The Fire of Life by StarSpray  

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Eight

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Maedhros dreamed again of the lost twins in the wood. In this dream he kept getting caught in cobwebs—too-big cobwebs that spanned the paths and were thick as ropes—and he woke up with the blankets wrapped around his arms and legs. He kicked himself free and lay back to stare at the ceiling, invisible in the gloom for it was still several hours before dawn. Dread leftover from the dream still coiled in his stomach, though, and he gave up on trying to go back to sleep after a time, rising and dressing and slipping out into the corridor. 

The house was quiet, though not entirely asleep. Bakers were busy in the kitchens; he could smell the fresh bread. Others were out and about, singing to the stars or preparing for the day. Maedhros wandered out into the gardens, and found a trellis leading up the wall, twined with ivy. He tested it and found it sturdy enough to bear his weight, and a minute later he’d climbed up onto the roof. The nature of Rivendell’s piecemeal building meant there were many roofs of different heights and materials and slopes, making it easy to climb up to the top, going from one to the other. He sat near a chimney above the kitchens, just close enough to feel the warmth coming from the bricks, and watched as dawn slowly spilled over the valley. He heard the bells of the goats and sheep as they were let out to pasture, and the lows of the cows as singing elves went out to milk them. A pair of riders departed, going carefully up the switchbacking path out of the valley to disappear high above. Maedhros watched the last stars fade away with the coming morning, and wondered what Maglor was doing—if he was asleep or awake, and if he was, what he was thinking about. If he was all right. 

He thought of his other brothers, too, going about their lives with their mother, perhaps visiting their cousins at times, perhaps riding out to hunt or just to roam the way they once had when they were young and the world was never dark or frightening, always lit with silver or gold. 

Something moved at the edge of his vision, and he turned to find Elrond walking along the highest point of the roof, head bowed but movements easy, as though he walked that route every morning. Maedhros debated slipping away back to the ground, but wasn’t quick enough before Elrond raised his head and spotted him. He paused, seeming to have the same thought—and then came to sit down beside Maedhros instead, just out of reach. “Is your room comfortable?” he asked after a moment. He didn’t look at Maedhros, instead turning his gaze out toward the forges and workshops, where the sound of ringing hammers could be heard. 

“Yes. Very.”

“I wasn’t sure what you would like. Colors, I mean, or…”

“I like the greens,” Maedhros said. “Blue has always been my favorite, but it’s not so strong a preference that I would complain.”

Elrond seemed to think about this, and then nodded once, as though this was a piece to add to whatever kind of puzzle Maedhros was to him. “You had a pendant. Lapis lazuli.”

“Did I still have it when you knew me?” Maedhros honestly couldn’t remember. “It was a gift from Azaghâl.” A raindrop-shaped stone of deep blue set in a filigree of mithril from faraway Khazad-dûm—a personal gift from Azaghâl, from one friend to another, rather than one of the other more official and impressive gifts exchanged between Himring and Belegost. It was odd now to think that he was so close to Khazad-dûm itself, which had been a name of glory and legend to the dwarves of the western mountains long ago. Odd and sad, too, to think of Belegost having broken and drowned with the rest of Beleriand.

“I still have it.”

Maedhros had been watching a flock of geese flying overhead, south toward Moria, as the sky continued to brighten into a clear cloudless autumn blue. Now he turned to stare at Elrond instead. “You what?”

“It was on the ground by the chest—the one that held the Silmarils. I picked it up. I thought—well, you wouldn’t want it again, but I thought Maglor might.” His lips twisted unhappily for a moment before he added, “I never expected to see you again, let alone before I saw him.”

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros said. 

“Do you want it? The pendant?”

“I…yes, I think I do. Thank you.”

Elrond looked directly at him then, and Maedhros felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as he was reminded all over again that Elrond was now ancient and powerful—that he was a child of Melian the Maia, as well as of the House of Finwë—and no longer anything like the youth that lived still in Maedhros’ memories. “Why are you here?” Elrond asked him. 

Maedhros took a moment to try to organize his thoughts. “I don’t know what is going to happen,” he said finally, “but wherever the Shadow reemerges, I feel that Rivendell will be closer than Lindon—”

“No, I understand why you came to Rivendell. Why are you here in Middle-earth?”

