The Fire of Life by StarSpray  

“Maedhros.”

“Lady.”

“Why do you still linger here? Your mother awaits you.”

“I’m not ready.”

“Are you not?”

“What would I do? I am not—”

“You do not have to know what to do. No one does, upon first leaving these Halls.”

“I am not suited to peace any longer.”

- - 

“Does he mean he is not suited, or that he does not deserve it?”

“Both, perhaps. The fire of life burns bright in his spirit again, but he is weighed down still, by guilt and by grief.”

“Hmm.”

“Have you a solution, brother?”

“He desires a purpose. If Manwë agrees, perhaps he might find it across the Sea.”

“Ah, I understand. Perhaps he might serve as a companion to Olórin on his voyage. They would be good for one another, and he is the only one set to depart alone.”

“We will see what Manwë has to say.”

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“There Maedhros in time was healed; for the fire of life was hot within him, and his strength was of the ancient world, such as those possessed who were nurtured in Valinor. His body recovered from his torment and became hale, but the shadow of his pain was in his heart…”
- The Silmarillion, “Of the Return of the Noldor”

- - 

It was quiet in the Halls. Time passed, but strangely—dreamlike. Maedhros knew he must have been there a very long time, but he did not care to watch for each new tapestry as it was unrolled in the vast halls where the dead gathered, and he did not care to go among the the other spirits, to listen to their whispers, hearing bits and pieces of news or rumor, or what had brought them there. He had come to death wanting it all just to stop—and stop it had, the pain and the Oath and the grinding, aching, awful weight that just existing in the breaking world had become. He had wanted rest, and he had found it. Let the world outside continue on without him. It needed him not, and he no longer wanted it. 

His brothers found him, sometimes. They spoke little, wanting nothing more than the quiet company of each other’s spirits. His father had come once or twice in the beginning, Maedhros thought, but he could not remember what was said—if anything had been said at all. The pain of his death had still been upon him and he had not been able to bear Fëanor’s presence, bright and burning as it was. Finwë had come after that, his spirit so much gentler as it wrapped around Maedhros the way he’d wrapped his living arms around him as a small child, protective and comforting, even still as wounded and diminished as he was after his own death. He had stayed with Maedhros for a very long time. 

Then Nienna had come with her ever-falling tears, to weep when he could not, for all he had done and all that had been done to him. Námo himself came, when Maedhros was a little stronger, to speak and to ask questions that could not go unanswered. He was unyielding and often stern but also gentle, there not as judge but as healer, one who saw everything and so could help untangle the fears and wounds of the dead, to set them on the road to healing. 

Mostly, though, Maedhros was left alone, and he dreamed and drowsed and even forgot for very long spans of time even who he was or why he was there.

Now everything felt clearer, and Maedhros sometimes felt the desire to leave the Halls pull at his heart—to feel the sun and wind on his face, to bathe in clear waters and run through the grass. But when he had done those things—what then? Return to Tirion? No. The bright and shining Prince Maitimo Nelyafinwë who had lived there once was no more. He had died in Angband. It was Maedhros that Fingon had cut from the mountainside, someone his younger and more innocent self would recoil from even then—and he had only gotten worse afterward. What was Maedhros to do in the Undying Lands, where peace again reigned, and his name was synonymous now with treachery and murder?

Nienna came to him more and more often as time went on, encouraging him to turn his thoughts toward life. His brothers were starting to do the same, she said, one by one. His mother wanted him to come home. Fingon came every few years to the doors of Mandos to ask after him. Sometimes Finrod came with him.

Yet it was so quiet in the Halls. It was peaceful in a way that did not make him itch and worry, that did not require anything of him—there was nothing he could do to break it, by action or inaction. No one cared who he was there. No one minded that he kept to himself, kept far away from the more crowded spaces. As soon as his spirit regained a body he would start to need things, start to want things—Maedhros did not know what those things would be, exactly, but he knew they were not to be found in Valinor. There was no way for him to right any of his wrongs there. No way to make up for any of it, not when he had forged himself into a weapon and forgotten how to be anything else. 

After Nienna’s latest visit Maedhros drifted, losing himself in dreams and hazy thoughts that were forgotten as soon as they entered his mind. He missed his brothers—all of them, he thought, now departed from Mandos to make something new of themselves. After a while he thought perhaps he might do the seeking this time—perhaps it was time he tried to speak to Fëanor, to lay to rest what still simmered under the surface, that tangle of betrayal and hurt and hate and love. Something in him shrank from it, but if he could just—

Before he could do more than think of it, though, Maedhros found himself not in his familiar corner of the Halls but in a vast wide room with high walls, with stained glass windows glowing in them, red and purple and blue. There was no roof—all of Mandos was open to the sky—and so the stars shone down from above, glittering like diamonds thrown across a vast expanse of smooth black velvet. Námo sat upon his high seat, face half-hidden under a silver cowl but for his eyes that shone like two burning stars. Nienna was there, equally bright-eyed behind her pale grey veils. With them, beyond all expectation, was Manwë, a tall and almost blinding presence in the twilight. His eyes were blue and piercing as he turned to regard Maedhros, and his raiment was all blue and gold.

“Maedhros Fëanorion,” said Námo, beckoning Maedhros forward. He approached, wary. Námo and Nienna wished to send him out of Mandos, he knew, believing him ready to return to life, but he did not know what interest the Elder King could have. “Why do you refuse to return to life? The Eldar are not meant for death. These Halls have served their purpose for you.”

“Would not my return break the peace of Valinor?” Maedhros asked. 

“Your brothers’ did not,” said Námo. 

Was he not worse than all his brothers combined, having been their leader? Maedhros said nothing. He did not know what to say that would satisfy the Valar, that would lead them to just let him continue as he had been—and both Námo and Nienna knew his answers already. “Would you release my father, too?” he asked. 

“When he is ready,” said Námo. “He is not—not yet. These Halls have served before as a prison, but that is not their purpose, not for you Children.”

“What if,” said Manwë, regarding Maedhros with star-bright eyes, blue as sapphires and piercing as blades, “you were sent from these Halls for a purpose, son of Fëanáro?”

“I suppose, my lord,” Maedhros said slowly, “that would depend upon the purpose.”

“The Shadow grows again in Middle-earth,” said Námo. “Melkor’s chief lieutenant Sauron was defeated long ago by Gil-galad King of the Noldor, and Elendil of Númenor—but not forever. He is beginning to regain his strength.”

“Five of our servants are to be sent to Middle-earth, to advise and to aid the Free Peoples,” said Manwë. “We cannot act again as openly as we did in Beleriand, or when we subdued Utumno, lest the world be rent asunder, and so they go with their full power cloaked and hidden. There will be great need, too, for talents and knowledge such as yours, someone who is not constrained by secrecy or such limitations.”

Maedhros did not understand at first. He heard the words but their meaning took a few minutes to become truly clear to him. “You would—you would send me back—back to Middle-earth?” Something in him leaped at the idea, a longing he hadn’t known that he possessed opening up inside of him. To go back to those wide and wild lands, unconstrained by any oaths, to draw his sword against only the Enemy, to do something, something worth doing—

“If you are willing,” said Manwë.

It was hardly a decision at all, made before he could even begin to think about it. “I am. I will go.” 

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Third Age 1000

Life began again abruptly. Every sensation hit him at once, and Maedhros gasped, brand new lungs expanding for the first time as his brand new heart lurched into motion; it was almost painful. How strange to suddenly have a body again. It was heavy. He could feel every blade of grass, every leaf and silk-soft flower petal against his skin alongside the softness of fabric—of linen or cotton or something else cool and smooth. Almost he could feel the very blood moving through his veins. Maedhros took another deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of flowers and the richer smells of soil and grass. His pulse thudded in his ears, and the sound of his own breathing seemed harsh and loud.

Slowly, the intensity of everything began to fade, and he opened his eyes to starlight. It was warm, and when he turned his head he saw a glow in the east that heralded the dawn. There, too, he glimpsed Gil-Estel. He waited, a moment, for the Oath to pull at him—and felt nothing. It was gone. He wanted to laugh and cry all at once for the freedom of it.

Maedhros sat up slowly. His hair dragged through the grass, a gentle tugging on his scalp. He lifted his hand to run his fingers through it, and then looked down at his palm. There was a faint tracing across it, faceted like a jewel—not real scars, but a memory of them. Then he lifted his right arm and found a hand there, which after a moment he realized should not have been as shocking as it was. For a little while he just sat and looked at it, flexing his fingers, balling it into a fist and then releasing it. It felt strange, almost clumsy and unwieldy.

“Ah, so this is who my Lord Manwë is sending with me!” The sudden voice made Maedhros start, and he looked up to find an old man leaning on a staff halfway down the gentle hillside, clad in grey and regarding him with dark eyes that glinted in the slowly-growing light. “Not who I expected,” he continued, a smile making his beard twitch. “I had thought perhaps some bright and shining hero from Gondolin—but I suppose Manwë knows his business. Well, what are you waiting for, Maedhros son of Fëanor?” He strode forward and nudged at Maedhros with his staff. “Come on, get up! The more you move about the better you’ll feel, and we have a boat to catch!”

Maedhros flinched away from the staff, but got to his feet, staggering a little. His body felt like a piece of ill-fitting clothing, his spirit not yet settled into it. It took conscious thought to make his feet move, to lift one and put it back down in front of the other. “What—?”

“No time for that—come on!” The old man turned and began to make his way down the gentle slope toward a wood, all slender aspen and pale-blooming dogwood.

“But—”

“No time for that either!”

Someone had dressed him already, he realized belatedly—sensible clothes for travel, including sturdy boots, though the fabric was plain and undyed. Maedhros stumbled a little as he followed the old man, half-wishing he had a staff of his own to lean upon. After a few steps the sheer marvel of being alive again gave way to the memory of why, and the talk of a boat made sudden sense. Maedhros glanced over his shoulder to see the high and sheer walls of Mandos looming above. The door out of which his spirit had come, though he had no memory of it, was small and unassuming. Pale white flowers grew amid the soft green grass, the colors slowly brightening as the sun rose in the east. Maedhros spared the door and the walls one last look before he turned away.

As he followed the old man through the wood, the dawn chorus began, all the songbirds waking up to greet the sun. Maedhros would have liked to stop and listen, but his guide did not slow, and the knowledge of what he had come back for spurred him on. Every step felt easier, every breath made this strange new body a little more his. He reached out to brush his fingers over the rough or smooth bark of the trees, over the leaves. It was too early in the year for berries, but he saw hints of white flowers that heralded the fruits to come. He did not feel hungry, but he desired suddenly the taste of berries, or of honey, or of bread fresh from the oven. When he inhaled he smelled leaf mould and earth; when he exhaled it felt like a miracle.

He had not wanted to leave Mandos, had had very compelling reasons why he shouldn’t, but now that he had left he almost couldn’t remember them. He was alive and he had a purpose, and he almost wanted to laugh for the sheer enormity of it.

As the last of the gloaming faded away into proper morning, however, he thought suddenly of those he would be leaving behind. “Where is my mother?” he asked his companion, who had been humming some cheerful song to himself as he strode along, keeping time with his staff. “Where are my brothers?”

“Your mother at least is at home, I imagine,” came the answer. “But we are not going that way.”

Maedhros halted. “I cannot leave without seeing them. What of Fingon? Do any of them even know—”

“Even I did not know who it was just come from Mandos until I arrived there. This errand of ours is not precisely a secret, but it is not something to be spread about like the latest gossip out of Arafinwë’s court!”

“I don’t care about secrets or gossip,” Maedhros said. “But I cannot—I will not leave without seeing my brothers and my mother at least.” This earned him a glare, all bristling eyebrows and flashing eyes, but Maedhros just glared right back, planting his feet and fully prepared to remain where he was until he was at the very least told where Nerdanel could be found.

Then, to Maedhros’ surprise, the old man laughed. “Very well! Of course we will go to Lady Nerdanel’s house, and a message will be sent to Prince Findekáno—if my lady has not already sent for him. We cannot linger overlong, but the Valar are not so cruel that they would deny you this reunion, and even if they wished to hurry us along, I would insist upon it myself. The Shadow in the east is growing, but things are not yet so dire that we must be away at once.”

“Then why did you—?”

“I wanted to see how bright the fire in your spirit still burned. If you had not argued with me at all and just meekly followed along to Alqualondë—well, I would have had a few concerns to bring to my Lord Manwë or to Lady Nienna. Middle-earth needs you proud, not bowed, Prince Maedhros.”

Maedhros was sure there were many in Middle-earth who would disagree, but he wouldn’t argue if it meant he got to see his mother.

They came to the edge of the wood where two horses waited, already saddled. It took Maedhros two tries to mount his horse, even when he remembered that he had the use of both hands. Once that hadn’t mattered—he’d been as good a horseman with one hand as he’d ever been with two—but this new body did not have the same memories his spirit did; nor had it built up the same strength he had once been used to. His companion waited patiently, neither smiling nor scornful, but Maedhros felt his face burning with embarrassment by the time he finally settled himself in the saddle. “How far to my mother’s house?” he asked.

“Not very far. She dwells near Aulë’s halls, with your brothers.”

“And Fingon?”

“I’m afraid I do not make it my business to keep track of all the various princes of the House of Finwë. Either he dwells in Tirion or upon Tol Eressëa—or perhaps somewhere else entirely! I daresay you would be rather surprised to see a map of these lands, changed as they are from what you once knew.”

“It matters little, since I am to leave them,” Maedhros said. The longing to do so was still there, but dread at the thought of telling his mother, telling his brothers, that he had returned only to leave them again had begun to grow alongside it. He could not stay—he did not want to stay—but he missed them, suddenly, with the same sort of knife-sharp pain that had lodged itself in his chest in the aftermath of Doriath and had never left until he’d thrown himself into the fire in one last desperate attempt to put an end to it all.

As they began their ride to Nerdanel’s house Maedhros asked, “Will you tell me your name?”

This earned him a chuckle. “For now you may call me Olórin, though it is a name I will leave behind when we depart for Middle-earth. What names I will acquire on the other side of the Sea, who can guess? I look forward to finding out.”

“Will you not choose one of your own?”

“You Children have always loved to give names—to things and people both—and I would not deprive you of such a delight! Come along, now. No reason to tarry here!”

They passed through trails and paths that passed through wide meadows and fields, over rolling hills and past ponds and lakes gleaming blue under the clear spring sky. They forded little rivers, and wound their way through little patches of wood. It was a beautiful day, warm without being hot, all the spring flowers in bloom and all the trees full of new green growth. Maedhros let his horse follow Olórin’s and allowed himself to drink in the sight of it all. He had never seen Valinor under the Sun. It was as beautiful as it had ever been under Laurelin or Telperion.

