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Strong-voiced child. Grandfather had called him, stars of wonder in his eyes.
My little songbird. Mother said lovingly, her gentle caress a long lost dream by now.
Makalaurë, even his name sounded like a song, he loved it so much.
Sing for us! - They asked over and over again, and he did, singing through many starlit nights in the elder, peaceful days in the Blessed Lands. Many nights his voice soothed his little brothers, many feasts he made memorable.
For him, the world has always been music, hymns and laments, odes and lullabies. Woven into the laughter of wind, echoing from the crash of waves breaking on the sea-side rocks. He heard it from the trees of summer, the whisper of the stars, and the humming of silence during harsh, everlasting winter nights.
Melody all around, and he had the ears to listen, the heart to understand, and the voice to bring it alive. Sometimes, when all alone and listening so keenly, he thought he heard the Music of Arda from the Days of Creation, echoing in the breath of Manwë high above in the azure skies.
Even to the exile in Formenos his songs followed, filling the house of their Father with joy and wonder. And so did the darkening happen in Formenos, when the Dark Lord came and slew Grandfather, and upon finding his corpse, head bashed in and blood everywhere, the secondborn of Feanor let out a shriek so violent even the stone gate of their home shattered.
Many dark nights followed and he could no longer find escape in his voice like the days before. Nelyo even feared he would not sing ever again.
But oh, he found his voice again, they all needed power to fuel the prophecy Father believed in so fiercely. Father saw the strength of his songs, got the training in his skilled hands and taught him how to use his voice, not for pleasure but to strike, how to forge weapons from wordless sounds, and have better aim with his cries than any sharp arrow could offer. If music is what Makalaurë is the best at, then music will serve him in fights.
When the time came to defy their gods and slay for ships and freedom, his voice was more deadly than his sword could ever be.
Father forged - from a metal found only in the Blessed Lands - helms and chestplates for his sons and himself, protection from the power of his cries. They wore them when the battle for the white ships began, and so he got the chance to prove. The first time he sang to kill, terror crept even into their Father’s heart. Bones shattered and chests caved in, organs exploded, the white walls of Alqualondë cracked. Those unfortunate enough to get into the beam of his voice, died an ugly, horrifying death. The ones out of the deadly zone, but without some means of protection, got away with ears bleeding and, if lucky, just temporarily deafened, with chests bruised and bones fractured.
Oh, all the pain and panic and grief he caused. Maglor heard the dissonance of Arda’s Music resonating in his heart. That day there was no time for thinking, he just acted as he was supposed to do. But he could never forget the sound of bones breaking, chests cracking open, and the dying screams of the ones crushed by his songs of destruction.
The terrible power of his own voice shocked him so much that no matter what came upon him after, he never used his voice in its full power again.
He was silent, armour sparkling bloodless in the bright red light of angry flames dancing on ships alit, and vowed „never again”. He ignored Tyelko shifting farther from him, dark, ancient terror in his silver eyes.
He was silent when Amrod perished, the Fated rather burned than to accompany them in the madness following. He didn’t utter a word when Maedhros screamed at Father, for leaving Fingon behind.
He was silent when Father ran forward to meet his fate, not making an attempt to seem to be in a rush. He just followed the others and when Curufin muttered „Oh, Eru, he is going to die!” he just said „Yes”, in a voice so cold his little brother shuddered.
When Father died, though, Maglor sang again, soft and grieving, for too many things they lost forever. The dissonance never left his heart after, echoing below even during the most joyful times. Those thirty years spent as a regent in the absence of their eldest brother, the rightful king, remained songless in his heart, dark, a nameless terror that music cannot express.
A short period of light, peaceful days followed, as he settled in his own land. Those open, wide plains, where his voice could fly free, gave him songs braver and merrier, almost like in the days before. It ended too soon, even if he knew it had to end eventually.
Then came battles, and exiles, and Doriath, where three more of them perished. No songs were sung after, and the days passed by dressed in storm-like grey.
Then came the twins. Or to be more precise, one more dark night, one more brother lost forever, and in the chaos and madness and grief, a new star awakened. Twin stars.
Two young boys, abandoned, whose father was ever away, on a quest no other could achieve, and whose mother cared more for a gem than her baby boys, and to save the stone, left them at kinslayers’ mercy. Young and lost and just as desperately in need of protection as Maglor’s need of having someone to take care of burned.
He loved the boys as his own, and the boys loved him just as fiercely. Their bond was born under unfortunate circumstances, but became stronger than anyone would have predicted. For a short but sweeter period of time, Maglor was happy again, and felt younger, less weary, and almost, almost free from the burden of an oath made a long time ago.
Maglor, just like any decent parent, wanted the best for his children, and gave everything he could offer. Beside knowledge, wisdom, protection and love, his voice was the only thing he had left to gift to them.
He sang again after a long, long time, and his hands traded the sword with familiar instruments, to gift wonder and joy in terror and death stead. For that short, sweet period of time with the boys, the twins, he was Makalaurë again, who sang the flowers into sleep, whose lullabies meant a good night of peaceful dreams, whose stories came to life when being told, and who, when listening so keenly, thought he could hear the echo of the Song of Creation in the azure skies.
But the twins had to leave, he made them leave, for the burden of the Oath became heavier and heavier as the days went by, creeping closer like a wild, hungry animal, and the last thing he wanted was sacrificing his children to this madness. He could no longer remember how things happened after, but when he first knew about himself again, he was Maglor and all alone.
He will never know that he will be remembered; not only in tales of the elder days, in stories of wars and kingdoms and history written with blood and tears, faceless, whispered like a nameless terror. King Elros, when all alone by the sea, will always hear his voice in the crash of waves, and shores of sand of pearl in a faraway land will appear in front of his eyes, of a land he is not allowed to set foot on. Or Lord Elrond, resting in the safety of his garden, will hear him whispering in the autumn breeze, to bring back memories of his smile and kindness and teaching of forgiveness and peace.
Legends say, it’s his voice which calls for the tides, and the sea bows in front of his grief, so he can approach Tol Himling, - never sunken below, for the power of his voice was so great it chase the hungry waves away, - to continue searching for till this world meets its end, if not those pure, unearthly accords, but at least the dissonance in Arda’s cry.