Pretty sure I messed up the tenses, but who cares?

The man was just sitting there. That was all he ever seemed to do when anyone was watching. Some even went as far as to call him lazy. What do they know? Not enough to call him lazy. There is meaning in and to his unceasing vigil. If only they knew…but he prefers that no one knows and strange as it sounds, he likes it this way even with the jeers and taunts sent his way. He feels that this is a world he deserves; with the torment and hatred. Why? It's an ever-growing tale and one that is far too long to tell in one sitting. He sits here, watching the skies and the seas, as if there is some redemption in them. His crimes endure in the unceasing memory of the sea. Once, he was a prince, but not just any prince. A prince of the forsaken and cursed. A prince of the Noldor. In other words, he was and is a feanorian. He was known as the minstrel. Now, he isn't known as anyone. He isn't known at all. No one remembers anything about his family or his people, and though sometimes he wishes they would not forget; most of the time, he is glad. The taunts are loud enough without them knowing that he did something to deserve them other then wander alone without a home. They would surely increase tenfold if they knew and for that, he is glad - so glad - they know nothing about that part of their past. It has been far too long and they have forgotten. They don't even remember their past beyond 2,000 or so years. Records don't even go back that far and he isn't sure how they know about that, but it doesn't matter much to him. Nothing matters much to him but his memories of his crimes, and those matter very little most of the time. He is normally too busy surviving to worry about those memories and he doesn't worry about the lost punishment time because of the suffering he is put through every single day that he continues to eke out a feeble existence. He barely takes the time to remember anymore, and he finds that if he tries to remember; he has to think hard to call up an image of anyone's face. It's been far too long since he has seen any of them and he can't remember what any of his brothers looked like. Maedhros' face is a blurry smear and nothing more. That's the closest he can get to remembering. Maedhros was the last to die and that was long, long ago. Long before the humans began at year 1. His life has lasted for at least 3 billion years and his suffering for at least 2 ½ billion years of that time. It's been so long since his father began the kinslayings and it seems like it has been even longer since he's been alone, even though he knows the difference is thousands of years with his father beginning it all coming long before his final brother cast away his life as they learned that the Oath had become void and they could no longer touch the Silmarils without being brutally burned. That is only the beginning of his sad tale, and he relives it whenever he is not otherwise occupied which is more often then it should be. His memories torment him and even though he cannot see the faces; he can still vividly see that sword descending down on Caranthir and Caranthir's almost-delighted smile. To this day, he knows that Caranthir desperately wanted to die - that he could see in his insane brother's eyes - but to this day, he cannot figure out what they did wrong - why Caranthir was so plainly broken and so desperate to leave Arda and depart, leaving all his brothers behind. By that time, Curufin and Celegorm were already dead, but Caranthir had no way of knowing that. The seven brothers had been mostly separated during the battle. Maedhros and Maglor himself had fought together and of course the twins had. Either Curufin or Celegorm found the other, or they both by chance came upon Díor at the same time, but either way their bodies were both splayed by Díor's. It wasn't completely clear who had killed who, but Maglor always thought that Celegorm or Curufin - whoever had found Díor first - had been fighting Díor and the half elf had gotten the jump on him. Then the other brother had stumbled upon Díor in his wounded state, bent over his slaughtered brother. Maglor always thought the second brother - probably Celegorm, for he had been lying on top of both Díor and Curufin - and Díor had fought to the death. Or so Maglor thought. But he never shared that image with Amrod, Amras, or Maedhros. Especially not Maedhros. He had had enough of a burden on his shoulders at that time and so Maglor kept those things and two other things to himself. One; Caranthir had given up because he wanted to die so badly and two; that he had just stood there and watched the Sindarian elf kill his younger brother before killing the other elf because Caranthir had wanted to die so badly and he knew it. He had always known it; deep in his gut; but had kept quiet. Those were the three secrets that would forever haunt him. He thought they would until he died, but he has still failed to die, so he has begun to doubt that they will ever stop haunting him. They certainly haven't yet.

