A/N – Maedhros!angst.

Disclaimer – All things Silmarillion belong to the Professor and his estate. No profit was made from the writing of this.

No Return

Resting against the ruined stone wall of their current haven, Maedhros allows his mind to drift along the path of dreams and memories. Tentative, gentle music drifts up from the room below him, an ancient lullaby from another time, another life, and he allows it to lull him into a state of peaceful emptiness.

All too soon, though, the sweet, simple lullaby merges into a lament. Maglor sings – as he always does, now – of sorrow and grief and bereavement, his dark, rich voice filled with regret. The gold and silver notes of his harp stain the air with almost tangible power; such is the power of his music, which has only become more powerful in the course of their exile. Such personal, intimate Art is only made stronger by tragedy, by endless defeat, and by the hammerblows and shocks of experience and life. But Maedhros, bitter, sardonic, finds it hard to appreciate the beauty in constant grief and melancholy.

There are times when he is tempted to snatch Maglor’s harp from him and dash it to pieces. But he is afraid that if he takes Maglor’s music from him, his gentle, haunted brother will have nothing left. And though Maedhros has gone so far down the road to damnation that he can never turn back, there are still some things that he cannot bring himself to do.

If he tries hard enough, he can remember Maglor’s songs as they were in Aman, joyful and innocent, untouched by death or sorrow. But that time – and that life – was long, dark centuries ago, and there is no way now to return to what once was.