Эту дивность, иначе - фанфик за авторством Arhuaine, я прочитала когда-то давно и благополучно забыла. Теперь нашла и ностальгирую. Более того, совершенно по-иному понимаю эту вещь теперь. А ведь оно великолепно, да. Господа толкинисты и сочувствующие, не пожалейте полчаса чтения со словарем, если не говорите по-английски. Находка посвящается всем, кто верит и помнит.

А читать, комментировать и отвечать буду вечером, поелику сейчас ухожу работать. :) 

That Damn Book

They are sitting in the garden, in the summer sun. One is reading, his long coppery hair like a curtain hiding his face. The other only watches, and sips from a glass of iced tea. "Why do you torture yourself like this?"

Maedhros looks up from his book; an old and battered copy of the Silmarillion. He frowns. "What?"

"That." Maglor waves a dismissive gesture at the book. "It won't make you feel any better, you know."

Maedhros shrugs and looks back at the page.

"What is it anyway? Thangorodrim?"

"Nirnaeth Arnoediad."

"Oh." Maglor picks the mint-leaf out of his tea and chews it. He knows that Maedhros has been dreaming of that again. He hears him in the night, crying, calling out Fingon's name, and he fights the urge to go to him, and hold him.

"It doesn't matter now," Maglor says eventually. "You found each other again."

Maedhros' eyes flash with a sudden anger that dissipates just as quickly. "It matters," he says simply. He sighs and throws the book down. "I keep hoping that one time I'll read it and it will be different. I keep looking for the happy ending."

"You have that now," Maglor replies.