A flickering candlelight—then, I can see my face, lined with sun-starved shadows. I have been hiding for quite a long time. Time holds no semblance to me. I do not understand age if it does not appear to me. I have not aged. For a long time, I have remained and appeared the same. Everything has stopped. The world has frozen, and all living things are simple, empty shells that are being controlled like puppets through invisible strands of life. They are filled with the so-called life that animates objects, brings them to a meaning, a reason that I do not understand. I do not have a reason now, except to kill and ruthlessly murder by a single affirmation.
Father…does this come under the Oath that I have sworn to you?
But…I am curious.
What is this…life?
What I am living…what I endure…it is not life.
No.
It is nothing but hell.
The mirror is rusted from my line of sight, where I sit, and I am wasting away in my wooden chair. The hard spindles of the seat are pressing against my spine, my shoulder blades, my back. It reminds me—this feeling reminds me—of war. The same cycle, every single time your name, Father, is brought into this. Your legacy. Your enemy looming above me, his boot pressed into my stomach as I lay on your shield—the sword is in my arm now, and he removes it ever slowly and places it right above my abdomen. Pain does not register, but the feeling of something warm seeping from me, pooling around me—oh, you can see it from where you rest… You see me, bleeding, correct? But it did not hurt. I did not feel it. I do not think it was bleeding.
Then, I heard yelling, and it is something I do not understand now—I did not understand at the time what was happening either. I was not sure of myself; I only felt wet, as if Morgoth Bauglir himself had spit on me and melted my insides to nothing. Everything was dark for a moment; everything was gone.
I woke up to a dark room.
It is where I am sitting now, pondering, fingering the gauze wrapped about me. I did not have the power I used to have.
What if I had died?
I understand, now, what had been escaping from me.
Life, completely unrelated to the condensation.
At first, I suspected the wetness to be blood, wet and red, staining the forefront of my armor, the tunic hidden beneath, the sword, my hands, the earth.
No…it was rain.
It had been raining that day.
And then I understood.
I was being pitied.
The sky was crying for me. Manwë was weeping for me.
Though I did not age, though I was entrapped in ice, in time, the earth aged. Emotions aged. And pity grew to grief.
Let the Valar cry. Let them watch our fate unravel before their eyes, let them watch us wreak havoc on everything, because we are seven harbingers, and we will eventually all die in fire. Each city is burned as it is sacked, each ship is burned as it no longer has a meaning, and each soul is consumed as it dies. Let them… Let the Valar watch us die.
But I'm still here. I'm still left as one of two.
For now.
As you can probably guess, this is either Maedhros or Maglor. Knowing me, you'll probably notice the hints that I've placed in the story. Though they may be a bit vague.
So...who do you think it is? Maedhros or Maglor?