“For the same reason Olórin—”

“He is here because he was ordered to come,” Elrond said. He was frowning again, but this time it did not seem directed at Maedhros. “That’s neither here nor there—I do not pretend to understand the minds of the Valar or their servants. Olórin, at least, truly cares. He delights in the world and understands what it is he has been sent to protect, and I am glad to welcome him—and all the others. But you fought your wars. You fought and you suffered and you died—and now they send you back for more of the same? Was it some condition of your release from—”

“No,” Maedhros said. “Or—perhaps you could say that it was, but not on their side.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I did not want to leave the Halls, though Nienna had been trying to encourage me for many years,” Maedhros said. “You know who I am, Elrond. You know what I am. There is no place in Valinor for me, not anymore. So they offered to send me here, and I said yes.”

“I know what you were,” Elrond said. He got to his feet. “This is not Beleriand, and you said yourself you are not beholden to any oaths. When you say there is no place for you in Valinor, it sounds to me as though you mean you do not deserve to live in peace—but we are at peace now. The Shadow has not returned yet, and I feel that it will be many years still before it does, or at least before it is revealed and we can do anything about it. You’ll have to find some way to fill your days besides sword drills and studying maps.”

“I’m going to find my brother,” Maedhros said as Elrond turned away.

Elrond stopped, but did not look back at him. “Do you think Maglor wants to be found by the person you were at the end of Beleriand? He loved you—more than anything else in the world—but when I look back now I think he was mourning you long before you died.”

He wasn’t wrong, but the words felt like a punch to the chest. Maedhros caught his breath as Elrond walked away—and thought of something else he needed to say. “Elrond.” When Elrond paused and turned his head he said, “I spoke to your parents before I departed. Your mother was furious—I think if she were able she would come back herself.”

“I know that,” Elrond said quietly. 

“Your father still watches over you—and he charged me to protect you, whatever happens. As weregild for—”

“I’m already well protected,” Elrond said, “and I know better than my father what it is you did.”

“I know. If there is anything you would ask of me—”

“There is nothing.”

“There might be. Someday.”

Elrond turned to face him fully, eyes flashing. “I would have neither of us beholden to the other for any reason. If either of us ever ask something of the other I would have it be granted or refused freely. Let the past remain in the past. You are welcome to make your home here and to find your way back to yourself however you decide you need to. When you ride out I will give you what support I can, and when you return wounded I will be here with medicine and bandages. But do not look to me to give you purpose.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“I neither want nor need your sword. But if you want to give me something like weregild,” Elrond said, speaking the word as though it left a bitter taste in his mouth, “then show me that you can be again the Maedhros that Maglor followed. The one he loved. I have hated and feared you by turns all my life. Give me a reason not to.” He left the rooftop then, vanishing over the farthest edge of it. 

Maedhros remained where he was for some time. He felt as though his skin had been peeled back to reveal all that lay beneath, and he did not like it. When he did make his way back to the ground he did not return inside, instead taking paths he hadn’t yet explored to the other end of the valley, past the apple orchard and following the river. He stood by the steep bank and watched the water rushing by below, silver-grey in the morning light. Behind him the apple harvest had begun in earnest, the apple-pickers singing songs and laughing and joking together. There was always laughter somewhere in the valley—laughter and light and joy. Those things seemed as essential to the valley’s makeup as were the trees and the stones and the river. It was a special kind of defiance, Maedhros thought, recalling the circumstances of Rivendell’s founding. The Enemy had been defeated then, chased out of Eriador, and though he had recovered and returned again and again, still the Elves of Rivendell remained—still they sang about apples and flowers and starlight on the river. It reminded him a little bit of Maglor’s people singing as they rode across the wide plains of the Gap, filling the land with the echo of their voices as well as the calls of their war horns and the ringing of their swords.

When he returned to the house and passed through the gardens, Maedhros glimpsed Erestor sprawled out in the clover, his head resting on the lap of someone Maedhros had been introduced to only briefly, called Lindir—another one of Elrond’s trusted councilors—as they spoke quietly together. He also spotted the princesses Idril and Arameril not far away on a bench beside a fountain, each with a hoop and needle in hand with a basket of threads at their feet. Idril’s younger brother sat nearby in the shade with a book. 

Before he could step inside he saw Elrond emerge, now clad in silver and blue, with a brooch on his breast in the shape of wings, made of white gold and set with a diamond. If it was a little pointed—well, Elrond had earned it. Elrond glanced at him briefly, but his attention was on a horseman making his way carefully down the path into the valley. Maedhros paid little heed, and went inside to see if he could lose himself in a book. That plan was foiled by Pengolodh’s presence near the entrance to the library, though he was so absorbed in what he was doing that he noticed neither Maedhros’ hasty retreat nor the fact that the end of one of his braids had dipped into his inkwell. 