Finally, as the sun sank behind them in a bright sunset of red and pink clouds limned with gold, they came to a better-traveled road, though they saw no one else on it—Maedhros recognized it, having traveled it so many times in his youth long ago to visit Aulë’s country with one or both of his parents—and then turned down a lane between two hills covered in lavender and lily-of-the-valley. The air was heavy with the lavender’s scent, and Maedhros closed his eyes for a moment as he inhaled it. Past the hills the path sloped down into a small valley; on the hills beyond grew an orchard of some kind, all in bloom, though Maedhros did not recognize the trees at a distance. The house was large and comfortable, white stucco walls under red-tiled roofs, with workshops both connected and unconnected, and rambling gardens all around. Smoke curled from the forge chimneys. As they approached the courtyard, an enormous hound came around the corner, and immediately raised his head to bark at them—a greeting, rather than an alarm. It still made Maedhros freeze for a moment, heart skipping a beat, this body unused too to all the different ways Huan made himself known and understood.

He dropped out of the saddle and leaned forward for a moment, hidden from view by his horse as he rested his forehead against her neck. His muscles ached, and his heart beat painfully hard in his chest. Olórin also dismounted, but he said nothing. Maedhros closed his eyes for a moment and made himself take a breath.

Oh, but it would be hard—so hard to come home to those he loved most in the world only to leave them again. He’d had hours to think of what to say and he still didn’t know.

Finally, he raised his head, and saw Caranthir in the doorway, a puzzled expression on his face. He looked so young, barefoot and with his hair loose over his shoulders. Maedhros’ throat closed up and he couldn’t even call out a greeting. Caranthir met his gaze and his eyes went wide. Maedhros saw his lips form the name Nelyo, and then they were both moving. Caranthir threw himself down the stairs, and Maedhros caught him. “Nelyo,” Caranthir cried, holding onto Maedhros like he was afraid to let go again. “You’re here—”

“I am,” Maedhros managed to choke out. “I’m sorry—”

Another shout went up from the doorway, and Caranthir only just managed to move before he was crushed by Celegorm, who collided with Maedhros with such force that both of them went tumbling to the flagstones. Then Huan was there, licking both their faces, and Maedhros had to duck his face into Celegorm’s shoulder to escape it. “It’s about time, Nelyo!” Celegorm said.

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros said into his hair.

“Get off, Huan!” Caranthir shoved Huan away and pulled both Celegorm and Maedhros up so he could kneel and embrace them both, burying his own face in Maedhros’ hair. Huan barked again; it sounded like a summons, and Maedhros had only just enough time to look up at the sound of two pairs of footsteps before Ambarussa fell on their knees on either side of him. All four of his brothers were talking over one another, full of questions and admonishments for lingering as long as he had, and relief that he’d finally returned. In return all Maedhros could do was just—look at them. Grip their hands and feel the solid life of them, look into their eyes and see how bright they were again, freed from oaths and shadows and the grinding grueling grief of a centuries-long war.

From the way Celegorm, at least, was looking at him, with those sharp hunter’s eyes that missed nothing, Maedhros could tell that he was not nearly so bright as they were. It wasn’t anything he didn’t already knew, but—

He looked away from Celegorm, away from Ambarussa and Caranthir. “Where are Maglor and Curufin?” he asked when he neither saw nor heard anyone else coming outside. Olórin had spoken of his brothers, and Maedhros had assumed he’d meant all of them, but here were only four where he had expected six.

“They aren’t here,” said Caranthir, lifting his head.

“Curufin won’t leave Mandos without Celebrimbor,” said Celegorm. He rose to his feet and grasped Maedhros’ hand and wrist to pull him up, and only then seemed to notice that Maedhros had both his hands again. “Nelyo—”

“Where is—” Maedhros began at the same time, but both of them were interrupted by Nerdanel’s appearance. She came around the house, wiping her hands on her clay-streaked apron. Her hair was coming loose of its bun, and she had smudges on her arms and across her forehead—she looked exactly how Maedhros remembered her, and the sight made his eyes burn and his throat go tight. He swallowed the tears down and crossed the courtyard to where Nerdanel waited, a hand over her mouth, staring at him like he was some sort of miracle. “Ammë,” he said, but wasn’t sure how to go on.

“Maitimo,” she breathed, and flung her arms around him in an almost crushing embrace. He returned it, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh, Maitimo, you’re here!”

They were all so happy to see him. Maedhros didn’t know why that was so shocking—he was equally happy to see them. Or he would be, if he was really there to stay. Somehow they all ended up inside, and someone went to call for two extra places to be set at the dinner table. Olórin introduced himself—or reintroduced himself to Nerdanel, since it seemed they knew one another, although Nerdanel exclaimed in surprise over his current form. Maedhros could see the curiosity about it in all of their faces, and knew the questions were coming—why had Maedhros come in the company of such a strange being, why now, why, why…

The first question was, of course: “How long since you came from Mandos?” It was Nerdanel who asked, as they sat down to eat and Maedhros found himself staring at all the dishes in dismay, somehow feeling both very hungry and yet repulsed by the idea of trying to eat.

“This morning,” he said.

“You traveled all that way immediately?” Caranthir exclaimed. “You didn’t even take a few days in Lórien—?”

“I didn’t need to—”

“Everyone needs to,” said Celegorm, frowning from where he sat just across the table from Maedhros. “Nelyo, you aren’t even using your hand—”

“There are extenuating circumstances,” Olórin supplied.

“I’m not used to it yet,” Maedhros said, and tried to ignore how his mother winced.

“Of course you aren’t used to it—you aren’t used to having a body,” Celegorm said.

“What extenuating circumstances can there be?” Amrod asked.

“There is little enough time to spare, before we must depart,” Olórin said, and cheerfully took a sip of wine as all other eyes at the table turned to Maedhros.

“And where,” Nerdanel said after a moment of tense silence, “are you going, Maitimo?”

Well, at least he did not have to try to find a way to bring it up himself. Maedhros deliberately unclenched his right fist, pressing his fingers against the tablecloth and focusing on the sensation of the smooth fabric under his fingertips. “East,” he said without looking up. “I am being sent east—with Olórin, back to Middle-earth.”

“Being sent?” Caranthir repeated as Ambarussa chorused, “East?” Celegorm said nothing, but he went very still.

Nerdanel had also gone very still, but when Maedhros looked at her he found her glare directed not at him but at Olórin. “What is the meaning of this?” she asked. “What reason could there possibly be for such an exile—”

“It is not a punishment, Lady Nerdanel,” said Olórin. “But the Shadow grows again in the east, and the Valar cannot move as openly now as they have in the past. The skills and knowledge of someone such as Maedhros will be needed in the years to come.”

“They asked,” Maedhros said quietly. “They did not command—they asked, and I said yes.”

“Maitimo!”

None of his brothers spoke. Celegorm did not even seem surprised—but his expression had closed off, become unreadable, by the time Maedhros looked at him. Nerdanel rose and left the room. Maedhros started to get up, but Olórin moved more quickly, and Caranthir grabbed Maedhros by the arm to yank him back down. “Here.” He served a few small portions of the plainest foods onto Maedhros’ plate. “Go slow, or it’ll just come back up—and you don’t want wine, you want water.”

“I’ll fetch some,” said Amras, rising and disappearing through another door.

Maedhros looked back at Celegorm. “Tyelko—”

“No.” Celegorm shook his head once, sharply. “You’re not even a full day out of Mandos—we’ll have it out after you’ve eaten.”

“But—”

“Later.” Celegorm then rose and left the room too, shadowed by Huan.

“He’s right,” said Amrod as Amras returned with a glass of water. “But that’s a foolish decision to make right after you come back from Mandos, Nelyo.”

“I did not make the choice after I came back.”

Caranthir sighed. “Of course not,” he muttered. Then, “Just eat. Give Ammë time. I suppose Olórin thinks he can talk her around.”

Maedhros ate, tasting little of it. The water was more welcome. As he ate the twins and Caranthir talked about everything except what they were all thinking of—of their mother’s projects and what they had been doing since their own return to life, of bits of gossip from Tirion. They said nothing at all of either Curufin or of Maglor. Curufin was still in Mandos, so that was only to be expected. But Maglor—where was Maglor? If he was in Mandos surely Celegorm would have said so. If he had died and also returned—

But now that he thought of it, Maedhros did not remember seeing him in Mandos. All of his other brothers had come seeking him at one time or another, but Maglor never had. He didn’t know what that might mean. It might just mean that Maglor had not wanted to see him, which was fair enough, but if it meant he had never come to Mandos at all…

Finally, Celegorm returned, and Maedhros found himself herded upstairs to a bedroom clearly meant for him, decorated in very similar ways to his rooms in Himring, though more brightly colored and a little less austere. There was a desk and a bookshelf half-full of books. A small row of potted plants bloomed on the windowsill, their scent mingling sweetly with the lilacs growing in the garden below. Caranthir pulled Maedhros over to the bed and sat him down. “All right,” he said, “now we can have it out.”

The mattress dipped under his weight and Maedhros found himself wondering when the last time he’d slept in a real bed had been. Before they had abandoned Amon Ereb, surely? He suddenly felt exhausted. In one day he had returned to life and ridden many miles, and now had to face the wrath of four of his six brothers. “There’s nothing to have out,” he said.

“But why?” Caranthir demanded. “There’s no reason it must be you! They can send someone else if they need to. Finrod would jump at the chance, I’m sure—”

“Moryo—”

“Olórin said this is not a punishment, but I don’t think that’s true,” Celegorm said in a low voice. He leaned back against the desk, arms crossed. “Maybe the Valar don’t want to punish you further, but you do, don’t you?”

Maedhros tried to think of a reply that wouldn’t sound like a lie. He couldn’t just flatly deny it because if it wasn’t wholly true it wasn’t wholly untrue either. “I don’t know who I am without a sword in my hand,” was what came out finally. “What I made of myself after—after Ang—”

“You can learn,” said Amras.

“We all did,” Celegorm added.

“It’s already decided,” Maedhros said, more sharply than he wanted to. “I am going. I just—I couldn’t go without seeing you first.”

Celegorm’s expression softened, and he looked away. His hair fell forward to hide his face. Caranthir sat down beside Maedhros to wrap his arms around him, leaning his head on his shoulder. Maedhros returned the embrace. There were not words for how he had missed his brothers, all of his baby brothers that he’d failed so horribly. They were restored to the brothers he loved, now—no longer hollowed out and ground down by the weight of the Oath, able to care now about one another and about things besides getting the Silmarils back at whatever cost. He still felt hollowed out, though, and he didn’t know how to fix it, if so many years in Mandos couldn’t. The pain and the despair of his last days and moments was gone, faded way into a nightmarish memory, but nothing had replaced them.

“Is there anything we can say that will change your mind?” Amras asked.

“No. If there’s something I can do—if I can make a difference—I have to go. At least this time when I draw my sword it will be against a real enemy.”

“You asked where Maglor is, before,” Celegorm said, still not looking back at Maedhros. “No one knows.”

Something in the way he said it made a chill go down Maedhros’ spine. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“No one knows what happened to him,” Caranthir said without lifting his head. “We go sometimes to Eressëa when a new ship comes in…it’s all just vague rumors and ghost stories.”

“He isn’t dead,” Celegorm said. “We’ve asked the servants of Mandos—every time we’ve asked after you and Curvo, we’ve asked after him. They always deny that he is there. For a moment, when you said you were going back—I thought you were going because of him. Except you didn’t know, did you? When you agreed?”

“No,” Maedhros said. “I don’t know anything of what’s happened since my death. I don’t even know how long it’s been.”

“Four thousand years, give or take a few centuries,” said Amrod. “You slept the Second Age of the Sun away; we are now in the Third. That’s how long Maglor’s been lost. They say he threw his Silmaril into the Sea, and you…”

“I took mine into the earth with me,” Maedhros said. Amras winced, but Maedhros wasn’t going to apologize. There wasn’t any use in dancing around what he’d done. He didn’t regret it, either—though he knew better than to say that aloud to his brothers. Except—except that he’d left Maglor alone, and somehow he hadn’t thought… “Then that’s another reason for me to go—if I had any doubts, this would erase them. If Maglor is lost, someone must find him. I’ll find him—whatever it takes. I don’t know what will be asked of me there, but I will not come back afterward without him.”

Celegorm moved abruptly, coming to kneel in front of Maedhros, hands on his knees. “Just be sure you come back,” he said, steel-grey eyes boring into Maedhros’. “Come back by ship, not by Mandos.”

“I’m going to fight a war, Tyelko,” Maedhros said softly. “You know I can make no such promise.”

“I’m not asking you to promise. I’m just asking you not to die.” Celegorm’s voice broke on the last word. Maedhros released Caranthir to slide off of the bed onto the floor, wrapping Celegorm in his arms. “Do not make us mourn you again, Nelyo. Please,” Celegorm said into his chest.

“I will come back—by ship,” Maedhros said, “and I will bring Maglor with me. I won’t leave those shores again without him, however long it takes—that I do promise.”

It was still early, but Maedhros found himself hardly able to get to his feet again, his body having decided that he had done quite enough on its first day of life. Caranthir and Celegorm hauled him up and not-so-gently pushed him back onto the bed. “Go to sleep, Nelyo,” Celegorm said, red-eyed and hoarse, but with gentle hands as he brushed Maedhros’ hair out of his face.

“I missed you,” Maedhros whispered, catching Celegorm’s hand. “All of you. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize to us,” Caranthir said quietly. “Just go to sleep.” Maedhros’ eyes fell closed before he finished speaking, and sleep rose up like a wave to claim him.

Sleep in life was not the same as the drowsing his spirit had done in Mandos. Maedhros woke to sunlight on his face and a feeling of such heaviness that he almost couldn’t open his eyes. It took a little while to remember where he was and why he felt so strange. Then he became aware of other bodies around him, warm and familiar, all crowded onto the bed. It was big enough for the five of them, but just barely. Someone’s arm was draped over Maedhros’ stomach and someone else had their leg hooked around his, as though even in sleep they wanted to make sure he couldn’t slip away unnoticed.

Unfortunately, his body had other ideas. He felt odd and sluggish and not quite in control of all his limbs, but after a few minutes he’d managed to shove Celegorm’s arm off and to sit up. Celegorm muttered something, but neither he or the others woke. Maedhros looked at them sprawled across the bed that was supposed to be his, and thought that if the light were a different shade of gold, he could believe himself transported back in time, to a morning following some revelry after they’d all stumbled home after drinking too much and then not bothered to try to find their separate rooms.

