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

Once Elrond had gone, Maedhros exhaled and sank onto the bed. That had gone as well as it possibly could have, he thought, even if Maglor’s name had been spoken far sooner than he had ever expected. That Elrond was not particularly pleased to welcome Maedhros into his valley had come as no surprise; that he had extended as warm a welcome as he had, was. Even this bedroom prepared in anticipation of Maedhros’ coming showed signs of great thought and care, from the soft earthy greens and browns of the rugs and wall hangings, to the books and decorations placed on the bookcase and shelves beside the desk—which was also obviously brand new, made for someone unusually tall.

After a few minutes he rose and walked around the room, glancing over the books on the shelves and then going to peer into the wardrobe and perhaps to prepare to unpack—only to find clothes already waiting inside. It was not only a handful of pieces, either, but clothes of all kinds, from fine robes to the simplest of tunics and shirts. He ran his fingers down the soft and smooth sleeve of one robe—pale blue, edged with darker blue embroidery in a pleasing geometric pattern—and sighed.

He didn’t know what to make of any of it. Elrond spoke to him stiffly and unsmilingly, clearly desiring to be as far away from Maedhros as possible—for which Maedhros could not blame him—but then he had so obviously spent the summer making sure that Maedhros had a room in his house that was comfortable and well-provisioned, a room he could already almost start to see as a refuge within this valley that was itself a refuge.

Once Maedhros known him well—far better than Elrond had realized, and certainly better than Elrond had ever known him—but Elrond had grown so much in the intervening years, and was now a stranger. He was not young but ageless, fair and strong and wise. And alone. It was so strange to see him and not Elros, to know that Elros would not be appearing from around a corner at any moment, to see the now-ancient grief that still clung to Elrond like gossamer in his absence.

With nothing else to do, he unpacked his things, including the arms and armor that had been brought to the room ahead of him and left in a neat pile near the door. He pulled out the small bag of carved stone charms and set it on the desk. After a moment he opened the bag and pulled one out to slip into his pocket, a small but comforting weight.

As he sat cross-legged on the rug by the hearth and sorted through some of the things that had been packed with his armor—cleaning supplies, whetstones, soft cloths, vials of oil—a folded piece of paper fluttered out and fell to the floor. When Maedhros picked it up and opened it, he found himself looking at his grandfather’s handwriting—a messy scrawl smudged in places and with spots of ink splattered across the top of the paper, exactly how he remembered it.

Russandol, I’ve had far less time to make all of this for you than I would have liked—and I would like better not to make any such things for you at all. But if you are really to return to the east as I’ve been told, I hope this sword and this armor will serve you well. I’m sorry we were not able to meet before your departure. I have missed you so much, Russo, and already I am counting the days until your return. You’ll know by now that Macalaurë remains in the east, and only the vaguest of rumors ever reach us of his doings. We know he lives only because we have been told he has not come to Mandos. If you find him—when you find him, I should say, for I know you will not stop looking until you do—I have also packed a gift for him among all the things I’ve made for you. A small thing, but one I hope he will like, for he was always fond of gold and garnets. I love you—both of you. Take care of yourself, Russo. Good luck. —Grandfather

Maedhros read the note twice before carefully folding it up again and placing it on the desk. Then he dug through the bags until he found a necklace coiled in a small wooden velvet-lined box. It was made of gold, and set with small garnet stones that shone gently red in the sunshine coming through the window. It was very simple, nothing like Maglor would have worn long ago in Valinor when their grandfather had last made jewelry for them, but it would have suited him very well in the great hall of Himring, or on a visit to Barad Eithel. Maedhros placed it back into its box and put that on the desk alongside the letter. He would need to find some safe place for it—some of the desk drawers had locks, though there was no key set out anywhere obvious. Maedhros made that his next task, after he organized his things. He looked through the drawers, finding paper and pens and bottles of ink in various colors—and, in one of the top drawers, a key that fit the locks of the others. He slipped Maglor’s necklace and Mahtan’s note into one such drawer, alongside the bag of lucky stones. It was highly unlikely anyone would actually come to look through his things, let alone steal anything, but he still felt better once the lock clicked shut.

After a while Gildor came to show him where the baths were, and afterward Maedhros dressed for dinner—though he did not take any clothes from the wardrobe. The ones he’d brought himself were a little wrinkled, but they would do, and it did not feel quite so strange to put them on. Gildor came back to lead the way to the dining hall, which was large and brightly lit, with paintings and tapestries hanging from the wood paneled walls, and windows open to let in the evening breeze and the scent of flowers. Elrond sat with Olórin and Erestor at the head of the hall, surrounded by a handful of children, all dark-haired and grey-eyed. Maedhros might have mistaken them for Elrond’s own children if Gildor had not leaned over to tell him they were the children of the kings and queens of all three kingdoms of Arnor. “It is tradition for the princes and princesses to be fostered here in Rivendell for a time—dating back to Valandil, who spent his childhood here during and just after the War of the Last Alliance.”

