Maglor's calloused fingers cannot be copied. Maedhros knows them as well as his own - maybe better. His brother's hands are gentle and comforting, gifted in easing pain and bringing forth beautiful music. He is not strong enough to resist what they give so freely.

One by one, his fingers extend and his hand turns, holding but not confining Maglor's hand.

"Like Morgoth." he can see the similarities without aid. His hand twitches and he swallows against his rising anxiety. One Morgoth is bad, but two or more?

"We are both good at it." and that isn't a source of pride. Maedhros thinks war is about the only thing he can do anymore.

"The one responsible was...vanquished?" the hope in his voice quakes and his blue eyes are over-bright, "I want you to be Maglor; not my shield."