No Victory Without Cost by Tarion Anarore

Burning Bright

Maglor stared at the silmaril he held - still held, though the pain never ceased. He was not even entirely sure that the pain he felt was corporeal, that is wasn’t all in his mind. It never left a mark.

“I don’t have a choice.”

But he did. He had always had a choice. And he had made it - again and again and again. The silmaril burned his hand, burned like steel red-hot from the forge fire, like saltwater on an open wound.

It burned like white ships rusted with blood.

It burned like ice that cracks underfoot.

It burned like the breath of dragons, like the whips of balrogs, like the plains of Lothlann and Ard-galen…

It burned like they eyes of a desperate king, like enchanted chains, like the venomed steel of orcs…and Easterlings.

It burned like the spirit of his father.

The deeds that we shall do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda.

Maglor Fëanorion would make it so.