starspray | The Fire of Life

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

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.”