“Where are his own children?” Maedhros asked. Gildor had mentioned Elrond’s wife and his children once on the journey to Rivendell, though only in passing, and Maedhros hadn’t really known how to ask more about them.

“Arwen is with Lady Celebrían in Lórinand with her parents—Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn,” said Gildor. He went on, unaware that Maedhros was left with his head spinning at the idea of Galadriel having had a child—let alone one that had married Elrond. “I’m not sure where Elladan and Elrohir are. Hello, Pengolodh! Do you know where Elrond’s sons have gone?”

“Hm?” Pengolodh blinked as he sat down on Maedhros’ other side. “Are they not here?” He had wandered into the dining hall with a distracted, daydreaming sort of air, as though he was only vaguely aware that it was dinnertime and that he needed to eat something before going back to his books.

Gildor laughed. “No, they aren’t! But I should have known better than to ask you—what has had you lost in Elrond’s libraries of late, then?”

“Since this summer, I have been sorting through the old records from Himring,” said Pengolodh. Maedhros paused in the midst of stabbing a piece of meat with his fork. “There are many questions yet unanswered by them, and no one left who lived there—or, there has not been until today, anyway.” Pengolodh fixed surprisingly sharp brown eyes on Maedhros, all daydreams having fled to be replaced with an insatiable curiosity. Maedhros felt suddenly rather like a mouse pinned in a corner by a cat.

“Oh, must you?” Gildor sighed as he picked up his wine. “Lord Maedhros has, as you said, only arrived today.”

“I’m not asking to turn around and go all the way back to Himling Isle,” Pengolodh said. “I just want to know—” And with that he listed a startling number of questions, all of which Maedhros could answer, but several of which he did not want to. Not all of them had anything to do with Himring, either. It seemed that Elrond had been very close-mouthed about his upbringing, to the frustration of loremasters everywhere, and the questions of Himring were something of a trick to try to get Maedhros talking about what Pengolodh really wanted to know.

If Elrond wasn’t going to answer questions, Maedhros certainly wasn’t. He could tell Pengolodh all he wanted to know about how they held onto Amon Ereb for several years after Sirion with horribly reduced numbers, and he could answer whatever questions he wanted to ask about the lands they’d fled through afterward and how they had managed to evade the ever-increasing bands of orcs and other fell creatures—but of course Pengolodh’s questions soon skewed far more personal than any of that.

“You’re as bad as Elrond!” Pengolodh informed him finally, pointing accusingly with the hand that held his goblet.

“It is his youth you’re trying to pry into,” Maedhros replied. “If he has chosen not to share the details of it, why do you think I would?”

“I don’t think he did expect answers, really,” said Gildor a little while later, after Pengolodh had been called away and the household retreated from the dining hall to the Hall of Fire—a wide room lit and warmed by an enormous open hearth set in the center. The walls were adorned with tapestries and the pillars were intricately carved with scenes out of stories and with more abstract designs. “But Elrond is famously close-mouthed about it—which only makes loremasters like Pengolodh even more curious. Among Men, too, there are numerous questions about the early life of Elros Tar-Minyatar.”

“Elrond’s youth is his to choose to share, not mine,” said Maedhros, “and I played very small part in it anyway.”

“When he does speak of it he does only mention Maglor’s name,” Gildor said, “though it’s only ever in passing. But you cannot have been a minor figure in his youth, not if there were so few of your people left as you have said.” Maedhros shrugged, and Gildor smiled a little sheepishly. “Forgive me—I didn’t mean to do just what Pengolodh has been doing all evening. Your past is your own to share or keep to yourself as you wish.”

“My past is no secret,” said Maedhros, “but it is also not something I wish to dwell upon. Those were very dark years.”

“So they were—for all of us.”

Maedhros stayed near the door in the Hall of Fire, leaning against the wall and watching everyone else as they took their seats, or wandered around, or took up instruments. He knew only a handful of names and recognized even fewer faces, but he could see the general shape of the different friendships and groupings in the household, and he could see the clear and open affection that lay between Elrond and the children of Arnor as they gathered around him, the youngest pulling on his sleeve for his attention, and the eldest requesting particular songs or stories. Elrond took up a harp that gleamed in the firelight, inlaid with intricate silver along the frame.

He still played like Maglor did. Even the song was one that Maedhros remembered Maglor teaching the twins one rare sunny summer afternoon. Maedhros lasted until the chorus before he had to flee the room—though he hoped it did not look like he was fleeing, and if anyone asked he could at least say he was weary from his journey.

