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He cannot even begin to explain how barren he feels without his brothers. They have been a part of his life for all but a few years, and now all but one are gone. Nelyafinwë watches as his little brothers die one by one, falling victim to the Doom of Mandos that haunts their every step.
It haunts him as well, but in different ways. His brothers have died and are gone, whisked away to the Halls. He lives on, watching them fall.
He was the one tasked with ensuring that they stay alive and stayed together, and he has failed.
It is a strange pain, the one that settles in his chest. It hurts in ways that all Morgoth's torture never could. Nothing can harm him the way remembering their faces can, even as he clings to the memories. They are all he has left anymore.
Even the twins he watches grow under Maglor's care are gone, having split off from the brothers to pursue their own lives far, far away from the curse that shadowed Nelyafinwë’s and Maglor's steps.
Nelyafinwë lies awake some nights, and it is all he can do to not slip into memory.
In his dreams he sees Findekáno smile again, dark face framed by darker hair woven with gold. Some nights he sees his cousin's twisted body, heart still pumping blood even as he died, the red seeping into the ground under him. Those are the nights Nelyafinwë wakes to Maglor shaking him, and those are the days Nelyafinwë says little.
He says little most days, but the days after those horrible nights where he wakes with his blood cold in his veins, his cousins or brothers dying before him, are the days he cannot bear to face the world. The world brought Doom upon those he loved, and left him here alive, wracked with grief until he cannot not bear to even stand, because if he gets to his feet he fears where they will take him.
Those are the days Maglor sits beside him in silence, not even his brother's harp between them. Those are the days Nelyafinwë fears but cannot avoid.
But there are also better days. There are days he can find the strength to stand despite the crushing burden of his grief, and there are days he ventures outside again, to breathe in fresh air and to remember that not all hope is lost. That not everyone he loves is dead.
Maglor is still beside him, after all, and while Nelyafinwë has no proof, he knows in his heart that their mother is still alive. Elrond, too, is still out roaming the world, or perhaps he has settled by now. Nelyafinwë does not know, and nor does he know of the fate of the other twin, of Elros.
There are days the wind ruffles his hair, and he remembers that the world is not so bad, although his tale in it may have been.
For the most part, he simply tries to keep living. Even if he has no desire to anymore, even if he would rather end it all and allow his suffering to end, he cannot do that to Maglor. The two of them have carved out a brief peace for themselves, hidden away in the foothills. Nelyafinwë can feel the Oath pulling at him and knows that they have only a few last weeks here in their sanctum, before they must attempt to regain the Silmarils once more.
But he and his brother have tired of watching blood coat their hands, have tired of the deeds they have performed for their father's jewels, and so he delays.
He is loathe to break the peace they have found, however brief it may be. The grief is most tolerable now, when he is surrounded by one who is still living and Nelyafinwë can almost convince himself that the horrors of the past are naught more than a dream.
But he has never been good at lying to himself, and so the dreams still come at night, haunting him with first memories of his kin alive and joyful in Valinor, then with the images of their deaths, blood pooling over his hands as he fails to spare them. Sometimes it is a glimpse of his own death that he sees, though he is never sure if the fire that consumes his body in those dreams is simply his imagination.
But it would be fitting, for the eldest son of Fëanor to perish in the fire that his father so embodied, would it not?
He says as much to Maglor, who watches him with concerned eyes and says that he has seen nothing of his own death, but at night songs come to him. This is nothing unusual in and of itself, but the songs themselves are odd: they are hauntingly beautiful songs of mourning. The nights after he dreams of those melodies, Maglor is often drawn to the water, walking alongside the river near their small hut for hours, seeking to remember each note.
Nelyafinwë says nothing, but he watches his remaining brother nonetheless. Perhaps one of them will be gifted a kinder fate than the rest. Perhaps the Doom of Mandos will at least spare Maglor, because Nelyafinwë does not doubt that he himself will not be spared. He had dreamed of fire all of once, and yet he knows in his heart that he will perish one day soon.
Sometimes it is Maglor who dreams and wakes to Nelyafinwë sitting beside him, but those nights are far more infrequent than the ones where Nelyafinwë dreams. While Maglor holds little less disgust for their deeds than Nelyafinwë does, he at least is granted restful nights.
Perhaps Nelyafinwë should be envious of him, but all he can feel is grateful. His brother suffers less than he does, and so Nelyafinwë is willing to bear whatever burden he must.
Most days, he thinks of who he has lost. He traces their smiles with his mind and tries to recall their features, from the light scattering of freckles Ambarussa wore to the face of Curufin, who had softer edges than their father, although no less sharp in wit or skill. If he thinks of it, there are days he can still hear the songs Maglor would play at banquets the Sons of Fëanor had been made to attend. The notes are distorted and the melody slowed by time, but the tune is a comforting one.
Nelyafinwë hums a snatch of it one day, and with tears in his eyes, Maglor fetches his harp and plays the song in full. Their eyes meet after the last note has faded from the air, sorrow clear in both. Maglor does not play again after that day.
Nelyafinwë wakes one day, a new urgency in him. The Oath hums in his blood, though he has never known if he is truly bound to it or merely feels as though he is. It matters little: his fate is sealed regardless. He will walk the Halls soon, although he hopes but does not believe his death will come after Maglor's. Nelyafinwë does not desire to bury another brother, but neither does he wish for Maglor to have to mourn in his place.
Nelyafinwë grips his sword and draws it, swinging experimentally. The blade has not dulled, and only barely has he in the weeks he has spent here.
Maglor enters, and knows without words that it is time. Nelyafinwë sheaths the blade and turns to his brother, embracing him one last time before they fall. Maglor is warm against him, and his arms stronger than he appears.
"We will win, little brother," he finds himself saying. "I am not leaving you yet."