The Fire of Life - Chapter Four

[starspray]

Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: T
Characters: Maedhros, Gandalf, Elrond, various others
Warnings: n/a
Summary: Maedhros is sent back to Middle-earth, in the company of the Maia Olórin.

First Chapter / Previous Chapter

 

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.