Searing pain. Stabbing, throbbing, burning pain in his hand. Maglor could only think of one thing, and that was just how much his right hand hurt as he gripped the Silmaril tight against his chest. He ran, ran with a speed he didn’t know he had. He had become separated from Maedhros almost immediately after their theft of the jewels and their flight.

Memories flashed through his mind as Maglor sped on, his eyesight blurring from the pain of the burning jewel. Memories of his life in Valinor in the splendorous light of the Two Trees, memories of the burning ships at Losgar, memories of the Dagor Bragollach, the memories seared into his mind like the Silmaril was doing to his hand.

Maglor stumbled forward, not realizing until his feet hit that sand that he was careening towards the sea. He had always loved the sea, the waves a source of inspiration for his music. The blurriness of his vision lifted a little as he stepped into the water. But his hand was almost numb from the horrible burn he felt. He had to make a choice.

The oath… or death.

He knew the sea was beckoning him. Either he could drown himself, or drown the jewel. Neither was appealing at all. The sea, with its endless waves stretched on indefinitely towards the home he could never return to. He didn’t have long to think. Already his right hand was burned beyond repair, he couldn’t afford to continue holding it.

“Father!” Maglor screamed at the sky. He bowed his head. He had failed his father.

With his left hand he gripped the Silmaril tightly. Drawing back his arm, Maglor ripped the jewel forward and it flew into the sea. He collapsed in the shallow water, tears streaming down his face. So many years, so much bloodshed. So many battles, so many dead because of that jewel, and now he, unworthy of its holy light, had been forced to cast it away once and for all. His tears mingled with the ocean, lost in a sea of drowned hopes and dreams as much as it was a sea of water.

For hours he remained there, hunched over in solemn acceptance of his fate. He was the oathbreaker, the elf who swore to Ilúvatar, to Manwё and Varda, but could not complete it. He had tried, to the condemnation of others, to fulfill the wretched oath he had once pronounced. Always since that day had he regretted it, but never had he given up.

Maglor cried, sobbing into the ocean. He sobbed for the elven children he had slaughtered, he sobbed for the maids he had deprived of husbands. He cried for his brothers, who had long since gone to Mandos’ halls, and he cried for Maedhros, the one he knew not if he had survived.

Maglor wanted to believe everything would turn out alright. But as he looked at his decimated hand in the water of the sea, he knew that would be impossible. He had committed too many wrongdoings for things to be alright in the end. No.

He would not be alright. Not now, not ever. He had destroyed too many lives over the jewel he had just cast far from any greedy hands. His only consolation was that the Silmaril would be swallowed up by the waves and never seen again.