The Unremembered by Makalaure

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Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's works.

Five minute job, un-beta'd.

The Unremembered

Maglor is a poem made flesh, but will not admit it. On the streets people pass him by and snigger at his solemn air and the ink that spots his skin, but they stumble back when his gaze rises and appears to cut the shadows from their feet; if he has a mind to, he will unhinge people's fëas with a glance.

With a bow in his hand he does not bother with bravado. He steals life in silence and hands over warm flesh to whichever brother is standing nearby, because the abrasive sound of stripping skin off bones sickens him. He will say that he is weak, that his emotions brim and spill over; he cares not. Let folk paint him whichever hues they please.

Unremarkable he is, or so people say before they hear him speak. With his voice he bends time and weaves images, and the world stops to listen. Then he laughs (which is overwhelming to most), takes a bow, and calls himself a professional liar. "Lesser scion is all I am!" he says. "Go to Maedhros if you wish to bask in the presence of royalty."

I have taught him almost nothing, yet my chest threatens to burst with pride when I look at him. When he comes to me with a new composition (not much earlier, he was trundling to me to kiss his pricked fingers), I say, "You will be forgotten."

He stretches in a bored fashion, as if I am a toddler describing the colour of the sky. "I would not have it any other way," he says with the smile of a conspirator.




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