He had books enough in his room, though he ended up turning one of his mother’s marble charms over in his hands instead, staring out of the window with a book open and unheeded on his lap, listening to the birdsong and the distant ring of hammers in the forges. As he rubbed his thumb over the intricate patterns carved into the stone he thought again of Maglor, and wondered—again—what he was doing, where he was. Maybe he should just go look for him now—there was nothing for him to do there in Rivendell, or anywhere else it seemed, and if he managed to find him…

A knock heralded, unexpectedly, Elrond. “Here is your pendant,” he said, placing a small wooden case on the desk.

“Thank you,” said Maedhros. 

“And if you wish to be doing something besides sword drills in my woods—which you don’t need to, you know, we have spaces for that—there might be trouble brewing near the High Pass.”

Maedhros closed his fingers over the stone. “What sort of trouble?”

“Signs of orcs on the western slopes. Lathrandir of the Greenwood—Thranduil’s nephew—came over the mountains with Elladan and Elrohir, and Elladan asked him to come ahead while they remained behind in Lendeithel. It has been many years since this sort of danger came down from the mountains, and they fear that the townsfolk are ill prepared.”

“What is it you want me to do?” Maedhros asked.

“There is likely to be nothing in particular for you to do,” Elrond said, “but Mithrandir has asked to accompany Erestor—”

“Mithrandir?”

Elrond’s lips twitched in a small smile. “You have called him Olórin, I think? Gildor gave him the name Mithrandir this morning at breakfast, after a conversation about his plans. He does not intend to settle anywhere permanently, it seems—and we do need to call him something, if he will not name himself.”

“Olórin, he said, does not suit who he is now,” said Maedhros. “It is only how I was first introduced to him. Do you really want me to go with Erestor?”

“He’ll grumble, but he won’t cause trouble,” said Elrond. “But you don’t have to go. It’s only that you seem restless, and Mithrandir seemed to think you would want to. Rhíwen is also insisting upon going.”

Maedhros blinked, and then wondered why he was so surprised. “Rhíwen is here?”

“Yes, of course. Where did you think she would be?”

“I don’t know—I just had not seen her yet, so I supposed she was…not here.” 

Rhíwen had been, long ago, Maglor’s second in command, having joined with his people after a daring escape from Angband not long after they had removed to the east and he had taken over the Gap. She was a fierce fighter and even more fiercely loyal—she had only left Maglor’s side in the end after he ordered her to accompany Elrond and Elros to Gil-galad during the War of Wrath, and Maedhros knew that they had argued about it for weeks before she finally gave in. In Maglor’s absence, of course she would have remained at Elrond’s side. Maedhros couldn’t begin to guess whether she would be glad to see him or not. 

“She accompanied my wife and daughter south a few years ago, and returned only late last night,” said Elrond. “Well?”

“I’d like to go,” said Maedhros. “When?”

“Tomorrow morning—early, if Erestor has his way, which he usually does.”

“I’ll be ready.”

Elrond left, and Maedhros sighed. He flipped the book shut and leaned back to stare at the river. It was what he wanted—to be doing something, even just starting to learn the lay of the land. He was curious about Elrond’s children, and about the Misty Mountains. It would be nice, too, to go traveling again with Olórin—with Mithrandir. Traveling with Erestor was less enticing, and he didn’t know what to expect from Rhíwen. Her loyalty had been to Maglor—and would now lie with Elrond—which was fine, but he did not want to endure her scorn on top of everything else. 

In the end he got up and went to find her. It wasn’t hard; she was in the armory, cleaning a sword. “My lord,” she said, amiably enough, without looking up. Her silver hair was braided back on one side, revealing a scar that ran from her chin down her neck to disappear beneath her shirt that she hadn’t had when last Maedhros had seen her. “Welcome back.”

“Rhíwen,” Maedhros said, leaning against the door frame. “Elrond has asked me to go with you tomorrow.”

“I know.” Rhíwen did look up then. “I’ll be leading the party—I and Erestor. I trust you will have no issue following our orders, if we run into trouble?”

“Of course not,” said Maedhros. He had his pride, but he was also aware that he knew neither these lands nor the people they were going to meet—the last thing anyone needed was a power struggle, and he wasn’t interested in starting even a minor one. “I am glad to see you here,” he added.

“I hope you are not surprised.”

“No,” Maedhros said, “not at all.”

As he turned to leave Rhíwen said, “I’ve heard that it is your intention to try to find your brother.”

“It is.”

“I do not think he wants to be found. Others have searched—long and hard—and found nothing. It is a long time now since anyone has tried.”

