[ Maglor weeps for a long, long time. Long enough, probably, for Muscovy to drop off. He might weep himself to exhaustion but he has a little one to care for, and it is only that which gets him to his feet, Muscovy cradled close, long enough to collapse onto the bed, which still, he imagines, smells faintly of Maedhros. He will curl around the little nation and sleep that way ]
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