Except Curufin and Maglor should have been there, too, making the bed even more crowded and uncomfortable. Maedhros turned away, and went to prepare to face the coming day.

After washing his face with very cold water, Maedhros felt more alert and a little more settled into his body. He ran his fingers through his hair, and steeled himself to look into the mirror. A stranger stared back, youthful and fair, with long thick red hair and not a single scar to be seen, on his face or on his body. His skin was smooth and pale, slightly freckled over his nose. There was a softness about him that he’d lost, long ago, even before Angband. Only his eyes looked right; those, at least, he recognized as his, as belonging to Maedhros rather than to Maitimo.

Instead of returning to his bedroom, Maedhros found his way back downstairs, and then outside. He could hear the steady rhythm of a hammer and chisel, and followed it to an open work area where his mother stood braced atop a ladder, chipping away at a block of dark marble. Maedhros watched for a while, thinking of that long ago time when he’d been his mother’s student. He didn’t have the same innate talent, but he remembered enjoying it, in the same way he remembered stories about other people.

After a little while his mother noticed his presence, and set her tools aside to climb down the ladder. “Did you sleep well, Maitimo?”

It felt strange and wrong to answer to the name Maitimo—and yet he knew it would feel even stranger to have his mother call him Maedhros. “I did,” he said.

“You are still going to leave, aren’t you?”

“I am. It isn’t punishment or exile, Ammë. I chose it.”

“You could change your mind,” Nerdanel said. “Olórin said no one will make you go if you decide you no longer want to. You could stay here, Maitimo, you could stay home.”

This house was beautiful. His mother was there, and almost all of his brothers—all his living brothers but one. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m—you know how my story ended. If I go back I can rewrite that ending. I don’t mean that I want to be some great hero, I just—I want to be better. I don’t know how to do that here. I do know how I can help there, and—and Maglor is still out there. How can I choose to remain here knowing that I have a chance to find him and bring him home too?” It felt wrong—to be alive again and yet unable to turn around and find him, to share a joke or just a glance, to have someone close by who understood him without needing words. It felt unnatural to come back to a world where Maglor wasn’t.

If Maglor had been there, safe in Nerdanel’s house, maybe Maedhros could have been convinced to stay. If anyone could do that, it was Maglor. But he wasn’t, and from the sound of it he needed to be found even more than Maedhros needed to find him. It was his fault that Maglor was lost—he had to be the one to bring him back.

Nerdanel looked at him as though searching for something. Maedhros could not guess what it was, or if she found it. He was not the same son she had bid a bitter farewell to in the dark; in many ways he was worse, still broken in ways that Mandos could not fix. Middle-earth could not fix them either, but at least who he was now was someone who could be useful there. He had come out of Angband and put himself back together because there had been no other choice—there had been survival, and the Oath, and that left very little room for anything else. The Oath was no more, but he was still a thing made for war. He felt more like a person again now than he had at the end of his life—but that did not mean he knew how to live again in the peace of Valinor. He felt odd and off balance and he knew it was because he wore no sword on his belt, and only simple clothes of soft linen rather than leather or mail. None of that was anything Nerdanel could understand, not really—and he was glad of it, for her sake, even if it made this so much harder.

Finally, Nerdanel reached out to take his hands. Her own were calloused and warm and so very strong. “Do you really think you can find him?”

“I won’t come back until I do. Whatever it takes, however long it takes.”

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Nerdanel put her foot down and flatly refused to allow Maedhros to leave for at least a week. He was too new-come from Mandos to be making such a journey, she said, and Olórin did not argue. “We cannot tarry overlong,” was all he said, “but as I told Maedhros, things across the Sea are not so dire that we cannot spare a little time.”

Mostly, Maedhros was grateful—to have a little more time with his brothers and his mother, to give Fingon a chance of coming before he had to depart—but at the same time he itched to be gone. He had not agreed to leave Mandos just to sit among his mother’s flowers and listen to his brothers tell him all about the state of things in Aman. All was peaceful. Not all of the Noldor returned from Middle-earth, whether by ship or by death, had returned to Tirion. Other little realms and cities had sprouted over the years. The Vanyar too had spread out a little, and the Sindar as well had gathered together to recreate something like Eglador in one of the deep forests in the west. Maedhros was glad to hear it all, he supposed, but he also couldn’t find it in himself to really care.

There was little, though, that they could tell him of Middle-earth. Caranthir or the twins went sometimes to Avallónë to ask after Maglor, but rarely sought out other news. Galadriel still lived, and Gil-galad had been slain at the start of this Age, and no new king had been chosen after him. That was all they knew.

Eärendil and Elwing lived—they had been given a choice as to their fate, as peredhil, and had chosen the life of the Eldar. When Maedhros asked if that choice had been extended to their children, though, his brothers only shrugged. They did not know, and did not much care. Who were Elrond and Elros to them? Just names—distant kinsmen through their cousin Turgon, nothing more. Little or nothing, it seemed, had come to Valinor—or at least to Nerdanel or her sons’ ears—regarding the years between the burning of Sirion and Elrond and Elros’ return to Gil-galad during the War of Wrath.

His brothers did, however, know almost everything there was to learn about Eregion, and what had befallen their nephew there. Maedhros listened to the story in silence. Only when it was over did he say, “It is Sauron that the Valar fear is regaining strength in the east.”

Celegorm had sprawled out on the grass as they talked, his head in Maedhros’ lap, absently braiding grass and flowers together into one long chain. Now he looked up to meet Maedhros’ gaze, hands balling into fists to crush the marigolds he was holding, eyes gone as hard and dark as they had once been in Beleriand. “Make him regret it, Maedhros.”

When it was time at last to depart, Maedhros found a pack and several saddle bags bulging with clothes and supplies and gifts waiting for him. His mother and his brothers embraced him one by one, holding on so tightly that it almost hurt. Olórin took Nerdanel aside to speak to her, and Maedhros’ brothers clustered around him. Celegorm pressed a large hunting knife into his hands. “If the Valar feel they have to act, it’s going to get very bad,” said Caranthir, looking up at Maedhros gravely.

“So just remember we’ll be waiting for you,” Amras added, “on the docks at Avallónë. When you come back we’ll be there. It doesn’t matter when. Maybe by then Curvo and Celebrimbor will have returned too.”

“We’ll be waiting for both of you,” said Amrod. “You and Maglor.”

“I’ll remember,” Maedhros said.

When Nerdanel bid him farewell she kissed him all over his face. “I love you so much, Maitimo,” she said. “Please be careful.”

“I love you too, Ammë. I’ll do my best.” Maedhros caught Celegorm’s eye as he straightened, saw the rueful twist to his mouth. They knew, even if Nerdanel didn’t, the uselessness of such a promise when one was going away to war.

Still. Maedhros knew exactly what it had taken to kill him before—and this time he had the Valar’s blessing, rather than their curse. Whatever awaited him, he would survive it, for good or ill, just as he had done before.

He looked back only once as he and Olórin rode away. His brothers stood clustered around Nerdanel, watching.

After the house passed out of sight, Olórin said, “You would receive no rebuke for choosing to stay.”

“Is that why you agreed to come here?”

“No,” Olórin said. “You needed to see your family, and that is the least we can do before throwing you into the growing darkness. But returning to Middle-earth was never the price you had to pay to return to life—there was never any price at all.”

“I know,” Maedhros said. He had lost count of the times Nienna had come to him in the Halls to try to convince him to return. “But now that I am given the chance, I cannot refuse it.” He did not know how to explain it. He wasn’t even sure his brothers fully understood—they understood why he felt the need to be doing something, but he wasn’t sure they understood the longing he felt to return to the east, outside of whatever it was he was meant to do there. He had always wanted to see more of it, to pass over the Ered Luin to the lands beyond of which he had only heard snatches of description from the wandering Avari and the Dwarves. For a while, before the Dagor Bragollach, he’d thought maybe there would be a chance someday. That hope had returned, in part, during the planning for the Fifth Battle. It had died with Fingon and its ashes had been scattered in the wreckage of Doriath and Sirion. And now it had been handed back to him, fragile and precious and with a price attached—but one he was more than willing to pay.

“How bad is it there?” Maedhros asked after a little while.

“Right now? Not bad at all,” said Olórin. “The world is largely at peace. That is not to say it is entirely safe, of course. But better, Manwë thinks, to send help too early than too late.”

“He did not always think so,” Maedhros said.

“No,” Olórin agreed, “but strange though it may seem to you, Maedhros Fëanorion, the Valar do care—for all of you Children—and they can recognize when they have made mistakes.”

“Some might say sending me is a mistake,” Maedhros said.

To his surprise, Olórin laughed. “I said the same thing about myself,” he said, “but Manwë would not be moved. Ah, well. We’ll both just have to muddle along as best we can—you’ll have an easier time of it, perhaps, seeing as you actually want to be there.”

A few days later, Olórin asked, “Is there anyone else you wish to see before we depart? I would advise against going to Tirion; that would cause rather a stir, and as I said before: our task is not secret, but it is not one to be widely advertised either. But we will come soon to its outskirts and the road through the Calacirya and down to our ship in Alqualondë.”

“I would like to see Fingon, but if he is not in Tirion I do not know where to look for him,” Maedhros said. He glanced down at his right hand where it rested on his thigh. He had been trying to remember to use it, but it still felt clumsy and strange, like something that did not really belong to him. It kept startling him whenever he saw it. His whole body kept being startling, really. It looked wrong and it felt strange, though less so now than when he’d first awoken in it. He’d spent too long in Mandos, maybe, for it to be easy to return to life and all that came with it.

“Fortunately for you,” Olórin said, chuckling, “you will not have to look for him at all. And if I am not mistaken, that is your other cousin with him.”

Maedhros looked up to see a pair of riders barreling down the road toward them; a second later the thunderous sound of the hoof beats reached his ears. He reined in his horse to wait for them, and tried to ignore the pounding of his heart in his chest.

“Maedhros!” Fingon drew up sharply and all but threw himself out of the saddle, reaching them only a few seconds before Finrod. Maedhros dropped to the ground just in time to catch Fingon’s hands on his chest, shoving him backward. “Is it true, you’re leaving?” Fingon demanded as Maedhros staggered, caught off guard and still not settled enough in his body to have the balance he needed.

“Yes,” Maedhros said, relieved that he wouldn’t have to be the one to tell them, but also wishing he knew exactly what they had been told. “Fingon—”

“Oh, don’t.” Fingon grabbed him then and pulled him into a tight, fierce hug. “I understand. It’s horribly foolish and I wish you weren’t going, but I understand.”

He shouldn’t have felt so relieved—or surprised. Fingon had always understood him better than anyone except maybe Maglor. Still. “I’m sorry.”

“No you aren’t,” said Fingon into his shoulder.

“Not for leaving,” Maedhros said, “but for—everything else. That’s why—”

“Is that what the Valar told you?” Finrod asked as he approached, looking very solemn. Maedhros hadn’t seen him since before the Dagor Bragollach, when the peace had still held and they had all been—well, as happy as it was possible to be, living under the threat of Angband and the Doom that hung over them all. “That you must return to Middle-earth to prove something, or to earn…?”

“No,” Maedhros said. “They did not order. They offered.”

Finrod searched his face, and sighed. Fingon drew back, and Finrod stepped forward to take his place. He was a little taller than Fingon, but more slender, and Maedhros realized he couldn’t remember the last time the three of them had been together like this—just them, alone, just themselves, cousins and friends, with no crowns or oaths or conflicting loyalties standing between them. Maedhros hadn’t known until that moment just how much he had missed it—the easy friendship and camaraderie, the way they used to fit together without trying, conversation always flowing easily and silences never uncomfortable. Such a thing might have been possible to regain with a little effort—if he were not who he still was, if he were not leaving.

Fingon took his own turn in searching Maedhros’ face. “It’s still foolish,” he repeated, resigned and fond and maybe not as unhappy as Maedhros had feared. “But if someone has to return, I’m glad it’s you.”

“I’m not,” said Finrod, “but only because I wish it were me.”

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros said again.

He wasn’t talking about going back instead of Finrod, and Finrod knew it. “I know,” he said, “and you are forgiven.”

“Your brothers have probably already tried to talk you out of going, so we won’t bother,” said Fingon, “but we’re going with you as far as the docks.”

“They didn’t try very hard,” Maedhros said. “You know that—that Maglor—I had decided to go before I knew, but if he’s still—”

“We know,” Finrod said. He reached for Maedhros’ hand—his right hand—and squeezed it. It felt strange and his fingers felt clumsy as he tried to return the gesture. He needed to fix that. “Of course you need to find him, and to do whatever it is the Valar want of you.” When Maedhros looked back up into Finrod’s face he saw that Finrod, too, knew who it was that the Maiar like Olórin were being sent to counter. When he spoke again it was the weight of foresight in his voice, a slight change in the timbre of it that Maedhros had heard before and knew it would be a mistake to ignore. “You will walk a dark and dangerous path, Maedhros. I cannot see the end of it. Dread and despair will dog your heels, but you must not give in to them, even when it might seem as though all hope has fled. A light may yet spring from under the growing Shadow to put an end to it all, though I do not know if it will be yours or some other I cannot see.”

Maedhros was very familiar with the need to keep moving forward, beyond endurance and past all hope. That wasn’t what had driven him into the fire. “I’ll remember,” he said.

Finrod and Fingon were able to give a clearer picture of the history of Middle-earth since the end of the War of Wrath—including the fates of Elrond and Elros, who had indeed been given the same choice as their parents. Olórin listened as attentively as Maedhros did, as they rode on toward the Calacirya. Finrod spoke of Númenor—and of Elros, who had been its first king: Tar-Minyatar—and of its fall, thanks to Sauron’s machinations and the desperate pride and greed of the last king Ar-Pharazôn, and then of the Faithful that had escaped the island’s downfall, of Elendil and his sons Isildur and Anárion.

And then came the War of the Last Alliance, that saw Sauron’s defeat but also the deaths of both Elendil and Gil-galad at his hand. Fingon told that tale, expressionless and unable to look anyone in the face as he spoke.

Finrod picked it up afterward, and said, “There are kings in the east, I think—of the Sindar and the Woodelves—but there is no longer any king of the Noldor. Círdan rules in Lindon. Galadriel dwells with her husband in the realm of King Amroth, in Lórinand.”

“And what of Elrond Halfelven?” Olórin asked before Maedhros could.

“He remains in Imladris,” said Finrod.

“If the Noldor were to choose another king, it would be Elrond, would it not?”

