Strive, we do...for selfish redemption!

But that, I fear, is another tale,
With ending uncertain;

Let us save it 'til it be full-written;

Nay, friends, rather,
Let Maglor speak of Maglor;
Though few enough will find much new in this, 'tis true;
Fair enough!
But hear his tale, before you cast him aside,
Merest fop, feathers at full plume;

For, was I not born of Magda,
Greatest of all singers?

And does she not swear,
That the hour, nay, the very minute
At which Maglor didst burst from her womb,
Concurred with an alignment of stars, planets,
Tides, and all other manner of omens,
That doth occur but once in a Great Age of the world?

So, at least, sayeth Magda,
And her wisdom is long in such matters;

So granted, I continue...

The son of Magda, I am, indeed,
And of that there is no doubt;
'Tis said my mother and I
Whilst different enough in our earthly features
Do each exude a certain aura that
To see first the one and then the other
Though no name may you attach to either
And many long leagues lay between
You would know us as kin;

A mighty singer is she,
Whom the dwarves name Khani-ar-hurum
In the sharp tones of their tongue;
Or, to humans, The Keening Witch,
Held in awe and reverence;

And, indeed! All realms and kingdoms,
Whether sea-faring fisherman,
Or elvish woodfolk,
Or craggy dwarven mine-dwellers,
Do welcome her troupe,
Mighty minstrels and fashioners of tales,
With open arms and hearts;

And Maglor, himself (myself),
Is he not a singer, and a charmer of women,
With soft heart, that bleedeth
For guiltless unfortunates
Ground beneath the wheel of Fortune?

But enough preening!
In truth, it does little enough for the soul;

I have gone on long about myself already,
And with no small amount of admiration,
But also with purpose;

For I purpose to propose a tale,
Which I hope ye will find to your liking...