Attn. mommies, especially.

[broodingelf]

Tonight there's music, soft and bitter-sweet, floating through the building. At the source, were one to follow it, you'd find an elf in incongruously modern dress sitting in a window-seat, drawing music out of his small harp while gazing out at the nightscape. This languishing poet look is just habitual for him; he probably invented it.

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[redhairedwisdom]

It is possible she knows exactly who the player is the second she hears the music, but either way she follows it quietly, her traveling boots making only the slightest sound as she looks in the door. She leans against it, watching him play, rememorizing his face- he is her son, there is no doubt about that, but he is different, more so than any of her other sons.

[redhairedwisdom]

That causes her to smile, one that is simply warm and happy. "I love you too."

[broodingelf]

Warm happy mommies are good, yes. He brushes back her hair with the back of a hand, glad to see her smile.

[redhairedwisdom]

She half-closes her eyes at the touch, but then something catches her eye - and millenia of being without her sons does not dull the mommy instincts. She reaches up to take his hand in hers quickly, probably a familiar motion from Maglor's childhood, when she sees a cut or bruise that may need mending. She frowns as she turns his hand to see the palm better.

[broodingelf]

It takes him a second, nevertheless, to realize what she's doing, and while he instinctively tries to close his hand, she can't possibly miss the network of scar tissue criss-crossing his palm and fingers, the scars no less vivid for all their antiquity.

[redhairedwisdom]

She puts her other hand across his palm to stop him from fully closing his hand, giving him a Look automatically. Too long has it been since she has been able to care for her sons, and she is certainly not going to let one refuse to at least let her look.

[broodingelf]

It's not refusing her specifically: even leaving aside the shame, people tend to ask questions about something so distinctive, and over the last many thousand years it's become reflexive to hide. So with a sinking feeling, he relaxes his hand, opening it under her palm.

[redhairedwisdom]

She holds it with one hand, tracing the scars with the fingers of the other. She does not have to ask - after a moment she closes her eyes tightly until the urge for furious tears goes away, and after they do, she gathers both his hands up in hers and places a kiss to his knuckles, as if that will make it all better.

[broodingelf]

He squeezes her hands, feeling helpless. "It's--" except it isn't alright at all; he's causing his mother grief: add another guilt to the lengthy list. Quiet, close to a whisper: "I'm sorry."

[redhairedwisdom]

"It's alright." It is hard to tell if that is a lie or if she is just trying to convince herself of it. "You can still play, and as beautifully as ever."

[broodingelf]

In any case, he knows better than to believe it. But at least she has her priorities right. "No, I never lost that." Okay, except for maybe once or twice when he was really crazy, but that's not the point.

[redhairedwisdom]

"That is a good thing." And if there is one good thing out of all of this, she can still manage a little bit of peace. "I have missed hearing you play."

[broodingelf]

That's not good, that's just an isolated instance of lack of really really bad. Elvish perspective here has obviously become incredibly warped. He squeezes her hands. "I can play for you again, now."

[redhairedwisdom]

When has Elvish perspective not been warped? She squeezes back, smiling at him. "I would enjoy that immensely. My life has been too quiet without you."

[broodingelf]

More warped, then. He smiles back, a little, kissing her temple lightly. "Whenever you like, Ammë."

[redhairedwisdom]

"Sit with me a while?"