“Elrond could likely claim kingship over all the Elves remaining in Middle-earth,” said Finrod with a wry smile, “being the heir of both Fingolfin and Elu Thingol. Clearly he has no desire for it.”

“I cannot blame him,” Fingon muttered.

“That might complicate things a bit,” Olórin remarked, glancing at Maedhros.

Maedhros stared back at him. “What?” Then he understood. “Absolutely not. I gave it up and I don’t want it back.”

Fingon glanced at him, lips twitching into a wry smile. “Good luck convincing everyone of it,” he said.

“If you can convince Círdan and Elrond, everyone else will follow their lead, I think,” said Finrod.

“Not Galadriel?” Maedhros asked.

“Galadriel won’t need convincing,” Finrod said. “Do not forget that she was a student of Melian for many years, and from all that I have heard her power has only grown in the intervening Ages. She’ll see the truth of you whatever you try to tell her.”

“I don’t intend to lie—”

“No, but she’ll also likely see whatever you wish to keep secret. You might want to learn to shield yourself better than you are used to,” Finrod said, sounding fond and almost proud. “Give her my love, please, when you see her.”

“I will if she gives me a chance,” Maedhros muttered. At least he was unlikely to meet Galadriel first. From the sound of it half a continent and a mountain range would lie between them. It was Círdan he needed to worry about first—and truthfully he wasn’t very concerned. Círdan had always been wise and keen-eyed, and he had the friendship of Ulmo and Ossë, and if anyone understood the purpose of the Valar’s messengers, it would be him. He might not be pleased to see Maedhros, but Círdan had also always been pragmatic and not one to turn away allies.

Elrond, though. That would be more difficult. Maedhros wasn’t worried about convincing Elrond that he wasn’t there to take any crowns or claim lordship over anyone, or whatever it was that others might fear—but Elrond had no reason to want to see him, certainly had no reason to be glad to see him. He did find himself wondering where he would go if Elrond turned him out of his valley. Back to Círdan, he supposed, but something in him rebelled at the idea.

Maedhros had never been given to foresight before, but as soon as Elrond’s name had been spoken he’d known with an odd kind of bone-deep certainty that it was to him that he must go—whatever it was he was meant to do, Elrond was part of it. It was certainly what Maglor would wish for him to do—but that also begged the question of why Maglor had not sought out Elrond himself. Maglor had loved them both—Elrond and Elros—and they had loved him, fiercely and unapologetically. Yet Maglor remained missing, and if Elrond had ever looked for him, word of it had not come west.

There were too many questions, and he would find no answers until he crossed the Sea.

“Are you really sure about this?” Fingon asked as they passed through the Calacirya, the Pelóri towering on either side and the Sea opening up before them, the Bay of Eldamar shining, Eressëa green as a jewel in its midst, adorned with the white towers of Avallónë. Alqualondë with its rainbow beaches sprawled across the northern side of the bay, and ships and boats of all kinds and sizes drifted or sped across the water, sails bright as butterfly wings, and the songs of the sailors echoing across the waters.

“I can’t stay here,” Maedhros said.

“You could,” Finrod said. Maedhros shook his head. “I was teasing before, but—will you please give my sister my love, when you see her? Tell her that I miss her, and I am proud of her.”

“Of course I will.”

“And mine,” Fingon added. Then he said, “Ships come from the east often enough that I will be expecting you to write sometimes, Russo. Just—let us know you’re all right. Do not make us rely only on rumors and travelers’ tales.”

“I will,” Maedhros said.

It was evening when they came to the harbor, to a mostly-empty portion of it farthest from the city and nearest to the road to the pass. A small plain ship waited there, bobbing gently on the waves. A few sailors came down the gangplank to take their bags. Olórin followed them onto the ship after bidding Finrod and Fingon a cheerful farewell. If the sailors were surprised to see Maedhros, they did not show it beyond one or two sidelong glances. He lingered on the dock with his cousins, feeling the weight of those last few steps—off the shore, out of Valinor, for some undetermined but very long length of time.

Fingon took his hand. “Farewell, Maedhros,” he said softly. “Good luck.”

“May the stars light your path, Cousin,” Finrod added, taking Maedhros’ other hand to squeeze it. They each embraced him one last time.

“Goodbye,” Maedhros said. There was grief in stepping away, in reaching the deck and watching the gangplank be taken up and the ropes loosened. He remained at the stern, as his cousins remained on the dock, as the ship began to drift away. The wind picked up, blowing sudden and sharp down from the mountains, billowing in the sails and speeding them away. Fingon raised his hand in farewell. Maedhros returned the gesture, and watched until they passed out of Eldamar, until Alqualondë with its shining lamps and colorful beaches vanished from sight. There was grief in all of it, but when he finally turned his gaze away, toward the east, he felt that same thrill go through him that he had when Manwë had first proposed this, and could find no regret lingering in his heart.

After a little while, the sails were lowered and the ship began to slow down. Olórin emerged from below decks. “What’s the matter?” he asked the nearest mariner.

“We are being hailed,” came the reply, and the mariner pointed north. Maedhros followed his gaze, and saw a star descending from the sky—Vingilot, with Eärendil at the helm with the Silmaril upon his brow. Maedhros watched the descent and was aware of eyes on him, the Telerin mariners wary and distrustful. There was no need—the Oath was gone and he felt nothing, not even the memory of it pulling on him. He did not want to touch that Silmaril and there was nothing now that could make him reach for it.

Just as Vingilot touched the water, gliding smoothly down from the air to the waves, a great white bird appeared, soaring in from the west to alight on the deck. Maedhros blinked, and saw instead of a bird a woman, slender and dark-haired, clad in white and grey. Maedhros recognized her immediately. Both she and Eärendil shone in the light of the Silmaril, luminous as a lord and lady of the Maiar.

Maedhros had never met Eärendil—he had been away when he’d written to Elwing before, and he had not waited for his return afterward, as she had asked. Maybe if he had—

No, he’d done all of that in Mandos, dwelling upon all of his mistakes and missteps and poor choices. The regret was still there, and it ran deep—it was why he was doing this in the first place—but he could not allow himself to get mired in it.

Vingilot drew up beside their ship, and a gangplank was laid across the space between so that Eärendil and Elwing could cross over. Olórin approached, greeting them as friends. Maedhros hung back until Elwing turned toward him. He remembered her face well, and saw the same fury reflected in her eyes now that had blazed there on the cliffs above Sirion. When Eärendil turned toward him he did not seem so angry, but he was also clearly not happy to see Maedhros upon that ship, either. As they approached him, Maedhros took a step forward and knelt. “Lord Eärendil, Lady Elwing,” he said, keeping his gaze on the deck.

“Lord Maedhros,” said Elwing, voice hard as diamond, sharp-edged. “What are you doing on this ship?”

Maedhros raised his head to meet her gaze. Her eyes were piercing as Manwë’s, in their own way. “The Elder King sends me east,” he said.

“He will send you but forbid us—” Elwing broke off when Eärendil placed a hand on her back. “Why? What can you do, son of Fëanor, against the coming storm?”

Maedhros was not sure whether she really expected an answer. “I don’t know,” he said, and rose to his feet. Elwing took a step back, though Eärendil remained still. “But Manwë believes I can make a difference.”

“Perhaps Manwë overestimates the welcome you will receive,” Elwing said.

“Perhaps. When I went to Middle-earth long ago, I went desiring to avenge my grandfather and to fight the Enemy. Instead I became little more than a tool in his hands, bound as I was by my Oath. I am bound no longer, and I go now at the behest of the Valar rather than in spite of them. Your son has nothing to fear from me, Lady Elwing.”

“Those are pretty words,” Elwing said, “but yours always were—pretty and empty.” She turned away then, to speak quietly to Olórin.

Eärendil regarded Maedhros gravely. He was barefoot, his hair loose, falling in loose golden curls about his shoulders. The Silmaril shone on his brow, almost blinding in the twilight. “I watched you, before,” he said finally. “I looked for my sons, and I saw you and your brother—how he raised them, how you protected them.”

“We did our best,” Maedhros said quietly. “I do not know how to tell you how sorry I am without it sounding empty and meaningless.”

“Show me, then,” Eärendil said. “I watch Elrond still, and I will be watching you. You destroyed my home and slew my people. As weregild I charge you to protect my son, whatever happens.”

“I will do what I can,” Maedhros said. He could not promise more; he did not know what the coming years would bring. But to keep Elrond safe, as best as he could—of course he would. Whatever happened, he was certain that path lay alongside Elrond’s, and if he were inclined to swear any oaths at all, it would be to Elrond himself. That had nothing to do with Eärendil’s demand, but— “I will remember.”

Eärendil abruptly reached up and removed the circlet that bore the Silmaril. He stepped forward and held it out. Before he could stop himself, Maedhros took two steps backward, and watched a small smile tug at Eärendil’s mouth. “Do you not wish to hold it, just once?”

“No,” Maedhros said flatly, “I do not. The Oath is over, and as far as I am concerned I have no claim on that Silmaril. It is yours.”

“Not really mine,” said Eärendil. He set it back over his brow. “I only carry it. Truly, it belongs to all the world.”

Not to me, Maedhros thought, and was fiercely glad of it, to be able to say without hesitation that he did not want it and to be able to act accordingly.

Eärendil searched Maedhros’ face again, though what he found or what he was even looking for, Maedhros could not begin to guess. Finally, he said, “Good luck. The world is a wide and dangerous place, and very different from the one you knew.”

Elwing glanced back at Maedhros once more, eyes dark and expression unreadable. She and Eärendil bid farewell to Olórin and to the mariners, and crossed back over to Vingilot. The wind picked up to fill her sails and she sped away, lifting after a short time again into the air as Eärendil returned to his own errand. Maedhros watched the ship slowly shrink into the distance; he glimpsed a small pale shape leave it, gliding back through the night toward the shores of Valinor behind them. When he looked back west he saw only the peaks of the Pelóri, dark against the star-spangled sky.

“That went well,” Olórin remarked joining him by the railing.

“I suppose,” Maedhros said. He dropped his gaze to their wake foaming behind them, shimmering in the starlight. At least he could breathe a little easier now. Valinor was behind him, and he had a little time now to prepare himself for what he would find at the end of their voyage.

The days passed, blending together into weeks. Once Valinor faded completely from sight there was only the Sea, stretching out forever on every side. It was a far longer voyage than the one that had first taken Maedhros to Middle-earth. He wondered at first whether he would notice when they left the Straight Road—and he did, though what exactly changed was not something he could define. Something in the taste of the air, maybe.

He spent his days keeping out of the way of the sailors, sitting near the prow to lean over the railing and watch the water. Olórin wandered over to sit with him one afternoon. The sun was bright and warm, and the wind in their faces cool. “This voyage is longer than I expected,” Maedhros remarked after a little while, without raising his eyes.

“The Sea is wider,” Olórin said, “and of course there is the matter of following the Straight Road—you’d have to ask Ulmo whether that lengthens or shortens voyages between Valinor and Middle-earth. We are the only ones going east, however, these days. We will be the very last ones unless the Valar decide to send other messengers, which seems unlikely.”

“Why are you going, if you do not wish to?” Maedhros asked. He had not forgotten what Olórin had said, but there had not been a chance before to ask about it. He still wasn’t sure if he would get an answer.

“Manwë insisted that I am the right one to go,” Olórin said, “and Lady Nienna agreed. It is very hard to argue with both Manwë and Nienna, you know. And I think I don’t mind telling you that I am frightened out of my wits at the thought of having to face Sauron. I have no idea what I will be called upon to do, but it is some comfort that I’m not expected to face him directly. You’d need someone like Eönwë for that, not me. Curumo too is better suited to this task. He’s clever in many of the same ways that Sauron is, but uncorrupted. Aiwendil is perhaps an odd choice, but I think Yavanna had her own reasons for sending him east. Even Alatar and Pallando are better suited to this task. They have spent a great deal of time among the Children, at least in Aman. So have I, but I did not often go clad. It’s very strange now, being more or less incarnate the way you are. We have passed over the Straight Road now and this is now quite solidly a body instead of only a form I have chosen, with all that attends it.”

“I wondered why you had chosen such a shape,” Maedhros said.

“I certainly did not choose. I would much rather have a body without joints that creak. It’s very alarming.”

“Where will you go when we reach Middle-earth?”

“Well, I imagine I will have a great deal to speak of with Círdan to begin with. I would like to know something of where the others have gone. Settling down somewhere is not for me, I think. I have always been something of a wanderer, and there is no reason that should not continue, for I cannot know what must be done without knowing what is being done already. Where will you go?”

“To Elrond, unless Círdan advises me otherwise.”

“Ah, yes. Of course you wish to see Elrond—perhaps we can travel to Imladris together, for I should meet him myself before going on elsewhere. He is said to be very wise, and it would be foolish indeed to undertake my own task without asking for his advice.”

Maedhros nodded, and turned his gaze eastward. The horizon remained flat and empty. Some distance away a small pod of whales surfaced, exhaling in bursts before sinking back beneath the waves. He wondered if they were yet sailing over the remains of Beleriand, over ancient riverbeds and the ruin of cities—of Nargothrond, of Gondolin, of the fortresses of Barad Eithel or Tol Sirion. He imagined fish swimming through broken windows in the dark and gloomy depths, of sharks roaming through the remnants of ancient woods or over open hills where elves had once danced or sang or fought. He imagined his own towers, broken and home now to strange creatures and overgrown with kelp or seaweed. A longing for Himring made itself known in his heart, that place he had built, the place that had remained unbroken until the very end, though he had had to flee from it after the Nirnaeth and had never been able to return, never able even to glimpse it again.

With nothing else to do, Maedhros eventually retreated to his small cabin and opened up the bags and packages that his brothers and mother had packed, and those that he had found already aboard the ship waiting for him. The latter held mail and weapons—a few daggers, a sword—and a shield, red and emblazoned with his father’s bright gold eight-pointed star. Maedhros ran his hand over it and sighed before replacing the cover. He looked for a maker’s mark on all of it, and found it easily: a very simple stylized hammer hitting an anvil. He rubbed his thumb over it, frowning. Mahtan had never made weaponry—had flatly refused. It had been just one of a series of arguments he had had with Fëanor around the time that Nerdanel had left. No one had been immune to Morgoth’s lies, but Mahtan’s faith in Aulë, at least, had never wavered. Maedhros wasn’t sure he liked to see now that Mahtan had, in the end, learned to make arms and armor, even as he was glad to see his grandfather’s mark on these, and to know that they had been made by the most skilled hands in Aman, hands he knew he could trust.

