"But the host of the Valar prepared for battle; and beneath their white banners marched the Vanyar, the people of Ingwë, and those also of the Noldor who never departed from Valinor, whose leader was Finarfin the son of Finwë."
Maedhros
Days passed, then weeks, flashing across his memory like sunlight glinting over ocean swells. Maedhros could feel time weighing down on him more and more now, as if the long count of years spent in Middle Earth had at last decided to settle on his bones. A heaviness from within with seemingly no escape. Maglor was out there somewhere; perhaps he was happier.
He stood atop the battlements at Amon Ereb and watched the afternoon descend into darkness. The only lights visible were the same stars he'd known all his life. And one more.
"Letter for you, my lord. Some family business." Braenor appeared with a lantern in one hand and a scroll in the other. Flecks of newly-fallen snow clung to the fur of his cloak.
Maedhros shook himself out of his musings. "And how is Maglor? More words of good cheer to dispense at me, I'm sure."
"Not Lord Maglor, sir."
Maedhros weighed the scroll in his hand. Lantern-light glinted off the sigil stamped on emerald green wax. His eyes narrowed. "Come, we'll go inside."
Braenor nodded. "Sir."
Their footsteps echoed over the stones as they made their way past snow-capped parapets to the nearest watchtower.
"Let's find out what my estranged nephew has to share with us tonight."