Trinkets by Independence1776

Cold

This was written for Teitho's November/December 2019 challenge "cold." It came in third.

Cold, the sickle of stars shone over the North.

Cold, his brothers called him when he refused to go after Maedhros.

Cold, their relations had grown with those who had crossed the Grinding Ice.

Cold, had their relations ever been with Thingol and worse they became when the truth was learned.

Cold lay the bodies of their fallen kin and friends.

Cold lay his instruments after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, unused as he paced back and forth, unable to compose, to sing, to play.

Cold lay their metal blades until the Oath drove them to be coated in warm blood.

Cold were the eyes of everyone who had devastated Doriath, the Havens.

Cold Elrond and Elros should have remained toward him, but did not.

Cold he stood now on the shore, the war camp to his north and vast lands to his south.

The Silmaril did not burn cold.

Maglor turned and walked South, away from everything he’d ever known, in hope that one day he would be warm again.