Somewhere in the state of Florida; there is a park. The sun is only just dropping and there are still a few people wandering around. We have two focuses. One is a black-haired Noldorian elf who has lived here for at least a hundred years. He's not leaving anytime soon. He has nowhere to go to. The other is a man wearing a hoodie. The hood is up and it is impossible to see his face. He's watching the Noldor; that much is clear. What isn't clear is whether Cänafinwe is aware of the man's attention. He's just sitting there, his back facing the stranger and if he senses him; he's ignoring him. The stranger isn't here by chance; that too is clear and his purpose involves Maglor himself. The Noldorian elf doesn't seem to want to cooperate though, and as the night slowly begins to pass and the stranger shows absolutely no signs of leaving, the elf stands and begins to leave; accepting without complaint that he'll have to spend a night on the streets, without the meager shelter he is normally privy to. As he walks away, the man stands and trails after him. Maglor doesn't say anything, but it is clear he's annoyed. His emotions have always been easier to read from the outside, and after the War of Wrath, it only became easier. He ducks into a side street and the man sitting in the gutter looks up. "I know you…" He whispers, "You're one of them…" Maglor isn't sure who the man means, but he isn't taking any chances that the man might mean "one of the kinslayers" and he hurries away.

Finally, the hooded man has vanished and Maglor sits down; pulling his cloak in tight around himself. Elf or not, he can feel the biting cold and it looks like it might rain. "Just brilliant." He mumbles and bows his head, closing his eyes and leaning back against the wall. With his eyes closed, he doesn't see the man appear from the shadows and move to stand beside him. He isn't aware of the man's presence until he sits down and whispers, as if trying not to disturb him, but needing to say something. "What are you doing here Mäkaläurë?" Maglor stiffens, the familiar name sending a jolt down his spine. He doesn't respond, and tilts his body away from the stranger. When the man doesn't leave, he slams open his eyes - which was more difficult than it should've been; a great exhaustion bearing down on Maglor - and glares at the man. "My life is perfectly miserably enough without people like you following me around! So you can just go now!" Maglor's shouting has drawn the attention of an elderly woman passing by and she begins to shake her cane at the stranger.

Maglor doesn't bother paying attention to what she has to say and so stands to leave while the man is distracted. The man shoots to his feet when Maglor leaves, but doesn't attempt to follow him. Instead, he just stands there until Maglor is about to turn the corner. Than he opens his mouth and whispers, "Oh Läurë…what has this world done to you?"

Maglor's keen elven hearing picks up what the man whispers and he slams around; eyes wide; and stares at the man. "What did you just call me?" He demands, the woman still watching them. The man pushes back his hood and Maglor's eyes go wide as bowling balls. "Káno…" He mouths, voice gone for the moment. The man takes a hesitant step forward, as if unsure if he is allowed to come any closer. All doubts are thrown away when Maglor takes three long strides and is standing in front of the man; staring at him as if he isn't sure if he is dreaming or not. The man - 'Káno' - touches Maglor's shoulder hesitantly and the spell is broken. Maglor throws his arms around the man, crying and saying his name over and over again as if he can't believe he's in front of him. Káno strokes Maglor's head, whispering quiet elvish words and Maglor's grip tightens. For a few minutes, the two men are frozen, not moving, with the elderly woman forgotten. She smiles, and moves on, her heart touched. It was clear the second man was a member of the first's family; his brother maybe.

The woman is almost right, but the two are cousins. After what could've been hours, but felt like mere minutes, they pull away and neither face is dry. They create quite a contrast, Maglor in his pre-medieval rags and Fingon in his nicer clothes. Fingon puts an arm around his older cousin and whispers; "Come on Läurë. You need some food and a warm bed." Maglor stares at Fingon as if he's never heard of either. Fingon bites his lips; forcing back another round of tears, and leads Maglor back the way they had come, towards an apartment building near the park. He half-pulls him up the staircase - ignoring the few people in the lobby - and lets go of him only to fish out a rusted key to unlock the door. He pushes it open and is holding Maglor tight again. There are voices coming from the kitchen and Maglor thinks he recognizes them. When the door slams shut, the voices go silent and Fingon sighs, the emotion in it unclear. "K', is that you?" "Yeah. I found Maglor." "Uh huh-wait, what?" Chairs slam back and Maglor is pretty sure he hears one crash to the floor.

Familiar faces in the doorway and than there are multiple sets of arms wrapped around him. "Cäna, where have you been hiding?!" He recognizes that voice now and smiles slightly. "Didn't know someone was looking." He whispers. "Theoretically, you're all dead." The arms tighten and Maedhros presses his head into his younger brother's shoulder. "Oh, Cäna…" He trails off, tears streaming down his cheeks, and Maglor kisses his older brother's cheek. Maedhros pulls back and lets their other brothers hug Maglor. Fingon touches his shoulder and he smiles. "I'm fine K'." He looks at Maglor and his smile grows. "I'm more than fine."

Cäna, Cänafinwe, Mäkaläurë, Läurë: Maglor

Káno, K': Fingon