It was not his bed that he sought, however. Instead he found his way outside and down to the riverbank to watch the water flow by, glimmering in the starlight. The night was warm, and Maedhros sat down, sliding his fingers through the soft grass and fragrant clover. It wasn’t that he regretted coming, but he had underestimated how lonely it would be—to be surrounded by strangers and almost-strangers, to know himself mistrusted, however justified, with no one to speak to except a loremaster who just wanted to write down everything he said for posterity. The world remained largely at peace, and though that was certainly no bad thing, it meant there was nothing yet for him to do, and so he found himself exactly what he had not wanted to be in Valinor—a weapon with no use, a sword kept sheathed and left to do nothing more than gather dust.

Well, at least his own sword didn’t have to be left untouched. The next morning Maedhros roamed the house and the grounds, familiarizing himself with everything. His bedroom was near the end of a corridor, and he wondered vaguely who had the misfortune of having to sleep in the one next door—but he saw no one going in or out whenever he passed by. He saw Elrond at mealtimes, but Elrond made no effort to speak to him, and Maedhros was content to let him dictate how and when they next spoke. He saw Olórin at the same time, finding him having learned the names of half of Rivendell’s population already, and on track to befriend them all before the week was out.

That afternoon, Maedhros took to the valley, wandering through the woods and down the paths, finding himself at the apple orchard after a while, where preparations were underway for the upcoming harvest, and he was informed that the apple trees were Lady Celebrían’s pride and joy, and that the first of them had been a wedding gift from Círdan on behalf of Gil-galad, who had not lived to see it.

On his way back to the house, Maedhros found what he had been looking for: a small out-of-the-way clearing hidden from view by honeysuckle and blackberry brambles, a little ways off from a path that did not look often used. It was just large enough for him to swing a sword in it. There were wider courtyards by the house meant for such training—with blunt practice blades, and bows and full quivers, and dummies for target practice—but Maedhros doubted that anyone particularly wanted to see him with a sword in his hands, however rusty his skills. He also still had his pride, and did not desire an audience when he first tried to use it.

That night he dreamed of dark woods and lost twins, and woke with a start just before dawn, heart pounding. He’d not dreamed of Doriath in a very long time, though when he stopped to think about it, the wood in the dream seemed different. He was also not sure that it had been Eluréd and Elurín that he had been seeking—it was as likely to have been Elrond and Elros, his tired mind tangling up threads of the past with anxieties old and new. Maedhros lay and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, debating whether he should try to go back to sleep before giving up and rolling out of bed. He dressed in his plainest and sturdiest clothes, and grabbed his sword.

Few were up and about yet, and so there was no one to see him when he slipped out of the house and into the woods, following the little-used paths until he found the clearing behind the honeysuckle. Finally alone out in the wood, Maedhros sat down and drew the sword to examine it more thoroughly than he had had a chance to on the ship. This blade was as masterfully made as any that Curufin had crafted in Beleriand. His grandfather had traced signs and runes across the blade—of strength and sharpness for the blade itself, of even greater strength and endurance for the wielder. He found his own name written among those signs—all of the names he had borne throughout his life: Maitimo, Nelyafinwë, Maedhros, Russandol. Maedhros could almost hear Mahtan’s voice chanting as he worked the steel in his forge, and regret that he had not been able to see Mahtan himself before he left Valinor pulled at his heart.

Finally, he stood and set the scabbard aside before hefting the sword in his left hand. It was perfectly balanced, perfectly made for his grip, and when he swung it the blade caught the dawn light and flared, as though shining with white flame—and for the first time since he had woken before the doors of Mandos, Maedhros felt properly alive; this body finally felt like it belonged to him. He knew exactly how to wield this sword, and his body responded without feeling wrong. It did not have the strength that he had once enjoyed, and he soon had to pause to catch his breath, but that would come with time. Finally, here was something that was easy. He laughed out loud for the sheer joy and relief of it.

Less easy was switching to his right hand, but even that was not as hard as picking up a pen or even just remembering he had it, day-to-day. His fingers cramped, but not as soon as he had expected, and the weight on that side was unfamiliar and clumsy—but he found he didn’t mind. It was something he could correct, something he could learn—because he’d done it before—and when the time came at last to put this blade to use, he would be ready.

When he had pushed himself as far as he could that day, Maedhros returned to his room to change, following a route he had discovered the day before that allowed him to enter the house again unseen. After breakfast he went to the library, curious about just what the loremasters had collected or written about Himring. The library was enormous, its shelves only partly filled, with plenty of empty space for books yet to be written. When he looked for material about Himring, he found copies of his own records—a surprising number of them—as well as bound up copies of letters from his brothers in among other reports and some writings on the environs of Himling Isle sometime during the Second Age. The letters were mostly reports on harvests or trade—there was the letter Caranthir had written just after he had met dwarves for the first time—or on skirmishes or battles fought on the front lines. It was odd to read his brothers’ words in another’s writing, especially because Maedhros strongly suspected it was Elrond’s. He lingered over Curufin’s letters, talking of Celebrimbor’s work and some building projects undertaken in Himlad, but flipped past Maglor’s, which could be long and rambling or short and to the point, depending upon the subject and what else was occupying him at the time of writing. Few held anything particularly personal. They had saved all of that for times they met face to face.

