He walked by the waves, the skin of his feet raw from the relentless scrape of the sand. He walked, staring at the sea, at the waves. Somewhere below lay the Silmaril. His father's creation – his legacy. It was gone – beneath the waves, just like Beleriand and everything else he knew. Ah! He wished he had not cast It into the sea. Yet he did not wish it to be in his palm, consuming his flesh. But It was there still, consuming his soul. Flesh or soul? What did it matter? He did not care.
The sun sank beneath the waves. He wished he had It, to illuminate the night, brighter than any of Varda's stars. Distant they were, those stars – offering solace, yet not giving it—just like the Valar – just like Valinor.His voice lifted in a song, lifted above the wind, above the fey mewls of the gulls. He sang, sang for his brother, who had cast the Silmaril into a chasm, and had fortunately cast himself with it. The winds had spoken to him of his brother's act, long after he had flung his own treasure into the sea. Lucky, his brother was, not alive to face the consuming of his soul. His brother would rise, in the Unmaking of Arda, and so would the Silmarils. And so would his father. Who had captured light, yet was a captive of light. Maglor would wait. He could wait. He had to, just like the waves, just like Beleriand.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.