"Don't you have any curiosity?" asked Maitimo, throwing his packed saddlebag at him. "I'd have thought you, of all people, would want to come and meet the Secondborn." "Whatever for?" asked Macalaurë, pleasantly exasperated. "To write a song about it, of course."

By the time she saw one of her sons again, the world was nearly at an end. She did not expect him to return so scarred.

Findekáno's fingers, rough and calloused (but never as rough as his skin, never as worn and tan as five years of hanging on a mountain make you), trace his bare arm. He knows this because he can see him doing it. He cannot feel it. Maedhros/Fingon

"You hate picking flowers," I said suddenly, remembering something from long ago. "Or...at least you did." She smiled again, and it was brilliant. "I still do." Maedhros/Idril Friendship Fic

It is the Mereth Aderthad, the Feast of Reuniting, and Maglor is enjoying good food, fine wine, and, well, rather mediocre entertainment. He does not expect the minstrel to begin singing a cruel song about his brother, nor the reuniting to actually happen.

Findekáno glances at his cousin, his best friend, the one he's risked life and limb to find and save, only to bring him back to find he hasn't saved him at all. Maitimo's dull eyes are unfocused and don't react to the voices speaking in hushed tones around him. The Maitimo he knew is gone, replaced by a puppet with empty eyes.

Elrond was determined that there was going to be a record of what it was like to love the sons of Fëanor.