seemed amenable to my plea, Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir took the matter into their own hands. They attacked, and we were left with the awful decision between what was right and our brothers' lives. But in the end—ai! horrible irony—we received neither: for all three were slain that day, and we once again covered ourselves in blood. The red, staining blood of our kin.

But even now we did not get the Jewel. And in a fey madness Maedhros led us to the mouths of Sirion, the last surviving stronghold of the Noldor besides Himring in the east. And in the desolation of insanity and despair we followed his lead, to the most grievous of the kinslayings. And now our two youngest brothers fell to the passion of our inescapable Oath.

Oh! The sorrow and regret of the blood spilled that day! But one thing yet I know I did right, in all the filth of the wrong I committed. The twin sons of Eärendil I saved from Maedhros' wrath and raised as my fosterlings. Ai, the bitterness and joy of that time, so comingled I cannot now tear them apart. I loved them with the love I had so wished to receive from my Father, with the love Maedhros already had from me but was so slowly shattering to pieces. And they, I believe, loved me in return, despite every obstacle of nature and inclination. But in my love I soon knew it was time to release them, and with a breaking heart I bid farewell to them and sent them to the island of Balar to live and learn with King Gil-galad and Círdan the shipwright and all the other of our kin whom we had so horrendously wronged. And despair once again took me, for all I loved seemed by my own actions to be ever taken from me.

But the Silmaril rose in the West as a sign of Hope, and the Valar came, and both Beleriand and Aman waged war on Morgoth the deceiver and threw down the gates of Thangorodrim. And Maedhros and I led what ragged band was left of our people to the War of Wrath when the ending of the First Age was accomplished and the realms of Beleriand cast into the Sea. And the remaining Silmarils were wrenched from the crown of Morgoth, to be returned to Valinor from whence they came.

But ai! once again our Oath awoke, and Maedhros, my beloved and sole-remaining brother would not even consider forswearing it and giving ourselves to the judgment of the Valar. Oh my brother! Again you have given me another impossible choice. For how, for any reason of right or conscience, could I abandon the last of my family? Ever my fear was being left alone, rejected, forsaken. So with burdened heart and even further burdened mind I stole with the last of my nearest kin the Jewels for which the curse of our Oath we had so knowingly called down upon us. And we once again held that which had cost us everything.

I should have anticipated the agony, I suppose, but I did not. I believe I was past considering the consequences of my actions anymore. But it burnt Maedhros more quickly than I, and the one for whom I had committed that final wrong in the end forsook me himself, in his ultimate despair and madness casting himself and the Silmaril into the fiery chasm. Oh Maedhros! Have even you rejected me for a Jewel, crushed my love for you for the Oath you swore?

I sit, now, by the water, and once again I sing in sorrow, as I did so long ago under the sunless sky. And I remember the past, and my willful blindness, and I know what I must do. No, I will not add to my already unnumbered sins by casting myself into the Sea. But I will have no more of my Oath. So much for the everlasting darkness! By my wrongs it will claim me anyway. With a strength born of despair I hurl the wretched Jewel into the changeless Sea, and screaming in agony fall to my knees in the sand. This is the end. I have done all I can.

But I do not die, and eventually I rise, gather my few supplies, and set off. There is no one waiting for me, nowhere I can go. Nothing to do but remember, remember in the sorrow of lives spent, the horror of blood spilt, and the regret, ai! the regret of every wrong I committed. And mayhap some will hear my song of anguish and remember Maglor the mistrel, the songbird son of Fëanor, one who wrought his own fate and forged his own ruin. And mayhap, even, they will by my sorrow be saved from what evil they would do, what wrong they would commit. And mayhap even my despair has a purpose in Arda, foreordained by the One who rules us all.

But as for me, rejected, forsaken, and alone, I see nothing but blood, endless and irremovable. And ever in the shadow of that blood I sing the anguish of my soul.

My soul which as my hands forever carries the stain of blood.

A/N: Perhaps another cliché one-shot, but I hope my take on him is worthy of the genre. I was inspired by other authors' similar works I have read on this site (as well as my own poem Maglor's Lament. Shameful self-inspiration!). I hope you tell me what you think of my version of Maglor's decisions and thoughts. Thanks for reading!