#twilightchild

Maeglin is thinking about Eärendil again.

Mairon touches the golden pendant with pale, slender fingers adorned with rings. Maeglin's praise of his work does bring a genuine smile to his lips, though it looks uncanny.

(For @twilightchild because reasons.)

"Hmm, Lomion. I would say that if you make a bad decision, own it and defend it to the death. You caused the downfall of a city? It was their own fault for having weak defences, for not listening to advice, and for not crowning you King. You killed some elves? They were bastards and had it coming.

You have done nothing wrong ever, and my advice is to die on that hill."

A twitch. Then a sigh. Before one molten silver eye cracked open to see who on Arda was playing with his hair. It was a unusually warm afternoon in Gondolin and Turgon, the King himself, had actually forced him to have a couple of days off. So Halrë had decided to doze in one of the rarely used courtyards, not expecting to be disturbed. "Who?" was his half asleep question.