The Fire of Life - Chapter Six

[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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That can wait. This cannot.”

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

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

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

“He did not come alone.”

“You just said he is the last.”

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

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

“It is Maedhros, Elrond.”

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

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

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

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

“Did Maedhros send…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How will he do that, in your eyes?”

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

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

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

“Are you?” Elrond asked.

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

“Where else would he go?” Elrond asked.

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

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

“Will he be surprised, then?”

“I don’t know yet.”

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do actually like Pengolodh,” said Elrond.

“You do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” Elrond said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How was the journey?”

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

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

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

“True,” Elrond said.

“You do not seem very pleased with him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Comments

[ermingarden]

that of all who he wished would return to him it was Maedhros and not Maglor; that of all who might be permitted to leave Valinor it was Maedhros and not Elwing - !!!!!

I love, love, love how you write the complexity of Elrond’s feelings about Maedhros here!

But it was still easier to have decided upon forgiveness when Maedhros was dead, when it seemed impossible to imagine ever seeing him again. - Yes! This! Forgiving someone who has wronged you is one thing…figuring out how to have them in your life again is another.

[starspray]

Thank you!! I am a big fan of Elrond and Maedhros having a Very Complicated relationship, and getting them from this to where Elrond is ultimately willing to send Maedhros out looking for the Ringbearer in LOTR is going to be very fun!