Maedhros glanced over his shoulder. “None of them have been me,” he said, and left, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest. She had not said anything he did not already know. But if even Rhíwen had given up—

Well, he had spoken true, too. Maglor was his brother—surely Maedhros still knew his mind better than anyone else. Surely he had not changed so much that Maedhros couldn’t guess what he was doing, what he might be thinking, if he could just find one small sign to go off of. Surely he would hear of Maedhros’ presence again in Middle-earth and at least be curious enough to see if the rumors were true. Surely.

Maedhros spent the rest of the day dodging Pengolodh and preparing for the journey. It would not be a long one, so he packed light and with thought to the cooling weather. He felt uneasy, but wasn’t sure whether it was just that he did not know what to expect, or if it meant something. Sometime after he had finished, he picked up the case that Elrond had left. Inside was, nestled on a bed of dark velvet, the pendant that Azaghâl had given him. It looked precisely as he remembered, through the chain was new. Maedhros closed the case and put it into the locked drawer of his desk. He was glad to have it back, and did not want to risk losing it again. 

They left the next morning in the grey dawn. Arinsil, the mare Círdan had given to Maedhros, nuzzled into his cheek, clearly eager to be on the road again. Elrond saw them off, alongside Lindir, who was usually cheerful but who spoke for several minutes that morning with Erestor, voice low, face lacking its usual smile. When he looked at Maedhros his eyes did not hold the same sharp dislike that Erestor’s did, but there was great mistrust there. 

Erestor took the lead, and Rhíwen tilted her head at Maedhros, sending him ahead of her, just behind Mithrandir, so she could bring up the rear. He glanced back once at the valley just before they left it; he could hear merry voices singing in the trees, and could glimpse Elrond’s small figure near the doors of the house. 

At the top of the path Erestor turned them north, guiding them through the heather-covered hills dotted with ravines and valleys that opened up so suddenly. The mountains loomed in the east. Maedhros spoke little, content to listen to the others as Mithrandir asked questions and received answers and stories in return. He took note of landmarks, especially the ones that Erestor or Rhíwen pointed out, mentally aligning the lands they rode through on the maps he had studied in Lindon and in Rivendell. Erestor and Rhíwen both knew the lands from the High Pass down to the Gates of Moria extremely well, in addition to much of the lands along the Anduin in the east. Erestor was more widely traveled than Rhíwen, though he said that he had not passed east of the Greenwood in many centuries. 

“What took you so far east to begin with?” asked Mithrandir one evening, two days out from Rivendell. “Or were you born there?”

Erestor smiled slightly without looking up from the fire he was kindling. “No, I was born in Ossiriand. We—my father and I—we ventured east after the War of Wrath. There was very little then to keep us in the west. Chance brought us back west of the Misty Mountains not long after Elrond and those who escaped the fall of Ost-in-Edhil took shelter in Rivendell—though of course the valley was not yet called that.”

“It wasn’t called anything except safe, we hope,” Rhíwen said. She reclined against a stone, idly whittling a stick as she kept her gaze on the growing darkness outside their little camp. Maedhros did not think either she or Erestor feared any real danger, but they were all watchful. “Every hand that could hold a sword was welcome, in those days.” She glanced at Maedhros with a small and wry smile. “As they will be again, sometime sooner than we had hoped, it seems.”

“Hopefully not too soon,” said Mithrandir. “I hope to at least visit Gondor before real trouble begins.”

“Mordor remains empty, and Gondor remains watchful,” said Rhíwen. “You’ll find no trouble in the south—and even the troubles in the mountains are just the goblins, who get bold from time to time before we chase them back into their holes.”

“What do you expect to find at Lendeithel?” Maedhros asked.

“We’ll look for the signs Elladan found, and try to see where they came from,” Erestor said. He still didn’t look up, but it was the first time he had directly answered one of Maedhros’ questions. “Rhíwen and I will, anyway—you might have advice for the townspeople on how best to fortify themselves. It has been many years since any goblins raids came down from the mountains, and from what Lathrandir said, there are few practiced fighters there. He did not notice the state of the walls, but they might need reinforcing too. And once that work begins I suppose you can just keep Mithrandir company.”

“Not a hardship, I hope,” Mithrandir said cheerfully. 

“Elrond will have sent word to King Aratan in Arvarad,” said Rhíwen. “He’ll send soldiers—and depending on what we find, we might do some raiding of our own.”

“And if the goblins begin their raids before the soldiers arrive?” Maedhros asked.

“Not well prepared does not mean entirely unprepared,” said Rhíwen. “I do not think it is likely—but if they do try something, I’m confident we can repel them.”