Yikes so sorry this took three months to get to! Thank you for the prompt friend <3
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“I think,” says Maedhros, “I should learn to play the harp.”
Maglor stops what he is doing and stares at him. “Nelyo.”
“What?” Maedhros says mildly. “It is a key part of my own history.”
Maglor’s face twists in distress. He turns his gaze back to his work, organising the little bottles of medicines and salves on the table.
“The fiddle, otherwise,” Maedhros suggests. “Or the flute?”
Maglor makes a small, unhappy sound, quickly stifled. That is not what Maedhros wanted. There were few memories he dared cling to, in Angband, scared that in turning them over too often he would rub away the details, or else that they would be snatched perforce from his mind; but he does remember the clear bright sound of Maglor’s laugh, which rang so often and easily through the streets of Tirion. He has not heard it once since his return.
Hard enough to realise he does not know himself any longer – but to find his little brother a stranger is nigh unbearable.
“I was joking, Káno,” he says. “I know I cannot play with only one hand.”
“Oh,” says Maglor. He smiles bravely, although his eyes are wet. “I knew that.”
“Come and sit,” Maedhros says, and then flinches – it sounds like an order, and what right has he to give orders?
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