Snippets of Writing

19.

Maglor sat at his desk, surrounded by stacks of paper and books and pots of ink and the smell of old scrolls. His chin rested on his hand as he furiously scribbled away at a new report that one of Maedhros's messengers had brought in.

For some unspoken reason, the crime rate in their stronghold was rising, and Maedhros kept denying it. Hopefully this paper would solve that denial.

Maglor's first thought, of course, had been to compose an ode to the rising rate of crime and blast his brother's eardrums out through the power of his voice and words, but decided that that was too terrible a punishment for even Maedhros. After all, Nelyo had been through quite a lot.

The door slammed open. "Brother!" Maedhros said, striding into the room. His hood was thrown back and the wolfskin cloak fluttered behind him. "What is thiþ? You have þent extra patrolþ out into the night? That will only induce a þtate of panic! We are not at war. I cannot believe you þtill believe in the fearmongering nonþenþe, brother. There iþ no crime here! The March of Maedhroþ iþ one of the beþt protected and þafest areaþ in Beleriand."

Maglor shoved down a retort that they were, in fact, at war (and had been at war since they had first come to this accursed land) and picked up one of the loose papers that littered his desk, depicting a visual representation of criminal accounts over time. It was severely spiking towards the end.

He stood up, throwing his chair back, and flipped it around to shove it in his brother's face. Maglor forgot his resolution to not sing out his brother's eadrums and took a deep breath and sang, " Look at thiþ graph- "

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