The Fire of Life by StarSpray  

---

Three

---

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.”