This is a very strange story that I wrote one night when I was very depressed and not thinking. Which means that I closed my eyes and typed down whatever came into my head without thinking about it. (Yes, I can type with my eyes closed.) That makes this story a stream-of-unconsciousness type, and it is therefore rather strange even to me. I do not really have an explanation for it expect that which I have already given. Although it would be interesting for me to hear what you think of my subconscious Maglor.

Why do you stand so alone, aside? Have I not spoken words that you can take comfort in? Even if my voice is now frail and my hands tremble when I speak, can I offer you nothing? Your eyes will not meet mine; you look past me, searching always for the darkness that lies behind you. It lies behind me as well, but you do not have to throw everything aside to escape it. Have we not tried hard enough? Or does everything elude us, slipping forever from beneath our hands?

But you are missing a hand; I cannot reach out and take it. I hold your other hand in mine, but your fingers shudder, and you will not hold me. Can you not forget your missing hand – the hand that our cousin tore away with a sharp knife and a gentle word? What did he do with it? He left it hanging, caught forever in that band of steel. Is that where your heart is now, caught forever in the torments from which I could never release you? Do you hate me for that, the way that I turned aside when the message came? The way I closed my eyes and offered a silent prayer to a God who would not hear me that you would die quickly? I always thought you did not know. It was not as if I told you.

I rested the point of a knife in your hand when I was child, and you smiled at me. I always thought that the light would be caught forever in your hair. I would scream in the dark when you were not there for me, when you were still hanging defeated in the wind. I laughed then. I can still feel it as it burnt my mouth; it was so long, how could there not have been a time when I laughed? Still it burns, but you did not know that.

Is there nothing that I can say to bring you back to me? I offered you so much. Everything, I think it was. You cried. I can still see the tears as they burned your face. 'No,' you said. 'No, Kano, that is not enough.' I remember you touched your heart. Was it because I could not? Your hand lingered. Why will you not speak to me? Are there no words you can risk in this silence? You fear the darkness that we will be bound to, but it already surrounds us. It haunts your eyes.

And so there is nothing I can say to dissuade you, and I grow tired of trying. My body is as weak as yours, and my heart feels weaker. Will you not touch it? I always understood the way you closed me in your arms, even the times that you drew me down. You were not afraid then, the way you fear now as your lips search for some meaning on my body. Your hand covers my mouth. Are you so afraid to hear me cry?

Do the songs I sing comfort you? They are laments that cast their sorrow to the wind so that it may carry my regret to the heavens to cry forever in the ears of those who we defied. Why did we stand there so bravely, so weakly, and vow our lives away in the pursuit of something that none of us wanted? I remember my sword touched yours, and you pressed mine down, only slightly. My hand trembled; I wanted to let it fall.

My tears fall now. Do these tears mean nothing to you? I spend them now against your cheeks; my voice is gone with the crying. Why must you always hold me? Hold me back. Hold me forward. Hold me straight. Hold me in your arms on nights like these when I feel that my very soul will break? Your hand is strong on my stomach.