“You look dreadful, little brother,” Maedhros said wryly.
Despite his weariness and the awful blackness of the humour, Maglor smiled. He’d missed Maedhros horribly over the long years of his absence but it had become an abstract sort of sorrow. It was well to be reminded it was a person that he loved, sardonic and self-possessed, beneath the layers of bandages and nostalgia. “I don’t think the crown suited me,” he said, sitting down upon the camp stool beside the bed. “You have no idea what a relief it is to be rid of it.”
“I might,” Maedhros said, glancing to where it sat upon its stand. “It’s not as though it suits me any better. I’m sorry to have dropped it upon you, though by all accounts you bore up admirably under the weight. For what little it’s worth, I’m proud of you.”