When he looked up he found Elrond nearby, a book in his hands and a frown on his face. Maedhros tried to think of something to say, but before he could Elrond asked, a little abruptly, “Does your hand pain you?”

“What?”

“Your right hand. You have been favoring it—at breakfast and in here.”

Maedhros looked down at it, and flexed his fingers. “It’s fine,” he said. “I just—keep forgetting it’s there.” When he looked up again Elrond’s frown had deepened. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“How long, exactly, is it since you were released from Mandos?”

Maedhros blinked. “The spring.”

“This year?”

“Yes.” Maedhros deliberately used his right hand to shut the book and set it on the table beside him. Elrond just stared at him for a moment longer before turning away, leaving Maedhros to wonder what he had done wrong and why the fact that he hadn’t been using his right hand seemed so offensive to Elrond. It was true that he needed to remember that he had it—that he needed to get used to it again—but he wasn’t sure why Elrond would be concerned about it. Or how he had even noticed.

He abandoned the book of letters and pulled another off a shelf at random to take back to his bedroom, where no one could see or care about what he was doing. Once alone he sat by the window, which looked out over the river, and discovered that he’d picked up a book of herb lore. It had been compiled by Elrond, and was full of his bold and smooth writing. Maedhros tried to read the first few pages, but kept getting distracted by memories of Elrond arguing with Maglor over whether or not learning to read and write—let alone calligraphy—was as pointless as he and Elros believed it to be. Maglor had usually had some clever rejoinder to silence their protests and convince them to do the work; now Maedhros wondered what he would say if he could see Elrond’s library, and see how much of it had been copied out in his own hand—that those lessons had been so very far from pointless in the end.

Eventually he gave up and set the book aside, and took up his own pen. He had promised Fingon and Finrod that he would write, and so he filled a page with descriptions of Lindon and of the road between Mithlond and Rivendell, knowing he was most likely forgetting all of the details that either of his cousins would find the most interesting. Then he wrote another letter to his brothers and his mother, that he folded into the first with a note to Fingon asking him to see it delivered.

Gildor was happy to take the envelope and stow it away to be passed on to the next ship that left Mithlond once he returned there sometime next spring. “Or you can give it to Erestor to send with the next group of travelers that pass through this autumn on their way to the Havens,” he said, “if you don’t want to wait that long.”

“There’s no rush,” Maedhros said. The less he needed to ask of Erestor, the better. “I promised my cousins I would write, but I never promised to do it in a timely manner.”

Gildor laughed. “In that case, I and many others travel often between Lindon and Imladris—and sometimes farther east to Lórinand or down to Belfalas—and whenever I pass by back west I will be very glad to carry whatever messages you wish to send and to see them aboard the next ship to leave.”

“Thank you.”

Over the next week or so Maedhros settled into a routine. In the mornings he returned to the clearing in the forest, pushing through the burn and ache of his muscles leftover from the days before, and then spent the rest of the day roaming the house or the valley. Eventually he went to see just how far the valley stretched toward the mountains, clambering over stones and climbing up steep hillsides until the river was only a collection of trickling streams flowing down over mossy stones, through clusters of small yellow flowers, and he could turn and look back to see the valley stretching out before and beneath him, and the house at its heart with its many chimneys and rambling rooftops. At his back the mountains rose up, sheer and impenetrable. It made him feel very small, sitting there with aching shoulders and hands tender and sore where once they had been calloused and tough. He wondered what the Valar really thought would happen—what difference five Maiar, their powers cloaked and diminished, could make in the coming fight. What difference a single sword—no matter who wielded it—would make in the coming battles.

He found Olórin when he returned to the house, and asked him that question. Olórin shrugged. “We were sent to guide and advise—not to lead armies, or whatever it is you might end up doing. I cannot yet see what it is I particularly am to do. There is still much I need to learn and to see before I can begin making plans. Still, even a small pebble might be enough to cause an avalanche that covers an entire mountainside—it will not be for nothing, our coming, whatever happens.”

At dinner, Maedhros was again aware of Elrond’s eyes on him, though he was always busy speaking to someone else or looking in the opposite direction whenever Maedhros glanced up. He was also aware that the children of Arnor were watching him. More than once he caught the princesses—someone had told him their names were Idril and Arameril—looking at him and then turning away to giggle and whisper to each other when he glanced their way.

And then in his room he found on the desk a jar of ointment, and a note with instructions to rub it onto his hands at night before he went to bed, to help prevent blisters. The writing was Elrond’s.

Maedhros did not understand him at all.