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He laughs. He smiles. He likes to pretend that he is happy. For when he seems happy, the deep creases of worry in Maglor's face lessen, though they never fully fade away, and Maedhros suspects that they never will.
Maedhros is proud that he remembers how to seem happy, though, he will never truly feel happy again.
There are so many, many, things he will never feel again.
He will never again feel his mother's touch, or the glow of his father's affection.
He will never again feel pure, or untainted.
He will never again feel rough jostling from Celegorm, nor the persuasive touch of Curufin's hand.
He will never again feel Caranthir's fingers as they guide his own hand around stacks of coins, or the tender caresses of brotherly affection from the Ambarussa.
And most importantly, he will never again feel a kiss, or the warmth of a breath from Fingon.
So much has been taken from him, and so much he has simply lost along the way.
Lost. Loss. Oh, how much Maedhros knows about loss.
Loss of his grandfather, loss of the Silmarils, loss of his mother, loss of his father. Then loss of his pride and dignity in Morgoth's halls, loss of his hand, then loss of his crown.
Loss of his uncle, then loss of his cousin. Sweet, dearest Findekano. Maedhros prays no longer to the Valar, them he has denounced years ago. But during the darkest hours of the night, he prays sometimes to Findekano, no, he begs, he pleads, for his love to end his misery.
But it does not end. It goes on and on, and Maedhros is determined to one day end it all for good. But not yet, not just quite yet.
He still feels some things, and those things keep him bound to life itself.
He feels love, he feels pride. He feels rage, he feels worry. He feels compassion, he feels tenderness. He feels fear.
It is a mixture of love, pride and fear that raise him to his feet every morning. On the days that are dark, the days where he looks upon a sharpened blade or a high precipice with longing, it takes only the flash of dark hair to drag him to his senses. Maglor's hair, or the twins hair, it matters not. He cannot die, while they still live.
Maglor. Elrond. Elros. The three reasons he dares to continue, the three true Silmarils to him.
They keep him alive, but at what cost? Maedhros is glad that his thoughts are solely his own, for at times, Maedhros watches Maglor tend to the twins, and substitutes his face for Fingon's. The dark hair, the light eyes, Maglor and Fingon both have them, they are easy to interchange, and Maedhros is not ashamed to take what comfort he can scrape into existence at this point.
But when Maglor plays the harp for the twins, or wears any ornament upon his head, Maedhros cannot help but wish that Maglor had inherited their mother's hair. And so he slips a little more into despair.
Despair brings the dark days. Maedhros calls them the dark days, for he has no word for the heretical urge to die that wells up inside him during those days. What being wishes to die? All living things yearn for life. How can he wish to be rid of his?
But he knows truly that his spirit has died with Fingon, and beckons his weary mind and body to follow. But he cannot leave. Instead, he swings Elros up into his arms, and takes Elrond's small hand, and offers Maglor a smile.
"Come. I will tell you all the story of a valiant king." Maedhros says, much to the delight of his...wards? No, his sons. His sweet children. How Findekano would have loved them, he thinks.
Maglor takes his harp from its wrappings, and there is music, and song, and stories that night.
They sleep eventually, all but Maedhros, and he lies awake, a small, warm body under each arm, and a dark head pillowed on his shoulder.
Three he has. And three were taken, at the beginning of all this. It is truly ironic.
The night sky blazes with stars, and but Maedhros can only see Fingon's hair, intertwined with gems. It is a lovely sight indeed.
And he hears a voice, laughing and bright in the back of his mind.
"My hair looks like no night sky, Maitimo. You tease me so!"
Maedhros smiles.
Whatever he has now, a brother, two children and memories, is enough. He can survive, for just a little while longer.