He could trust his brothers, too. The hunting knife Celegorm had pressed into Maedhros’ hands had Caranthir’s mark on the blade, and Celegorm’s on the leather sheath. The hilt bore Amras’ mark, and Maedhros was sure the small series of rubies set around the pommel had been made by Amrod. As he turned the knife over in his hands, Maedhros found that he recognized the design: one of Curufin’s, developed in Middle-earth. In this knife he carried five of his brothers with him, and that was even more comforting than seeing Mahtan’s mark on his new sword and shield.

As he sorted through the rest of his things he found a pouch with two dozen small pieces of marble inside, smooth and round and flat, with delicately carved images of the flowers he had liked as a small child, or of his favorite birds, or just geometric designs that were pleasing to the eye and interesting to rub his fingers over. They had holes carved into them too, to be looped through strings or set on chains. Nerdanel had made many of these stones for all of them when they were small and needed things to fidget with in their hands, and because she disliked waste and wanted to do something with the pieces of stone leftover from her sculptures. Maglor had called them good luck charms, and had had a few particular favorites that he slipped into his pockets when he performed in Tirion. One of them had had the exact same geometric pattern as three of the stones Maedhros now held in his hand.

Maedhros had had one such stone in his pocket when he left Valinor the first time, but it had been lost somewhere between Mithrim and Angband. He slipped all of the new stones back into their little pouch, and then repacked all of his bags.

As he returned to the deck a call went up from the crow’s nest high above. “Land ahead!”

Maedhros turned to look, but it was some time yet before the dark line of the coast became visible to those on the deck. He stood at the railing, gripping it tightly with both hands, as the dark line slowly grew. He saw other ships out on the water, none heading for the open sea but moving south, or coming north. The dark outline of the coast soon showed grey and brown and green.

These were lands Maedhros had never known, had never set foot upon before. He was coming for a purpose, for a long and hard fight, but that didn’t stop the swell of fierce joy that arose in him as he heard the harsh cries of the gulls, as his heart felt like it was opening up in a way it had not in years beyond count, singing home, home, home.

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Chapter Text

It was evening by the time the ship drifted into the Gulf of Lhûn, through an opening between two tall promontories upon which stood tall white towers, windows flashing red in the slowly fading light of the setting sun behind them. After a little while Maedhros saw a city on the northern shore and, some time later, another to the south. In between were rolling hills and fields, perhaps vineyards and orchards—he couldn’t quite tell as twilight settled over the world.

At last they came to the farthest end where a third city stood on the shores of a large river that spilled into the gulf, larger than the other two and with a busier harbor. Maedhros stepped away from the railing, out of the way of the sailors, and went to gather his things. He could not carry all of it—the armor was too heavy—but he had little enough that the rest could fit into one pack slung over his shoulder, along with his sword.

One of the mariners, dark-haired and dark-eyed—the one who had greeted and spoken longest to Elwing and Eärendil—was waiting for him at the top of the stairs as he returned to the deck. “Good luck, son of Fëanor,” he said, in the Sindarin of Beleriand rather than any tongue of Valinor. “Remember your promise to my Lord Eärendil.”

“I will,” Maedhros said.

It felt even more momentous to step off the gangplank than it had to step onto it. Maedhros paused at the end of the dock where the wood met solid ground to wait for Olórin, and for whoever would be coming to meet them. He glanced around at the buildings, both familiar and strange, many of the walls covered in climbing ivy or other flowering vines, with light spilling golden and warm out of the windows. Some folk going about their evening business near the harbor paused to stare at him, and at the ship, which looked very little like any of the others around them. The sound of laughter behind him made him turn to see Olórin struggling a little as he made his own way from the ship, steps weaving almost like he had been drinking. “Why is the whole world tilting like the deck of a ship?” Olórin demanded as he joined Maedhros.

“It isn’t,” Maedhros said. He felt it too, but at least he’d known to expect it. “Your body is used to the tilting of the ship, and now that you’re on ground that isn’t moving it feels strange. Just wait a few minutes and it will pass.”

“That,” Olórin informed him, “is ridiculous.”

“No more ridiculous than joints that creak,” Maedhros said. Olórin harrumphed. “Are you leaving behind the name Olórin now?”

“Yes, I think so. It doesn’t quite fit what I am now, but I do not yet know what does. But if you must call me something I suppose you can keep using it, until something better comes along. Ah, that must be Círdan.” Olórin moved forward, a little steadier on his feet now, to exchanged bows with Círdan as he approached the dock. He had not had a beard when Maedhros had last seen him, but otherwise he looked almost exactly the same.

Then Círdan looked past Olórin at Maedhros, and his eyes went wide for a moment before he recovered himself. His gaze flicked down to Maedhros’ hands briefly before returning to his face. Maedhros approached and bowed. Círdan said, “Lord Maedhros. We thought you perished in the tumult following the War of Wrath.”

“I did,” Maedhros said as he straightened.

“He comes on the same errand as I do, and the others who have come before me,” said Olórin, “by Manwë’s own request.”

“I see,” said Círdan. “Then we will have much to discuss.”

Círdan lived very close to the harbor. Not far away Maedhros glimpsed what looked like a palace, or at least the residence of a king or a prince, but that was not where Círdan led them. His house was much smaller but stately and elegant, built in a style that seemed to be a blending of the Falas and of Noldorin structures from the First Age. The stone in Lindon was pale grey and smooth. Maedhros caught a glimpse of gardens let to run a little wild as he followed Círdan and Olórin up the steps and into the entry hall. Inside they were shown to guest rooms, and Círdan promised they would speak again at dinner.

Maedhros’ room was well appointed and comfortable. The furniture was made of warm brown wood, and the rugs laid over the flagstone floor were thick and soft. It was equal parts familiar and strange—nothing of it was at all like Himring, but he could see hints of both Hithlum and the Falas in it, in some of the motifs carved along the walls, and in the patterns on the rugs and tapestries, and the way the fireplace had been built. The window looked out over the city, at the towers and the houses, the markets and the parks and wide squares, some of which were still lit up with lanterns and lamps, and music drifted in through the window with the breeze. Summer had settled over the world while Maedhros had been at sea, and the gardens and parks were full of lush greenery and blooming flowers.

He washed quickly and changed into his least-wrinkled clothes. Nothing he had in his bags was particularly suited to any kind of formal meeting or dinner, but when he made his way back downstairs Maedhros thought that didn’t matter too much; the house was very empty. His steps seemed to echo over the stone floors. Maedhros did not know if that was normal or if Círdan had sent everyone else away on purpose. Olórin had spoken of his errand as not a secret, but not something to be shared widely—but that had been in Valinor. Maedhros himself had no intention of keeping his presence a secret—there would be no point, considering who he was—but at the same time he was glad that there would not be dozens of eyes on him as he sat down to dinner with Círdan that evening.

“Lord Maedhros?” A woman appeared as he left the staircase. “This way, please.” Maedhros followed her to a small parlor, cozy and comfortable, that adjoined the dining room. Círdan was there, standing by the large window that opened out toward the harbor, speaking to another man, tall and brown-haired, clad in dark green. They both turned as Maedhros stepped into the room, and the stranger regarded him with keen and curious eyes. There was no animosity there, but there was caution.

Círdan introduced his companion as Gildor Inglorion, who had once dwelt in Nargothrond, and then served as a councilor to Gil-galad. “This is a surprise,” he remarked. “How is it you have returned to these shores, Lord Maedhros?”

“I was sent back,” Maedhros said.

“Why?” Círdan asked. “All the other messengers have said very little of their errand, only that a shadow is growing—perhaps they are not permitted to say more, for they do not even say clearly who they are or what it is they have been sent to do—if they even know themselves. Are you also under such strictures?”

“No,” Maedhros said, “Manwë did not bind me to any such secrets. It is true—the Shadow is growing again. Sauron is regaining strength, though how swiftly or where or what exactly he is doing, I cannot say. I have been very long in the Halls of Mandos, and have learned only second-hand a little of what has happened on these shores since my death.”

Gildor and Círdan exchanged looks that were difficult to read. Then Círdan turned back to Maedhros and asked, bluntly, “But why were you sent back? What reason is there to trust you now?”

“I come at the behest of the Elder King,” Maedhros said. “When I first came to Middle-earth it was foremost to fight the Enemy, and that is why I return—bound now by no oaths old or new that might be twisted to other purpose. I cannot tell you why the Valar chose me.” They could have chosen anyone else—some shining and unstained hero as Olórin had first expected, someone who had fallen in the defense of Gondolin or Nargothrond, perhaps—but they had not. Maedhros had not thought to ask why; there had been no opportunity, between his audience with the Valar and his waking before the doors of Mandos. “I did hold the northern marches against Angband for many years.”

“So you did,” Círdan said, “and we have not forgotten the saving of the Falas or your deeds during the Dagor Bragollach. There will be no great armies, however, for you to lead now. We have marched on Mordor before, and we have not the strength to do so again.”

“It will be a different kind of war, then,” said Maedhros, “but that does not mean I will be of no use.”

“Certainly,” Círdan agreed. “Ulmo has also spoken to me of the growing Shadow, and has promised that help would come from the West, though not of the kind we might expect. That has certainly proved true. What is it you intend to do now that you are here?”

“There is much I need to learn before I can answer that. I’ve been told some stories, but in no detail and not by anyone who was there. I know nothing of these lands, having never seen even a map.”

Olórin arrived then, clad in the same grey robes but without his staff. Círdan greeted him more warmly, and Gildor smiled more easily as they were introduced. Maedhros stepped back out of the conversation as they moved to the dining room, filled with questions of his own—but none suitable for the dinner table. Of course Olórin also had questions, many of them the same ones hovering in the back of Maedhros’ mind, but many that Maedhros would not have thought to ask. They were joined for the meal by another, dark and tall with fair features and sharp grey eyes that regarded Maedhros with such cold distrust that he almost wanted to simply get up and leave the table. Círdan introduced him as Erestor, chief of Elrond’s councilors.

Wonderful, Maedhros thought, heart sinking. Here was a taste of what he might find in Rivendell. He did not expect Elrond to be pleased to see him, exactly, but he had harbored a hope that it would be better than this.

The meal itself was good, fish and rice and roasted vegetables, seasoned with spices Maedhros had never tasted before, brought by ships up from Gondor and Harad and places even farther afield. Olórin had many questions about Harad, and about Rhûn and Khand and other realms south and east of Gondor, of which Círdan knew little and Gildor even less. Erestor, though, could answer many of those questions. He spoke as one who had once traveled through those lands, and as Olórin pressed him for more information he softened and even smiled, though he refused to say too much with the excuse that it had been many, many years since he had traveled east of the Sea of Rhûn.

The ship that had brought them to Lindon departed the next day with the tide, just before dawn. Maedhros watched from Círdan’s wide veranda that looked out toward the harbor as a small number of new passengers boarded, taking advantage of a ship prepared to leave so swiftly. Then the ropes were cast off and the sails unfurled, catching the breeze. By the time the gloaming gave way to proper morning, with pale blue skies overtaking the last lingering stars, the ship had disappeared out of the Gulf of Lhûn, seeking the Straight Road.

“Having second thoughts?” Círdan asked, stepping up beside him.

“No.” Maedhros dropped his gaze to his hands resting on the balustrade. “I’ve been told that my brother lives still,” he said, “but that he is lost.”

“I cannot say whether Maglor still lives,” Círdan said, “but I have heard his voice myself on the wind in years past. He survived the drowning of Beleriand without a doubt, but where he is now?” He shrugged. “Is that why you came back?”

“I learned of it only after I had agreed to come, but—” Maedhros bit the inside of his cheek. He needed Círdan to trust him, to trust that he had come to help and not to hinder. “I don’t yet know what I am meant to do here,” he said finally. “But Maglor is—he is my brother, and if there is a chance he is still out there, I must find him.”

“Of course you must. Others have searched before,” Círdan said, and smiled a little when Maedhros looked at him in surprise. “Elrond searched as often as he could after the end of the First Age. Elros, too, before he departed for Númenor. They looked for both of you.”

“How is it that you knew my fate, but were unable to find Maglor?”

“Galadriel,” Círdan said. “She has glimpsed Maglor a few times over the long years, wandering the shores, but there is much uncertainty in her mirror, and it has not led anyone to finding him in truth. Still, I suspect he has at times gone to dwell upon Himling Isle. Fishermen and sailors have reported that the island is haunted, and it has been near there that I heard his voice on the wind.”

“Himling Isle?” Maedhros repeated.

“A copying mistake on a map—from Himring to Himling, and it’s been long enough now that Himling is how Men know it, and most Elves who were born after Beleriand’s sinking.”

“Himring stands?” Maedhros heard his voice crack on the words.

“Yes, it does. Not all of Beleriand was utterly lost—all of Lindon west of the Ered Luin was once Ossiriand. Himring remains, and Tol Morwen, and Tol Fuin that was once the highlands of Dorthonion. And, if you go south—though it will not appear on any maps—you will find Tol Galen, so close to the coast that it is only an island now at high tide. Elrond discovered it; I don’t know if he has been back since. I doubt that Maglor has ever gone there. Indeed, I doubt anyone but Elrond can find it.”

Maedhros gripped the balustrade until his fingers ached. “When did you last see—hear—any sign of Maglor near Himring?”

“Oh, it has been many, many years since anything at all has been seen or heard from him,” said Círdan. “Men and Elves avoid the coast near Himring, and none go to the island itself anymore. There was an effort made during the first building of Lindon to rescue what we could from it—mostly records, old reports and maps and logbooks; it was only later that rumors started to spread that the island was haunted.” Círdan met Maedhros’ gaze, calmly and evenly. “Even then we knew there was much to learn from you—you who, as you said, held the northern marches for so long. You were not here to share your knowledge, and so we looked for it where we could in your absence. I do not know why the Valar chose you to return, but the more I consider it the more I think it a fitting choice.”

“You could have had no use for such knowledge after the War of Wrath,” said Maedhros.

“Even then Gil-galad thought it better to be prepared than not. We hoped for lasting peace, but we knew also that not all of Morgoth's servants had been captured or destroyed, even if we did underestimate just what Sauron was capable of. Now we know.”

“I don’t,” Maedhros said.

“Elrond is a better storyteller than I,” said Círdan. “Mithlond has all the records you could wish for, but Elrond can fill in the gaps. You will learn all you have missed and more in Rivendell.”

“I am not so sure now that I should go there,” Maedhros said.

