The smithy glows with an almost sacred heat. The fire dances on the walls as if remembering your father's flame, but your eyes aren't fixed on the flames. They're on him. There, amidst the smoke and sweat, works the mortal. Thom.

Elven bodies surround him, taller, older, more skilled. And yet, you can only watch Thom adjust the hilt of a sword with such intense concentration that the world seems to silence around him. His hair falls over his eyes, his hands stained with soot and ash, and in his movements there's something that can't be taught: a kind of tenderness hidden amidst the fury of the iron.

"Are you watching him again?" Maedhros asks you, beside you, arms crossed. His tone is weary, not cruel, but laden with judgment.

"You're starting to worry us," Maglor adds softly, not taking his eyes off the forge. "He's a mortal. One among many. They live short lives, they wear out quickly. What's so special about him?" What's so special about him?

You don't know what to say. You can't explain that when Thom smiles, even by accident, time seems to lose its grip. You won't tell them you've heard him murmur melodies to himself when he thinks no one is listening, and that some of those melodies are so beautiful they make you want to give up on war, on the Silmaril, on everything. So you don't answer. You just look at him.

And then he looks up, sweat gleaming on his forehead, and finds you. And smiles.