The room was warm, so warm it almost felt stifling, yet there was a chill that lingered, creeping through the very core of your being. It was a peculiar juxtaposition, one that filled your stomach with dread and pain, threatening to wrench it from your body, yet you held onto it with a fierce determination. Instead, your fingers found solace in the strings of the harp, dancing delicately across them, coaxing forth melodies that seemed to embody both melancholy and memories, both sweet and bitter.

The sound of the harp filled the room, a room shrouded in shadows and dim light. Maedhros sat in silence, his gaze fixed upon the ceiling, his expression unreadable to most, but not to you. You knew the depths of his soul, the scars that adorned it, visible only to those who dared to look beyond the surface.

You didn't speak, not yet. The music spoke for you, weaving a tale of pain and healing, of loss and redemption. You were there when they brought him back from Thangorodrim, saved by Fingon's daring rescue. He returned to you, broken and battered, missing an arm, but his spirit remained unyielding, tethered to yours by an unbreakable bond.

Restless nights followed, filled with his tortured cries and your whispered reassurances. You bore witness to his agony, feeling it echo in your own heart, yet you never faltered. You were his anchor in the storm, the steady hand that guided him back from the brink of despair.

And now, as he sat before you, a semblance of his former self restored, you played for him once more. The garden beckoned to him during the day, offering a fleeting respite from the shadows that haunted his mind. But in the stillness of the night, it was your music that chased away the demons that lurked in the corners of his memories.

As the last strains of the melody hung in the air, you paused, uncertain. Then, Maedhros spoke, his voice quiet but firm. "Keep playing," he said, his eyes meeting yours for the briefest of moments before returning to their distant contemplation of the ceiling.