“Do not let Erestor discourage you. He leaves today to return there, and will carry a letter to Elrond from me. Your coming will not be a surprise, and you will find, I think, a warmer welcome than you fear. For your own journey, Gildor will guide you. He travels often between Lindon and Rivendell, and the Greenwood and Lórinand east of the Misty Mountains, and he has spent time too in Arnor at the courts of Annúminas and then Fornost, and can tell you much of the Dúnedain and their kingdoms here in the north. But there is no such imminent danger that you need to leave immediately. You may take time to rest after your voyage.”

Maedhros would have liked to leave for Rivendell immediately, but Círdan knew better than he whether there was reason to hurry, or even to be concerned. “Is there no sign at all then of any Shadow?”

“The Greenwood grows dark, especially in the south. We have been hearing rumors of it for some years now, but thus far it has taken no real shape, and we cannot be certain it is connected with the Enemy at all. It may be only that some fell creatures have been driven from other lairs and seek to take refuge in the wood, and will be driven out with time. Thranduil and his folk have not been idle. So too there are strongholds of orcs in the mountains, as there have always been, but we have noticed no particular increase in their numbers or their raiding.”

“Even if that is so, it is only a matter of time before Sauron himself gains a foothold somewhere.”

“Mordor is not left unwatched. Gondor is strong and vigilant.”

“We grew complacent before,” Maedhros said after a few moments in which they stood watching the ships and boats move to and fro in the harbor, some leaving for voyages south or north, others going out to fish in the open waters of the Sea, some going only as far as Harlond or Forlond. It was so very different from Eldamar far away, and yet also so very similar. “It was a mistake.”

“One we have learned from,” said Círdan. “But we have time still—to watch and to learn, to plan and to prepare ourselves. You have time, Lord Maedhros, to come to know these lands and the people here, and to regain some of your own old skills. From what you and your companion have said, it seems you had barely time to catch your breath between being thrust from Mandos and boarding the ship that brought you here.”

“I had a little time to catch my breath—but nothing more, it’s true.”

“Then take that time now. If you wish to visit Himring, I can take you there myself. It isn’t a long voyage.”

The thought of going to see what remained of Himring made something in Maedhros’ chest ache, a mingling of longing and of dread. “Maybe someday,” he said. “But if you hear—”

“If I hear anything of your brother, I will send word as swiftly as I may.”

With nothing to do but wait until Gildor and Olórin were ready to depart, Olórin having apparently shed his sense of urgency now that they had arrived, Maedhros found himself drawn to the water. He left Mithlond most mornings to walk south or north along the shores of Lhûn, watching the waves wash over the white sands, and thinking of how different this place had been in the days before his death. He wasn’t quite sure where he had been when he’d thrown himself to the fire, or how much of Beleriand had crumbled afterward. He did not know how the coasts had shifted or changed in the many centuries since. It was so hard to imagine now that where he walked had once been nothing but forests, the only water the fresh clear rivers and forest streams, far away from the Sea.

He listened hard to the wind, but heard only the plaintive cries of the gulls and the sound of the waves crashing against cliffs farther down the coast or washing over the sand at his feet; the only voices were the merry ones of Lindon’s mariners. “Maglor,” he whispered to the breeze, letting it whisk the sound of his voice away out over the water, “I’m so sorry.”

He wondered if Maglor ever ventured into towns or villages. Surely he must? For food, clothes, other supplies? Surely he must sometimes speak to other people? Maedhros had not come to Middle-earth in secret. Word would get out—it would get out even faster if he asked Círdan to ensure it. Whether Maglor could believe whatever rumors he heard, Maedhros could not guess. Whether he would seek out Maedhros if he did believe them…Maedhros wished that he could say for certain that Maglor would, but the more he thought of it the more he wondered whether that would just drive him farther away. They had each been all the other had left in the world. Maedhros had forgotten that the moment his hand touched the Silmaril. He’d forgotten everything, had stopped thinking entirely, except for the desperate need for it all to just stop, and somehow he hadn’t even noticed in Mandos that only five of his brothers had ever come to find him.

To have forgotten so entirely the most important person in his life—how could he ever expect Maglor to be glad to see him again after that, after Maedhros had led them both into ruin again and again only to abandon him at the last? There was so much Maedhros had to try to make up for. He thought that he could—that he could play some small part in Sauron’s final defeat, however it was to come about. He could at the very least protect Elrond and his people. War was coming, sooner or later, and Maedhros knew war. But this? Maglor was lost, and seemed determined to remain so, and Maedhros did not know how to fix what he had broken between them. It didn’t matter that he had been so broken himself, that even now he was sure that he could not have survived another day, was sure that something would have killed him, whether it was his own actions or just his spirit giving up and departing from his body whether he willed it or not. He’d left his brother behind, alone and wounded and certain only that he would not be welcomed back among any of the Eldar. It had been Maedhros who sentenced Maglor to an Age and more of wandering exile, alone and friendless, haunting the ruins of Himring and the lonely strands of Middle-earth’s shores.

Only the knowledge that he had come to Middle-earth for a larger purpose, only the memory of Manwë himself asking him to come, kept him from taking one of Círdan’s horses and riding away down the coast then and there, forgetting everything else, and not coming back until he had found Maglor and convinced him, one way or another, to return with him. There would be no point in finding Maglor if Sauron rose up again and covered all the world in darkness—they would be destroyed alongside everyone else, or worse, should that happen. Finding Maglor came first in his heart, but it could not come first in his actions.

But there was time yet. He could come back after he had seen Elrond and gotten the lay of the land. After he felt more like he belonged in his own skin and less like he was borrowing someone else’s ill-fitting clothing. After he had a better idea of what it was he was meant to do, and how long he could be spared to go in search of his brother. After he had managed to gain some little bit of trust on his own merits rather than just Olórin’s word. He could come back then, for the first of what he feared would be many, many searches.

When he was not wandering the beaches of Lhûn he wandered the streets of Mithlond, enduring the stares and the whispers and knowing that once the shock wore off for everyone else it would be easier, and reminding himself that he wanted people to talk. He wanted word to get out. He wanted Maglor to hear of it—and he wanted the Enemy to hear of it. Let him know that Maedhros son of Fëanor had returned to the world. It would not stop him, but it might give him pause, and Maedhros could not deny that the idea sent a bolt of hot and savage satisfaction through him.

After a while he retreated to Círdan’s libraries to study maps—and if he lingered over ones that showed the northern coast, off of which stood Himling Isle, well, perhaps he could be forgiven—and to start getting used to having two hands again. He found that after so long his left hand remained dominant; it was easier and more comfortable to hold a pen with it, to write and to draw. But he had once done everything equally well with his right, and he was determined to learn again. It would be an advantage, especially if his left arm was wounded or rendered immobile. It was also, as he had known it would be, an exercise in frustration, just as learning to do everything left-handed had been long ago. At least this time he was not fighting wounds and weakness in the rest of his body on top of clumsy fingers that did not want to hold a pen the way he knew they should.

Olórin had been using his time similarly, as well spending many hours and long evenings in close and quiet conversation with Círdan, and after several months spent thus, as summer started to wane and harvest songs could be heard in and around the city, he declared himself quite ready to move on to Rivendell. It would be a pleasant journey in the early autumn, Gildor promised, and so early one morning Círdan saw them off. He watched them go with a solemn expression on his face, his gaze lingering on Olórin. Then he looked at Maedhros, and nodded once. Maedhros returned the gesture and turned away, trailing after Olórin and Gildor through the streets that were still mostly empty with the early hour.

It would be an easy journey as well as pleasant—Arnor reached from the Tower Hills just east of Mithlond all the way to the Misty Mountains, and for many miles both north and south of the East Road. It had lately been broken into three smaller realms after some conflict between a king’s three sons. Maedhros had read the records of it and shaken his head. So far the arrangement seemed to be holding, though Círdan had hinted at tension between the kings of Arthedain and those of Cardolan and Rhudaur, who chafed against the authority exerted by the former. It was nothing, though, that would spill over into the everyday matters of the Dúnedain—of the farmers and villagers and innkeepers. Not yet, anyway, Maedhros thought as they passed through the Tower Hills.

“A palantír is kept there, in Elostirion,” Gildor said, pointing to the tallest of the towers. “The largest that escaped the drowning of Númenor. Another is kept in Fornost, and a third atop Amon Súl—we will pass by it on the Road, past the Breelands.”

“There are palantíri here?” Maedhros asked, startled.

“Yes. They were given to the Faithful of Númenor by the Elves of Eressëa, we have been told, and seven escaped to Middle-earth with Elendil and his sons. I know not how the four of Gondor are distributed, though I imagine three at least are in Minas Ithil, Minas Anor, and the capital Osgiliath. It is through these stones that the lords of each city—and of each kingdom—might share news and coordinate with one another. Since Elendil’s death, the Elostirion-stone has been in Círdan’s keeping, and Men do not use it—it looks westward, and is useless for any but those of us who wish sometimes to catch a glimpse of Eressëa, or Valinor beyond.” Gildor glanced at them both. “You need only ask if you ever have such a desire.”

“Best not, at least for me,” said Olórin cheerfully. “I cannot be turning my gaze or my mind back westward, not if I want to be of any use here.”

“I do not feel any great longing for the West,” Maedhros said when Gildor looked curiously at him.

“Perhaps not now,” said Gildor, smiling, “since you’ve only just arrived. But maybe someday.”

“Maybe. Why not just sail, if you long for Eressëa?”

“One can long for a glimpse of Eldamar while being yet unwilling to go there,” Gildor said. “I will set sail someday, but not yet.”

The lands of Arthedain just past the downs were all rolling hills and farmland, green and lush. They passed through towns and villages and stayed nights in large and comfortable inns that served everyone from traveling Elves to the Men who lived locally to Dwarves on their way to and from their halls in the Ered Luin and Khazad-dûm in the east. They crossed over the lazy brown waters of the Baranduin, and passed a dark and ancient looking wood to the south of the Road. Out of it came the echoes of a voice singing, and Maedhros halted before he could think better of it, listening hard.

But no, of course it was not Maglor’s voice. It sounded nothing like him, and what words Maedhros could catch seemed to all be nonsense, interspersed with laughter. “That is Iarwain Ben-adar,” said Gildor, laughing. “A strange figure, to be sure! He dwells in the forest near to the Barrow Downs. We are passing out of Arthedain now into Cardolan, but of course Iarwain cares naught for any of that. He is kind and merry, however—and always welcomes travelers who stray into the lands he calls his home.”

“Iarwain Ben-adar,” Olórin repeated thoughtfully, as Maedhros caught up to them. His dark eyes glinted as he looked toward the trees. “I should like to meet him—but some other time, perhaps.”

“He isn’t hard to find, these days,” Gildor said. “Once he roamed all of Eriador, but that was long ago, when all this land was covered in forest. It has often been said that a squirrel could pass from the Ered Luin to the feet of the Misty Mountains without ever touching the ground. Then the Men of Númenor came, and built their havens in the south and felled many trees for their ship building, and then the Enemy came to lay the lands all to waste. Iarwain does not often stray beyond his borders, though they are only ones he has set himself and nothing imposed upon him—indeed, I do not think anyone could impose anything upon him if he did not wish it!”

They passed through Cardolan and by the Tower Hills with the watchtower of Amon Súl standing proudly upon the southernmost hill above the Road. Thence they came to Rhudaur, crossing the bridge of the Mitheithel, and eventually to the Bruinen. There were far fewer towns or villages in this kingdom, and they had to camp alongside the road after they found no more inns or taverns; Maedhros did not mind, but Olórin grumbled once or twice in the mornings about stiff joints and an aching back. Maedhros did not believe for a moment that it could be as bad as Olórin claimed, and when he said so he earned himself a blistering scowl. Maedhros looked back, unimpressed, but remarked, “Perhaps that is why Lord Manwë sent you—all you need to do is glare at the Enemy and he will wither away into dust.”

“In which case it will have been a terrible waste of time to send you,” Olórin replied as Gildor laughed.

“Surely not,” said Maedhros. “I can keep him busy until you manage to get there, with your stiff knees keeping you hobbled.”

“Rhudaur on a map extends to the Misty Mountains, but few Men live beyond this river,” Gildor said some hours later, as they passed through a deep cutting in the road between two hills. The stones rising up on either side were red and damp, and the hills themselves were covered in thick pine so that the bright sunshine was blotted out and they were thrown into deep shadow. Their hoof beats echoed oddly, so that it sounded as though there were many more than only three horses and a pack pony passing through. “Beyond the Ford,” Gildor went on, “we come to Elrond’s country. The folk of Rivendell work with the Men of Rhudaur to keep the road to the High Pass maintained, and to patrol the borderlands.”

“And Master Elrond will be expecting us?” Olórin said.

“Oh yes. Erestor will have told him all about you, and I believe Círdan sent a letter along as well. Not to mention the four others that came before you—they all traveled to Rivendell too, though I cannot tell you with certainty where they have gone since. Two at least have headed into the east I think, intending to go past Gondor and the Sea of Rhûn. At least that is what they spoke of doing before they departed from Lindon. You will be no surprise in Rivendell.”

“But Maedhros will be?” Olórin remarked, glancing at Maedhros with an amused quirk to one of his bushy eyebrows.

“Not a surprise, but perhaps a shock,” Gildor said carefully, also glancing at Maedhros. “But I cannot claim to be one who knows Elrond very well, though I do consider him a friend. Erestor was not pleased, but I do not know how his thoughts and Elrond’s might align in this.”

“I don’t need to be liked,” Maedhros said, “I only need to be doing something.”

“It will be easier for everyone if we can all get along—all of us, I mean: Elves, Men, Dwarves, mysterious messengers from the West. For what it’s worth, I think I rather like you, Lord Maedhros, and I will tell Elrond so when we come to Rivendell.”

The Bruinen glittered in the sunlight as they splashed across the ford. As his horse followed Olórin’s onto the far bank, Maedhros felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, recognizing someone else’s awareness. Elrond, he thought, though it was hard to imagine the Elrond of his memories wielding this kind of power. However much he heard about the things Elrond had done, Maedhros still found it hard to picture him as anything other than a youth, stubborn and brave but who no one would describe as sensible, let alone wise. Elros had been much the same, and neither of them were ever found far from the other. There was a part of Maedhros that still half-expected to arrive in Rivendell to find both of them there. It was impossible to imagine either of them alone, in much the same way Amrod and Amras had always been inseparable.

