#I play with the feanorians like a little kid with their dolls

[haleth]

If Maglor’s voice has not been honed to a knife's edge, a hollow tone scraped thin and bleeding by centuries of war- 

If the words of the Noldolantë don't sting his lips like paper cuts as he sings- 

If, as he wanders the coast, lamenting his family’s downfall, his voice heals to be more than a battle cry, the notes of a killing blow not echoing on the wind, not urging passing travelers to violence and damnation- (A clenched fist, muttered words, embers hastily stamped out, a patch of re cooling in the darkened dirt-turned-mud.)

Then what's the point? Because for all his remorse, he cannot go back, and secluding himself in exile at the shore does nothing to fix what he’s broken.