The light of the Halls of Mandos, for Maedhros, was a cool, steady balm on his long-tormented spirit. He saw her, his wife, among the other serene forms, and a profound, aching desire to truly connect stirred within him. Their bond had endured through ages and death, and now, in this timeless place, he sought to bridge the unspoken chasms.

He approached her, his form shimmering with a newfound clarity, his blue eyes fixed upon her. He opened his mouth, a question, a heartfelt sentiment, forming on his spiritual tongue. "A vanima! An sí coivië ú-quetuva i Noldor ar i Sindar, yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier..." he began, his voice resonating with the ancient, beautiful cadences of Quenya, the High Elvish tongue of Valinor.

He spoke of reunion, of life beyond suffering, of the long ages past and their enduring connection. He meant to convey something like, (Oh beautiful one! For now, life will not speak of the Noldor and the Sindar, ages have passed swiftly like quick draughts...) He watched her, hoping to see comprehension, but then, a slight, almost imperceptible furrow appeared on her brow.

She tilted her head, a hint of confusion in her gaze. He heard her respond, her words flowing like a clear stream, but in a different melody. He could pick out a few familiar words, "hello," "my lord," but the overall meaning, the flow, the direct comprehension of Sindarin eluded him. His mind, honed for strategies of war and the complexities of the High Speech, stumbled over the softer, more fluid grammar of the Grey-elven tongue. He understood words of Westron from his later interactions with Men, but that was of no use here.

A flash of familiar frustration, quickly quelled, crossed his features. He had immersed himself in the practicalities of war and the High Tongue; the intricacies of Sindarin had always been more of a passive recognition than fluent understanding. He took a deep, spiritual breath, and tried again, speaking more slowly, trying to break down the concept. "I coivië vanya sí. Amin hira. Amin quet." (Life is beautiful now. I find. I speak.) He then gestured vaguely, trying to provide a literal, almost desperate explanation. "It means... 'Life, now, will not be spoken of by the Noldor and the Sindar anymore.' The long years... they pass like swift sips. Do you understand? It's... it's different here." He sought her eyes for any glimmer of recognition that the deeper meaning had reached her.

He saw her gentle smile, but it was still tinged with faint amusement, and that old, familiar sadness that had always accompanied their attempts to truly communicate across the linguistic divide his father's choices had created. He heard her reply again in Sindarin, the soft, patient words offering warmth but not comprehension of his elaborate Quenya phrasing.

Maedhros simply looked at her, his blue eyes filled with a complex mix of longing, unspoken love, and a very distinct, though perhaps somewhat comical, realization that even in the Halls of Mandos, some barriers remained steadfast. He rubbed his brow, a habitual gesture even for a spirit, and let out a soft sigh. "Oh, for the Valar's sake..." he muttered, likely in Quenya, the words meant only for himself, a silent acknowledgement of his own stubborn linguistic habits and the enduring irony of his situation. "I suppose some things... require more than words."