Maglor breathed out a sigh, resting his head on the tree. The images were always rampant in his head, but today, they were particularly worse.
*Atar*, with his passion filled eyes.
Celegorm, with his sly grins.
Caranthir, with those trusting eyes.
Curufin, with his strange sense of humor.
Amrod, with his calm wit.
Amras, with his teasing smile.
Elrond, with his healing hands.
Elros, with his fiery heart.
But, out of all of them, the one that stung the most was that of Maedhros’. While others would image a demon of red hair and a flashing sword, a death bringer, a Fëanorion in every sense of the word, their leader, an oath-swearer, or that of a hideously scarred being, when he thought of Maedhros, the first thing he thought of was soft smiles tinged in the fire’s light.
Tired eyes, trying to wrangle either set of twins.
Old hands, ones that had been burned and battered, and one that was gone altogether.
Poetry, written and recited under the Valinor sun.
And he poured that into a song, one of heartache for all he had lost.
Arda itself wept with him.
Curated with permission from author