#the single image of weiled maglor in my mund wrote this post

[lost-hope-but-funny]

on Ao3.

the older elves have different eyes. by far, there are no differences in colours or shapes of them. but the eternal light is still present, shining up until the very end of times, or, until the very death.

and what if the eyes are covered up in death, just like dwarven hair? covered up with the best silks, or linens, with beaded or threaded cloths, because the eyes are too private to look upon without permission.

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when amrod is burned alive, there is no funeral. only ashes upon the salted water, only ashes in the depth. only cries that froze in the air, in the souls of his brothers. in their eyes.

maedhros's captured, the bargain is held, malgor with a silver crown upon his head doesn't weep. he doesn't weep when refusing the bargain. (they will slaughter his brother in the same second as getting the desired). he doesn't weep when his younger brothers look at him and then away. he doesn't weep when fingon looks at him with desperation and forbidden anger in his old eyes and storms away.

when maedhros is brought back, there is no second hand with him, fingon is soaked with his lover's blood and maitimo's closed eyes are awaited to be covered with beaded cloths (he had always taken up a liking in those). they say he won't survive the night.

celegorm, caranthir and curufin die.

amras, maglor and maedhros survive on. amras weeps. maedhros is silent while maglor holds their brothers' heads to his own, quiet when their eyes are covered with dark cloths, the lack of adornment is ever lasting. maedhros' eyes are dimmer, but the light of the Trees is ever-present, up until his heart beats.

amras is slain. maedhros doesn't weep. his eyes get dimmer. maglor does. maglor does weep while covering his youngest brother's eyes with the cleanest red cloth they found (the red haunts, the blood never to be washed away).

(out of the dwarven traditions held, maedhros took up the beads on hair. he never understood the hair-cutting anyway. why would it be cut in grief?)

thangorodrim happened, his hair was cut to prevent further injuries, his brothers and love begged he would survive but feared the consequences the most. (he did too).

amras is slain and maglor's eyes dim and they take up twins to their care, scared out of their life twins, and maedhros cuts up his hair to the mangled ears, with one hand, and the hair falls with fire, bitten and tired, the whites too, present. he doesn't weep.

they send the children away to gil-galad's care, praying to the forbidden gods that at least those would have a calm end, and maedhros throws himself into the fire, feeling the gentle, fleeting, touch of his father before the welcomed pain, being so used to it. it doesn't hurt anymore.

maglor doesn't feel much when the last of his brothers' disappears in the mouth of the volcano. his eyes dim but blink themselves to life once more because his heart still beats.

unlike the ones of the rest.

(he cuts his hair, his long, darkness-soaked, with wide strikes of white coming right from the roots, hair, up to the ears, to the still whole ears and leaves those on the edge of the fire pit, but doesn't weep. that ability long left him.)

his black, black eyes shine themselves back to living, though dim every other day and not for the rest of time his heart beats. he scrambles to find a linen cloth in the ruins of his belongings and lets it fly into the mouth of the chasm, because no other brother of his will be lost to the fire and not buried with enough gentleness.

(he covers his hair with a dark-blue cloth (just like the night itself), hiding it from the gaze of the others, covers his eyes with the same cloth, wrapping it around tightly. hiding. no other elf will see his soul anymore, the world has seen enough of it. enough.)

he grabs the wooden harp, leaves himself barefoot on purpose and starts walking, not stopping. the sea eats away his feet and drowns them in the cold sand.

(did amrod drown or burn? just how pained was he? or did he not feel a thing?)

he walks on, the sun rays get him drunk with nothing, on nothing, but his head is still not his own, and the harp strings whisper among themselves and, not the first unfinished, song plays on.

he walks still.