Gildor took the lead and went slowly, guiding them through a land of hills and sudden gorges, of springs and little streams that went burbling by over the moss on their way back down to join the Bruinen. “When you come this way in the future,” Gildor said over his shoulder, “follow the white stones.” He pointed to a round white stone nestled under some heather, and then a little farther to another sitting atop a small pile of the brown and grey stone that was to be naturally found in that land. “And go carefully! It is very easy to get lost, or to pass the valley by and find yourself coming to the road into the High Pass. That will take you over the Misty Mountains into Rhovanion, but you do not want to go there alone or unprepared. Orcs still live in the mountains, and at times set upon unwary travelers, and there are stone giants too. They are not malicious themselves, but they care little for Elves or Men passing through and will not hesitate to drop a boulder directly onto the path—or onto you.”

Maedhros looked up at the mountains looming over them. True to their name, the peaks were invisible behind wreaths of cloud. Ahead, Gildor halted and turned in his saddle to smile at them. “Here we are!” he said, gesturing to the valley opening up before his feet, lush and fragrant with pine and late summer flowers. “Welcome to Rivendell.”

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It was shaping up to be a busy summer in Rivendell. Four strange old travelers had passed through the valley, with word from Círdan that they had all come sailing out of the west in the evening, and spoke worryingly of growing shadows in the east and the coming years. None had stayed long; they were eager to see all there was to see of the world, to learn all there was to learn. Two had spoken of going far into the east, and Elrond did not think he would see them again for a very long time—if at all.

The last, Aiwendil clad in brown with smiling eyes and a fondness for flowers and the smallest of creatures, departed in the company of Elladan and Elrohir, who would introduce him to Thranduil and his court after showing him the safest paths through the Misty Mountains. He had also said, just before leaving, that Elrond should expect one more such visitor. “I can’t imagine what’s keeping him, but he’ll surely make his way here before the year is out!”

No sooner had Aiwendil and Elrond’s sons departed than Prince Tiron of Arthedain arrived to join his sister Idril and the prince and princess of Cardolan and Rhudaur who had come to be fostered for a time in Rivendell—a tradition dating back to Valandil’s childhood spent there during the War of the Last Alliance that had even survived the splitting of Arnor into three kingdoms. Elrond was happy to continue it, especially since the youngest generations of all three kingdoms now overlapped, and he had high hopes that when they all departed from his house they would do so as friends, and perhaps put an end to the on-and-off-again strife between Arthedain and Cardolan and Rhudaur. Tiron was young still—not yet eleven years old—but also somewhat sickly, and so his parents had sent him to Elrond earlier than they would have otherwise in hopes that his health would improve more swiftly under Elrond’s care.

His arrival was also a nice distraction, for Celebrían and Arwen were with Galadriel and Celeborn in the south and would not return for at least another handful of years, if not a decade. With Elladan and Elrohir also gone, the house felt empty, even though it was in reality as full and bustling as ever. Tiron came bearing letters, too, from his father and grandfather and also his older brother Celepharn, who had left Imladris himself only the year before to return to Fornost.

And then Erestor returned early and unlooked for from Mithlond. “Elrond,” he said without preamble, appearing in the dining hall as lunch was coming to a close, still windblown and dusty from the road, “I need to speak with you.”

Elrond frowned at him. “Surely you can eat something first—”

“That can wait. This cannot.”

“What happened?” Elrond asked the moment they both left the dining hall.

Erestor shook his head and said nothing until they reached Elrond’s private study. Only once the door was closed and they were entirely alone did Erestor turn back to face Elrond. “The last of the west’s messengers has come,” he said.

“Is that all?” Elrond said. “Stars above, Erestor, I thought you were going to tell me—”

“He did not come alone.”

“You just said he is the last.”

“He is the last to come in the form of an old man, and I do not think his companion comes on the same errand.”

“Well, who is it, and what is their errand?” Elrond asked.

“It is Maedhros, Elrond.”

Elrond stared at him, sure that he had not heard correctly. Maedhros was dead—he had cast himself into a chasm of fire with a Silmaril, as Beleriand broke apart. Galadriel had seen it, and Elrond himself had found the remnants of a half-made camp near such a rent—including the chest that had once held the last two Silmarils—though it had closed by then, magma cooled to solid stone like a dark and livid scar across the landscape. Aloud he just said, hearing his own voice as though from a great distance, “But that’s impossible.”

“Yet it’s true,” said Erestor. “I’ve seen him. I dined with him. He and his companion intend to stay a while in Mithlond, but before the year’s end we will see them here.”

“I see,” Elrond said. “What does Círdan think of this?”

“I don’t know, but I have a letter from him for you.”

“Did Maedhros send…?”

“No, but I did not linger to ask him; I left the morning after their arrival.” Erestor held out Círdan’s letter, sealed with pale blue wax. Elrond took it with numb fingers. “Will you welcome him here?”

“I welcome everyone,” said Elrond. He set the letter on the desk and turned to go open the window, needing fresh air. The smell of roses flowed in on the breeze. “Did he say anything of why he was sent? Why he has come?”

“Not to me,” said Erestor, “but again, I did not linger—and I had no wish to speak long with him myself.” He paused for a moment, and then said more gently, “I did ask Círdan if anything had been heard lately of Maglor.”

Elrond didn’t turn from the window. “Nothing?”

“No, nothing. I’m sorry.” Erestor had no love for the Sons of Fëanor, but over many years and many long conversations his feelings toward Maglor had softened a little, for Elrond’s sake. Maedhros was a different matter—for both of them. “Have you heard from Galadriel?” he asked now.

“No. I will have to write to her, but not until I see Maedhros for myself.” Elrond had questions of his own; or he would have them, when he could think past the tight feeling in his chest and the childish voice in the back of his mind wailing at how unfair it was—that of all who he wished would return to him it was Maedhros and not Maglor; that of all who might be permitted to leave Valinor it was Maedhros and not Elwing. He stared at the apple orchard in the distance without really seeing it, and asked, “What do you think of it? His coming? Ignoring for the moment the fact that you hate him.”

“I don’t know,” Erestor said after a long and thoughtful silence. “The Valar would not send him for no reason, but I do not understand their reasons for the other messengers either, or really for anything they do, and I do not know whether to trust their intentions. Their true nature is hidden, these other messengers, but Maedhros does not come in secrecy. When I saw him he was grim-faced and quiet, speaking little, but his spirit burns within him as all the old tales say. His Oath, I think, died with him. If he has sworn any new ones, he has not spoken of them.”

“I don’t think he would,” Elrond said. “But this also begs the question—what do they know in the West that we do not? What is coming that we have not yet seen?”

“The One was never destroyed,” Erestor said quietly.

Vilya felt very heavy on Elrond’s finger. Strange and fell things crept through southern Greenwood, spiders spinning webs that trapped the light, and shadows growing ever darker under the trees—slowly, but enough to worry Thranduil. Mordor remained empty, but orcs still dwelt in the Misty Mountains and the Grey Mountains to the north. Dragons still roamed the far northern wastes. Sauron could be anywhere. They had all always known there was a chance that he would return, just as he had after the War of Wrath, after Númenor’s foundering. Elrond closed his eyes against the bright summer sunshine, smelling again the sulfur and fumes of Mount Doom and tasting ashes on his tongue. He could not do that again.

“The One was lost, long ago,” he said.

“Lost things can be found,” Erestor said, “whether we speak of rings or children or, it seems, even kinslayers.” He joined Elrond at the window and rested a hand on his back. “We still have time,” he said softly. “Gondor remains strong. Even Arnor—fractured though it is, I think the three kingdoms would come together and forget their petty disputes in the face of such a threat, and Lindon can always be counted upon. Moria too remains strong, as do Lórinand and the Greenwood.”

“I know.” That did not change the fact that the Shadow would return, after they had all dared to hope that maybe this time they would be safe for good. And if they were still strong they were not as strong as they had once been. Too few had returned to the glades of the Greenwood after the Last Alliance; too few had come back to Lindon or to Rivendell either, and every year ships took away more and more of their people. Gondor had only grown in strength since, but Elrond did not know if that would be enough to make up for the fading of the Elves. He did not know if there was any leader that could unite them all the way that Gil-galad and Elendil once had. Bright laughter floated up from the garden below, where Arameril of Rhudaur walked arm in arm with Idril of Arthedain. They would live in peace, Elrond thought, but what of their children, or their children’s children? What of his own children?

Those were questions and thoughts to let circle through his mind at night, when he lay awake in bed. Not for the middle of the day. Elrond straightened. “You should eat something, and rest,” he told Erestor.

“What are you going to do?” Erestor asked.

“Decide which room will belong to Maedhros, when he comes, and then—I will continue doing what I have been doing. Until Maedhros arrives, there is nothing else I can do.”

“How widely do you want it known that he is coming?”

“Let everyone know,” Elrond said after a moment. “It’s no use keeping it a secret, and if it as unpleasant a surprise to anyone else as it has been to you, let them start getting used to it now.”

“If there is getting used to having the worst of the kinslayers in our midst.”

“One can, in my experience, get used to just about anything,” Elrond said. “And you will have to, Erestor.”

“Yes, I know. I will not hinder him, if he proves trustworthy.”

“How will he do that, in your eyes?”

“I don’t know. I suppose we will all find out.”

Elrond sighed. So they would. “Go rest,” he said. “I doubt you spared yourself or your horse very much on your way here.”

“My horse is fine,” Erestor said, affecting a vaguely affronted tone.

“Are you?” Elrond asked.

Erestor did not answer immediately, which at least meant he was not going to be flippant, as he often was when it came to his own self. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “It was an unpleasant surprise, seeing him at Círdan’s dinner table, and I was not happy to learn that his intention has been from the start to come here to you.”

“Where else would he go?” Elrond asked.

“I don’t know, but I don’t know why he expects a warm welcome from you either.”

“I very much doubt that he does,” Elrond said.

“Will he be surprised, then?”

“I don’t know yet.”

When Erestor left, Elrond sank into his chair and opened Círdan’s letter. Círdan was more confident than Erestor, both in this last strange messenger of the Valar—who gave no name, instead insisting that he would answer to whatever names were given to him—and in Maedhros. 

I do not begrudge Erestor his feelings, of course—I was not at Doriath, but I remember all too well the aftermath of Sirion—but I remember also the saving of the Falas, and the many great deeds performed by all of Fëanor’s sons. Even Fëanor himself. In my view, the story of their house is a tragedy, and particularly the story of Maedhros, who fell so far. He returns to us changed, in a body made new, but the burden of the past still weighs heavily upon him; he has not said so in as many words, but I think he comes to try to make up at least in part for the harm he has done, to do right where once he did so wrong. So too does the knowledge of Maglor’s fate weigh on him. Whatever else he is here to do, he intends to find his brother, however long it takes. There is much else he does not know, and which he is eager to learn. And though he has not yet spoken of it, I suspect he knows something of Eregion, and that his nephew is also in his thoughts.

I do not, however, intend to speak to him of that one particular matter in which his nephew was concerned. I am inclined to trust him, but not quite that far just yet. It cannot be kept a secret from him forever, I think, but I leave it to your discretion.

And now I will contradict myself and tell you that I do intend to speak of it to the grey messenger—and to entrust him with the thing that has been in my care all these long years. I think you will understand when you meet him. This is without a doubt someone we can trust. My heart tells me he is far better suited to it than I, and that he will need something more than a cloak to keep him warm on his travels. 

The letter held other bits of news—mundane, everyday things like trade and harvests and a few bits of gossip that under other circumstances Elrond would have laughed at. He laid it down and rested his face in his hands, wondering what could possibly spur Círdan to part with Narya—and to a stranger, one without even a name. Elrond had been prepared to meet all these strange western messengers with the same skepticism with which he had met Annatar, when he’d first come to Lindon. None of them inspired the same uneasiness, but he was not prepared to fully trust any of them, either. Certainly not with such knowledge—not with the Rings. That Círdan would so readily part with Narya itself was equal parts alarming and reassuring. Elrond knew better than to question Círdan’s wisdom, but…

He sighed and raised his head to look back out of the window. It looked east toward the mountains, rather than west toward the road leading out of the valley, but he cast his thoughts abroad, touching upon the Bruinen and the road into the mountains, upon the heather-clad hills and vales among which Rivendell was hidden, upon the mountains themselves. It was a long ingrained habit, this watchfulness, but it was not often nowadays that he found himself hoping or expecting to find anyone in particular approaching the road to the valley. Of course no one was.

In the end it was not hard to choose a room for Maedhros. There was already one particular room that had been furnished and kept empty and available for as long as Rivendell had had the luxury of such space. Beside it was a room nearly identical in shape and size, and this Elrond had aired out and prepared. It was hard to judge what Maedhros might like to have in his own space, so Elrond kept it all very simple and easy to change, with warm rugs on the flagstone floor and a scattering of books on the bookcase by the desk on varying subjects, as well as a few simple knickknacks to fill in the empty spaces.

For all he knew, Maedhros would hate all of it. Elrond had never known Maedhros when such comforts were even possible. He had been to Himring on more than one occasion in the early days of the Second Age, when Gil-galad had ordered it searched for any kind of records or papers or useful treasures that might have been left behind, but had never gotten the nerve to actually go looking for anyone’s personal chambers. Somehow he always imagined Maedhros’ bedchamber there to be horribly cold and austere, because the fortress itself was horribly austere, but that was probably not fair. Maedhros had been grim and hard and frightening, never once smiling in all the years that Elrond had known him, but that did not mean he had always been so. Once he had surely been someone with preferences as to the color of his bedroom walls, someone who smiled, who liked things. Once he had really been the brother that Maglor had loved and followed without question, someone who deserved that kind of loyalty.

The Oath was no more, and Círdan’s confidence was no small thing. Elrond was only a little less uncertain of his feelings toward the Valar than Erestor, but surely Mandos was not so pitiless as to release someone like Maedhros just to throw him back into another war before he had recovered, not after he had been broken so badly that he had chosen to take his own life rather than face another day. Surely they would have allowed him to find some measure of peace first.

As word spread through the valley that Maedhros son of Fëanor was not only returned to Middle-earth, but would be coming there, Elrond found himself approached multiple times a day to confirm or deny the rumors. “Yes, it’s true,” he said over and over again. “Sometime early in the autumn, Círdan said.” There were other questions about Maedhros, mostly from the younger generations who had never known Beleriand, and never known anything of the Sons of Fëanor outside the histories and the stories. Elrond smiled and refused to answer those. Most accepted it; he had never spoken of his youth, except to a very select few, and there was no reason that should change now.

Pengolodh emerged from his stacks of books on the most ancient elven tongues of the east, however, and was as reluctant to accept Elrond’s refusal to speak as he ever was. Elrond sympathized, to a point. He was also a loremaster, and he understood the importance of stories—all stories, all histories, from all points of view—but his own life was his to record or to speak of, not anyone else’s, and his childhood had no bearing on the outcome of the War of Wrath or anything that happened afterward, and more often than not questions about it felt less like seeking knowledge than seeking gossip. He had already told Pengolodh as much as he was willing to share, and the fact that Maedhros was returned to life and to Middle-earth changed none of that.

