My brother always used to sing about fair maidens finding true love without a doubt. This was when we were still living on Valinor. Now – if he sings – his songs are filled with battle and strife, meeting with new races as Dwarves or the Edain, or successful hunts where one of my brothers would bring home game and other wildlife.

Love. I often wondered why Maglor did not speak of his own love, but always of others, making it the most important tale to him and his crowd, who would be completely engrossed in it after mere seconds.

I remember the young maidens sitting around the many fountains in Tirion, claiming their sadness that a man would not look into her direction, or worse, dissecting flower petals one after another in a staccato rhythm saying: “He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me…”

If life was just that simple, I softly speak to no one beside me. The weather has been harsh this winter: the wind roars around my stronghold and many couples find each other in a passionate embrace, retreating to their own quarters. Midwinter is almost upon us and I know that next year we will be blessed with many children of Iluvatar.

Should I get a cluster of Mistletoe and pick off the berries, one by one, to determine if she indeed loves me? Or shall I try to see if I can commit my thoughts to paper, a gift which comes so natural to my brother. My other siblings are on their way to our midwinter fest, but I want to ask her before my fair brother, with his outspoken mind, claims her attention first. Or the more cunning one, who knows well of the joys of marriage. Or my younger twin brothers, too young to know the proper customs of Tirion’s courts. Have I become just like my dark brother, who hardly speaks or feigns interest in matters outside his realm?

Maitimo is something I am no more, and I wonder if she will express concern if I ask her to become my consort, lest I should be too late. This winter set in early and maybe she did find someone else by now due to my lackadaisical attitude. Maybe I am doomed to remain alone. Maybe it is a song my brother refuses to sing for me.

What I am not is a wavering man, and I know that I have to seize my moment today. It is now or never. The quill and ink have to wait for another purpose, for I am no writer. A hunter, artisan, or warrior, but I do know that I was born to lead. Maybe, if Iluvatar is willing, I will lead my lady into the dance of life during the festival. I will tell her that she has my heart. I will ask her to become my love and I will speak of my desire to be her mate until the end of Arda.

This vignette is written as a Christmas gift for Maedhros Rising. Beta: Isil Elensar.