Loss

Sitting down into the chair heavily, Finrod started blankly into the mirror in front of him. He hated times like this; nothing to do leaves time for thought and longing. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to drift…

The mirror in front of him transformed to a light wooden frame, dust specks sparkled in the sunlight, a figure standing behind him, tall and willowy, the fine strands of her hair brushing against his face as she leans over.

A sniff.
The image is dispelled, alone in the still half furnished and cold room he refuses to think back. To think of what could have been. To think of her.

Forcing himself to do something, to occupy his mind he begins to tidy the chamber. Fingers trail over the threads of a small tapestry as he hangs it upon the wall. Could her hands have made this? Could she have hung it with pride in the great halls he has created? Could she kiss him now, tell him not to worry over her.

If only.