“You can ask him yourself, you know,” Elrond said finally, when he grew tired of Pengolodh’s wheedling. “Or if you want to know what he’s like now, you can ask Erestor.” This earned him a glare from across the room.

“I did ask Erestor,” Pengolodh said, “and he was as helpful as he always is—which is to say, not helpful at all.”

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to wait like the rest of us unless you want to make the journey to Mithlond yourself.”

“I would be very grateful if you didn’t unleash Pengolodh on me every time you wanted to get rid of him,” Erestor said after Pengolodh left. “At least send him to Lindir next time.”

“I do actually like Pengolodh,” said Elrond.

“You do?”

“When he’s not being insufferable about my childhood, yes. He doesn’t need to be subjected to Lindir’s lectures on authorial bias for the hundredth time. If it makes you feel better, though, I don’t intend to rescue Maedhros from Pengolodh.”

Erestor snorted and returned his attention to his own work. “That does make me feel better, actually. I’m not sure I can think of a more severe punishment than being locked in a room with Pengolodh when he’s insatiably curious about something.”

The summer passed both swiftly and slowly, as pleasant summers always did. Cooler weather heralded the coming apple harvest, and Elrond went out with Lindir and Erestor to sing to the trees in preparation, which did not respond in quite the same way even to Lindir’s fair voice as they did to Celebrían’s—but Celebrían was not there, and so they made do.

It was a bright and sunny afternoon when Elrond became aware of someone crossing the Bruinen—three someones, one entirely unfamiliar, one both familiar and welcome, and the third…familiar and unfamiliar at once. There was no mistaking Maedhros. He was a bright and burning presence at the edge of Elrond’s awareness, far brighter than he had been when Elrond had known him in his childhood and youth, though it still seemed as though as shadow lay over him, as though he could burn even brighter. Elrond could sense, too, that Maedhros was aware of him in turn.

“They’re coming,” he murmured to Lindir, who happened to be standing beside him. “Gildor is with them.”

“Oh, good,” said Lindir. “I always like to see Gildor.” He appeared entirely unconcerned about Maedhros, though Elrond didn’t think that meant much, as he rarely allowed himself to be noticeably concerned about anything. “How shall you greet them?” he asked, tossing his dark hair back over his shoulder.

“The same way I greet everyone else,” Elrond said.

“No formal audience for the returning Lord of Himring?”

“He isn’t lord of anything now. No, no formal audiences.” There was no great and splendid hall in Imladris in which to hold such meetings, though the dining hall could be and was rearranged when such audiences were necessary. The last time had been when the King and Queen of Rhudaur had come themselves to place Princess Arameril into Elrond’s care.

Lindir glanced at him, his dark eyes suddenly serious. “It would not hurt to show him where the power now lies, Elrond,” he said quietly. “Or, perhaps, to remind yourself.”

“I am not afraid,” Elrond said, more sharply than he meant to.

“Good.” Lindir’s smile returned. “Still—it’s worth remembering.”

Gildor led the grey messenger and Maedhros down into the valley as the sunbeams slanted golden through the trees. Elrond watched from the window of his bedroom as they made their way through the valley and across the bridge, three riders and a packhorse. Maedhros brought up the rear, unmistakable with his copper hair glinting in the sunlight. He carried a sword and had a shield strapped to his saddle. His head moved as he cast his gaze over the valley, taking in every detail; Elrond remembered those sharp grey eyes, the way they missed nothing.

He left the window and made his way to the courtyard, stepping outside just as grooms came from the stables to take charge of the horses. “Master Elrond!” Gildor strode forward with his hands outstretched, and Elrond smiled, reaching back. Gildor was always a bright and merry presence. That he was in such high spirits boded well. “It has been too long since I last visited Imladris. Allow me to introduce my frustratingly-unnamed companion.”

The last messenger out of the west was clad all in grey and grey-bearded, leaning on a staff not unlike those his predecessors bore. When Elrond met his gaze he found dark eyes filled with warmth, and understood in an instant why Círdan thought so highly of him, and why he had been entrusted with Narya. Here was a friend—more than an adviser or a messenger. It was not often that Elrond felt such an immediate sense of kinship with another. The last time had been when he had first met Erestor.

“Welcome to Imladris,” he said, holding out his hand. The grey messenger clasped it firmly, his hand rough and dry. “I hope your journey was a pleasant one.”

“Very pleasant,” said the messenger, his smile making his eyes crinkle, “but not so pleasant that I am disappointed to have arrived! This is a beautiful valley, Master Elrond. You have built something wonderful here.”

“Thank you,” Elrond said.

And then he lifted his gaze to Maedhros, who had hung back, standing near a statue of Nienna that had been placed near the courtyard’s entrance. When Elrond finally looked at him he was half turned away, casting his own gaze over the walls and windows of the house. He looked so different—not at all like the Maedhros of Elrond’s memory. He was as tall as he had been before, and he held himself the same—watchful and tense—but his face seemed rounder, younger, softer. He had no scars, and most startling—he had both of his hands. Elrond immediately felt foolish for having expected otherwise, but it was still strange to see. Then Maedhros turned to meet his gaze, and his eyes, at least, were exactly the same—grey and sharp and shadowed. Elrond could not help but remember, viscerally, what it was to be a small and terrified child staring into those eyes for the first time as smoke hung in the air around them and flames cast dancing shadows over blood-splattered amour.

The moment passed, and Maedhros—clean and unarmed—bowed his head, pressing a hand to his chest in greeting. “Master Elrond,” he said. His voice was not the same either—this throat undamaged by years of torment and then centuries of shouting across battlefields and breathing the smokes and fumes of war. It was a fair voice, deep and even and smooth. It was also horribly strange to hear any sort of title addressed to him coming from Maedhros. As Maedhros raised his head his gaze flicked just for a second to Elrond’s left—where Elros would have been standing, once upon a time.

“Lord Maedhros,” Elrond said, wishing—again—that Celebrían were there. She could laugh her way through anything, no matter how awkward. “Welcome to Imladris.” The words were rote, and Elrond wished he could say whether or not he meant them. He was all too aware of all the eyes on them, of watchers from the windows and from the edges of the courtyard, and elsewhere. He was aware too of Gildor and the grey messenger also watching this meeting, though what either of them were thinking, Elrond could not guess. He spoke more rote phrases, inviting them all inside and calling for others to come show Gildor and the grey messenger to their rooms, though Gildor needed no guide. Elrond led Maedhros to his room himself; the sooner they could speak alone, even briefly, the easier it all would be.

Elrond opened the door, and stepped aside to allow Maedhros to enter ahead of him. As Maedhros crossed to the middle of the room, Elrond entered and let the door shut behind him. He clasped his hands behind his back, where it would not be noticed if he fiddled with either of his rings. “It was something of a shock to learn that you had come back,” he said. He had known of the Halls of Mandos, of course, had known that the fate of those Elves who were slain was to rest a while there and then return to life. That was across the Sea, however, in Valinor that was itself scarcely more than a wonder-tale to those who had only ever known Middle-earth. Even hearing Erestor speak of Maedhros, even reading Círdan’s words, had not made it feel quite real—not as real as it all now was with Maedhros standing in front of him, unscarred but still with shadows lurking behind his eyes.

“I know,” Maedhros said, as he dropped his bag to the floor by the bed. He turned to face Elrond. “It was something of a shock to me, too.” He did not sound like himself—it was not just that his voice was different, it was the way he spoke. In Elrond’s memory he was sharp and short, a commander giving orders, unless he was speaking to Maglor. Only then had he softened even a fraction. He had avoided speaking to Elrond and Elros at all, for the most part, unless there was no other choice. It had been Maglor who raised them, who sang to them and taught them everything he knew, from poetry to the dirtiest tricks he knew with a knife. Maedhros had always been nearby, but if he had realized how much he had frightened them, either he hadn't cared or he had not been able to even try to reassure them.

Too much lay between them for Elrond to know where to start. He wanted to know why—why Maedhros, why now, why Rivendell—but he could not think of a way to ask that did not sound more like an accusation than a question. Maedhros was here, though, and Elrond could only hope that time would bring either comfort or clarity. For now he said, “I was not entirely sure what you would like when it came to your room. If anything is not to your liking, please tell me. I will leave you for now—you will be wanting to bathe and rest after your journey. Someone will come to guide you to the dining hall this evening.”

“Elrond,” Maedhros said as Elrond turned. He looked back, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “I’m sorry,” Maedhros said.

“For what?” Elrond asked. He could think of a dozen things without trying, but he wanted to hear Maedhros explain himself.

“Everything,” Maedhros said, and the shadows in his eyes took a shape that Elrond could recognize—guilt, guilt and grief only just held back from the precipice of despair. “Everything from Alqualondë onward—but especially Doriath, and especially Sirion. I cannot undo the past, and I do not know what I can do going forward—but I came back to fight the Enemy. It is why I followed my father in the first place—and this time I am bound to no oaths, and will swear no new ones.”

“You could have broken it,” Elrond said. “The Oath. I know that Maglor begged you to.” As Elrond and Elros had begged Maglor in their turn—but he would not, in the end, go against his brother, even though it broke their hearts and his own.

“I thought,” Maedhros said quietly, after a long pause in which Maglor’s name hung between them, both a barrier and a bridge, “that doing so would doom our father and our brothers to the Everlasting Darkness. I was wrong—and even if I were not, still it would have done less evil to break it. I know that.”

Elrond had, in truth, forgiven both Maglor and Maedhros everything long ago. It had not been easy, and it had not been for their sake but for his own. Otherwise he would have been crushed under the weight of his own bitter grief, and he had enough of that to carry without holding on to ancient grudges. But it was still easier to have decided upon forgiveness when Maedhros was dead, when it seemed impossible to imagine ever seeing him again. Now he was here, and though of the two of them Elrond was the more powerful—in every sense of the word—there was a part of him that was still that terrified child who had watched his mother be driven into the Sea by a monster with a bloody sword and eyes that blazed.

Another silence fell between them, broken only by birdsong drifting through the window alongside the scent of Celebrían’s roses. Finally, Elrond said, “Take some rest before dinner. We will speak more later.” He left before Maedhros could reply.

Gildor came to speak to him in his study, carrying a thick bundle of paper in his hands. “Our grey friend asked me to give you these, as he intends to take full advantage of the baths before dinner,” he said, placing it on Elrond’s desk.

“What are they?” Elrond asked. The bundle was tied with a ribbon of pale green silk, and sealed with wax. He drew it across the desk to take a look at the seal, and his breath caught.

“I believe,” Gildor said, “that they are letters from Lord Eärendil and Lady Elwing.”

He was not going to burst into tears in front of Gildor, so Elrond blinked a few times and then set the bundle aside. “Thank you,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Please, sit. What news from Mithlond?”

“Nothing of note since Erestor left,” Gildor said.

“How was the journey?”

“Very pleasant, as a matter of fact. Lord Maedhros is a very agreeable traveling companion—quite grim, when left to himself, but underneath all that hides a surprising sense of humor. I was not quite sure what to make of him when we first met in Mithlond, but now I think I rather like him.”

Elrond tried to remember if he had ever heard Maedhros tell a joke. He could not. “Has he shared his plans with you?”

“No, but it may be that he has none. He wants to be doing something, though at the moment as far as I can tell there is nothing for him to do. He spent the summer wandering the beaches along the Gulf of Lhûn, and when he wasn’t doing that he was studying maps and old records. No one has given any details but I rather suspect he went straight from Mandos to the harbor. Sometimes it seems as though he surprises himself with his own body. Still, it cannot be denied that if there truly are dark days ahead of us, the sword of Maedhros son of Fëanor is one we will all be glad to have on our side.”

“True,” Elrond said.

“You do not seem very pleased with him.”

“He is…he is very different from how I remember him. What are your plans, Gildor? Has Círdan any other errands for you?”

“No, none. I may wander down south to Belfalas or perhaps east over the Misty Mountains, but not until the spring. Mithlond is quiet, and so is Arnor, and no strange news or tales have come north from Gondor of late. These messengers out of the west do have Círdan concerned, however, and he wishes to know more of what is happening in the Greenwood.”

“I have heard nothing lately from Thranduil,” said Elrond, but his thoughts turned to the Anduin, and to Isildur whose body had never been found. Valandil had built a tomb for him in Annúminas, but it was empty, only a symbolic gesture by a young and grieving king barely out of boyhood. Outside the open window, Valandil’s descendants laughed together, the shadows and griefs of a thousand years ago only words on the pages of a history book to them. “What do you think of this new messenger, the one that refuses to give himself a name?”

“He wishes to be named,” said Gildor. “He says that the name he bore in the West no longer suits him, which I suppose is fair enough. I like him. He will devour your library, I am certain, and has a great appetite for tales and songs. I have only seen brief glimpses, but I suspect a temper lurks under the surface, though he is very quick also to laughter and to banter. Círdan likes him—and he and Maedhros are very friendly.”

Gildor left for his own bath after the journey, and Elrond glanced at the bundle of letters. The seal was Eärendil’s sigil, the six-pointed star that Elrond had taken a variation of for his own. He traced his fingers lightly over the wax, and ran them over the buttery smoothness of the ribbon. The parchment beneath was thick and of good quality, and inside—

He found he could not face what was inside. Not yet. Elrond carefully tucked the bundle into a drawer, locked it, and left the room.

At dinner, Elrond carefully maneuvered the seating so that he was flanked by Erestor on one side and the grey messenger on the other, and with the princes and princesses of Arnor around them. Maedhros was a little ways down the table with Gildor—and beside Pengolodh. Elrond very carefully did not smile when he saw the look of dismay that flashed across Maedhros’ face as he learned who Pengolodh was and what his dinner conversation was going to consist of, but at his side he caught Erestor smirking into his wine.

The meal was a pleasant one. The grey messenger quickly endeared himself to the princes and princesses, and if everyone in the hall paused at one time or another to stare at Maedhros, they could be forgiven. For his part, Maedhros seemed not to notice—but then, it was hard to take notice of anything else when Pengolodh was firing questions like arrows. Afterward many retreated to the Hall of Fire for music and stories. Maedhros did not linger, and Elrond did not try to seek him out. He still did not know what to say to him, but now that Maedhros was here, there would be time.

At least, Elrond thought as his mind drifted eastward again, to the shadows in the Greenwood and to Mordor far beyond, empty and desolate—he hoped there would be time.

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