Work Text:
Maglor never wanted the world to make sense, he never needed to make sense of the world. There’s a certain beauty to the chaos of the universe. Maglor has never had his fathers need for definitions, for straight lines and even corners. He doesn’t mind the way the world flows, out of grasp, indefinable. There’s a beauty to it, the mystery of narrative.
Stories don’t need to make sense, they simply are. Songs don’t have to have a point to be beautiful.
Maglor’s never needed things to make sense, but.
He’s gotten lost in the senselessness.
There’s a certain narrative trajectory. A part of him knew from the beginning that it would end like this, in the wide strokes. End in death. End in loneliness. Alone.
And that’s where it loses him. He’s lost step with the music. He can’t hear the flow of it anymore, it doesn’t make sense.
Why should he be the last one standing? Why should he be the last? He watched them die all around him, one by one by one. He is only a brother, only a follower, only a trailing song.
Why should he be the last, alone, singular? To write the song of them, to tell the story of all who are gone, but. He is alone. There is no one to tell.
Stories don’t have meaning always, they don’t always come to a sensible point. He used to think there was beauty in that, poetry for poetry’s sake.
Maglor sings to no one.
Senseless.