My father is dead.
The fighting has not halted, though the brunt of it is over. I do not think it will ever wholly end.
He came here, to me. He said that he was come to discuss the war, but I knew the truth. He ought not to have come, but I could not rebuke him. I have seen him on the battlefield, aflame, half-fey with the memory of his anguish--and yet how gentle he was, last night. He came to me, held me in his arms till morning. It is the first time we have slept in one bed, though our sleep was chaste. I did not weep. I am too tired to weep. He should not have come.
I am less alone with him, but there are others whose presence I crave, now that the shock is over: my brother. My sister. My dearest mother... does she know, I wonder? No messages pass across the sundering Sea, not even word of death. Has her own heart told her that her husband no longer walks upon the earth?
But most of all I long for my father, my king. Your broken body, and for what? Yet I understand what compelled you: to name evil, call it coward, fight it outright. If I had stood where you stood, lord of a broken people, would I not have done the same?
Now things are still and certain. There is no longer any question lingering between Maedhros and I, but this is no time for marriage. Everything is stagnation. Everything is memory.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.