Tales of East

The Regrets That Linger (Maglor x Reader)

The air was cold. It was always cold in Hirming. I clutched the blanket that I had intended to get for Maitimo. Now I just had to make it back to his room. Just open the door, walk out, and help my brother.

I focused my attention on the blanket. Its color was the darkest green in a peacock's feather. It was knit carefully with precise stitches. A small undeserved token of comfort that reminded me so much of home back in Aman.

Maitimo's door loomed in my view. Sighing I opened the door to be welcomed by a poorly lit room. Despite belonging to the Lord of Hirming the room was barely furnished. It held a desk that loitered with a mess of documents that needed my brother's attention. The opposite corner of the room was occupied by the closet that was carved by Curvo.

And lastly was the giant bed made specifically to cater to Maitimo, who loomed over everyone. The giant bed that now engulfed the wraith-like figure of my brother.

"Hanno" I forced my feet towards the bed to cover the shivering figure on it. Maitimo's eyes followed my voice but there was no other movement leave for that. His entire body shook with tremors so fierce that those could be felt through the bed.

I tucked the blanket to ease his suffering. "Hanno" My brother seemed unaware of everything. Fingon's death had done this to him. My cousin's death had left him so vulnerable and on the cusp of fading.

"Please look at me Maedhros." I switched his epessë with the Sindarin name. Ever since his rescue mirrors had become his foe and our mother's name for him a curse.

"I-I did it!" Whispers of self-blame continued from my brother's mouth. Ever since the failure of the alliance Maitimo blamed himself. He tortured his fea for Fingon's demise. This is led to where we are right now.

"No hanno. None of this was your fault." My arguments went unheard by the panicking ellon. "Here have some of this tea hanno." I slid a hand under his shoulders, avoiding his hair, to allow him some of the healing droughts.

Maitimo sipped some tea in the midst of his breakdown. Much to my relief, it was enough to calm him down and offer some sleep.

With the panic now subsiding Maitimo held my hand as he murmured unintelligible phrases in the haze of sleep. His hair was a mess after laying down for a week. I wove my fingers in the tangles to soothe his fitful dreams.

Unintentionally I started humming the lullaby my brother had so lovingly sung to me in our childhood. I prayed to Illuvatar, his Ainur, the Valar, and anyone willing to listen to a kinslayer. I prayed all night for the sake of my withering brother.

I knew it was selfish to force Maitimo to stay, to demand him to continue living after being through the worst of fates. Yet, I couldn't imagine being alive without him next to me. From my very first second of existence I had known him and to be without him on this ruthless land felt like a fate worse than ever-lasting misery.

In the company of my sleeping brother my traitorous mind wandered to her. It had been my fault. Her people had joined the enemy without blinking an eye. I should hate her as an elf, as a Noldo, and as Maitimo's brother.

I should hate her but I couldn't.

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"It is said that the intensity of henna's color tells how much one's future spouse will love them." the edain woman who stood two heads below me proudly presented her hands to me.

"Then it seems like yours will love you to the end of times, my lady." A slight redness gathered on the apples of her cheeks. A feature found only in second children, a feature that seemed too endearing. I found it impossible to not trace the intricately drawn patterns on her hands.

As I stared into the kohl-lined eyes that held untainted innocence. "And what about the kohl? Does it carry another tale of your people?" The woman next to me giggled tucking a wayward strand of her braid "My lord, not everything we do carries a romantic background. Kohl is just a protection against infections."

It felt so easy to smile. Call of Silmarils felt a distant hum when the woman next to me enthusiastically chatted about the most trivial things.

Next to me, the edain wore heavy clothes that engulfed her small frame. From what I heard from some men, people from the East found the West to be extremely cold. In fact, it was clear from the child-like fascination in my companion's eyes just by looking at the piling snow.

"Listening to merchant's tales I had often wondered if snow felt like the fluffiest flower of cotton that grew in nearby farms." Much to my amusement, the woman next to me held a handful of snow "And how did you find it to be? Does it stand up to the stories?" I asked the woman whose fingers were now reddening.

Feeling the snow in her hand her nose scrunched as she said "Hmm rather than the softest cotton of our fields I'd say that it feels more like the ever-changing fine sand of our deserts." I pried her freezing hands off the snow she clutched in her trembling fist.

She muttered thanks putting on the mittens I handed her "Yet, it is quite the opposite." She flexed frozen fingers. Taking her covered hands I tucked them into my cloak.

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A letter. In a shabby envelope that barely held on to its ends. The handwriting inside it is shabby and unusual. The curve of letters so distinct from that of my kin. It was her, the writing that was worse than that of an elfling. The faint scent that surrounded her lingered on the tattered pages.

To The Lord Who Sings,

I hope you find this letter. I have heard that the summer of Hirming brings the most beautiful scenery to life. The snow melts to reveal the crisp grass and the barren trees bare blooms found nowhere else.

In the past few days, I have found myself learning the language of your people. I struggle with the effortless strokes of the letters that I saw you make so easily. However, since you are reading this I have managed to write something coherent at the least.

I expect nothing in return for this letter. I do not seek a reply or any form of assurance. I am aware that the betrayal of my kin leaves no ground for me to ask that. Yet, I find myself writing this letter in the wake of a sunset. I fear that I left you plagued with bitterness, restless in your own agony. I am afraid that I have added to your burdens instead of lessening them.

I do not ask for your forgiveness for the crimes of my people are irredeemable. I simply want to let you know I never intended to forsake you. How could I ever think of that?

However, the passage of time cannot be reversed. My regrets cannot help but from countless scenarios of if onlys that mean nothing.

So, comfort your heart, my lord. Do not let the resentment strain your views of Hirming.

May the darkest shade of henna grace your hands.

Yours Eternally,

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In the ice-cold cells of a dark prison sat a woman. Her bony fingers were bloody from writing endlessly. The floors are covered with letters addressed to a lord who sings, who plays, who smiles, and broods. Letters that make no sense because of her terrible writing from shaking hands. Piles of unsent letters that carry blood stains from untreated wounds and scraped fingers.

She writes as the breath leaves her body.

"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right-doing, there is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass the world is too full to talk about."