Chapter Text
Maedhros had three realizations very, very quickly. He was aware, first of all. Maybe more aware than he’d been in his entire life. His fëa felt connected, vibrant. Last time it had felt so whole, his grandfather had been alive, and he’d been unaware of all the pain that was about to befall him. His mental shielding too was perfect, effortless in a way it hadn’t been for years. That was when the second realization struck: he couldn’t see. When he reached out to feel where he was, panic flooding his body as he tried to discern whether it was very dark or he was missing his eyesight, he touched the solid stone of the floor with two hands. With this third realization, he stood up quickly, and hit his head on the roof of the cave. Everything swung wildly, and Maedhros fell over.
Well, if he was dead, he surely would not have hit his head. Surely, the halls would accommodate someone of his height. On the other hand, if he was alive, why did he have two hands? Had he fallen into the centre of the world, hit his head, and then… what? Regrown a limb? Perhaps this was what it was to be newly returned. But on the other hand, which was a phrase Maedhros could now use with no sense of irony, he was not grey-robed as one of the newly returned should have been. In fact, he seemed to be wearing more or less what he had been wearing when he’d died. Or failed to die. Boots, trousers, tunic, chainmail. No sword belt or blade though. But of course- he’d lost that in the fight, hadn’t he? Or maybe he’d never had a sword belt. What need does one have of sheathing a blade when they have no choice but to use it? And then there was the matter of the oath. It seemed to be gone now from his mind, but why? Was it considered fulfilled by his own actions, or had something more happened? Or was being reborn enough to unmake it? Certainly, that and the hand were proof enough that he’d been reborn, but that didn’t explain any of the rest of it.
“What in Arda?” Maedhros demanded, of nobody in particular. Or perhaps of someone very particular. “Námo? What is this meant to be?”
As if on cue, an all-consuming drumming sounded. Maedhros felt across the floor and the ceiling, and broke off a sharp-ish rock. He held it for a second in his left hand, and then switched it to his right hand, and then back. This was a problem he could solve later. Swallowing his emotions, he began to crawl towards the sound. There was something wrong about it. Something of the enemy. But it was the only guide he had, and since there was no Fingon out there to rescue him on eagle-back, Maedhros would have to be his own hero. Shortly enough, it became clear he was moving up. He slunk through the tunnels, unable to stand, and still carrying his sharp rock in his left hand. Then, something fundamental changed. A clicking noise rose under the drumming, like talons on stone, approaching Maedhros with exponential speed. He hit the ground, and a small army of orcs skittered over him. He tried not to breathe, not to smell them, and listened to the wave passing. Feet and claws dug into his back, and he didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Something must have truly frightened them, that not a one stopped to kill Maedhros.
Once the orcs had passed, Maedhros pulled himself to a half-stand, and stumbled on. There was light at the end of the tunnel, and space to stand too. Also, dead bodies. Dwarves, with signifiers of clan or house that Maedhros knew not. With a prayer to Aulë for forgiveness, he stole a sword from one of the dead dwarrows. It was short for Maedhros still, but it was a sight better than a sharp-ish rock.
At last, emerging from the tunnel into a wide cavern, spanned by a stone bridge, Maedhros had several more realizations in quick succession. There was a balrog right in front of him, standing on the bridge, there was a wizened man in grey robes about to fight the balrog, with a good half-dozen more beings- an elf, a dwarf, two secondborn adults and four children- behind him. Maedhros hefted his sword, fully prepared to die, again, when he felt the encroaching wave of power, and the elderly secondborn revealed himself to be a maiar. He carried a sword of Noldo make, though Maedhros did not recognize the specific blade. Power, not just the wild gift of the Maiar, but also something more controlled, something more noldorin, drew itself around him like a cloak. He spoke to it, though the words were strange to Maedhros’s ears, and it took him some time to adjust to the tongue. The balrog drew itself it its full height and, with a good bit more yelling, the two men raced forward to join the fray. But they had not yet reached the Maiar when he struck the bridge with his staff, breaking both. Maedhros, fearing for the lives of those left on the bridge, and indeed, for his own- a balrog being a creature with wings, albeit a heavy one- made an aborted motion towards the fight. But it seemed this balrog had less wits about it than most, for it did not endeavour to fly. Instead, it fell deep into the pits from which Maedhros had just escaped. At the last instant it displayed some brains, lashing out at the Maiar and dragging him down into the pits with it.
The survivors ran, but they were slow to do so. They tarried, and though one of them quickly seemed to establish himself as the leader, they were not making enough progress. For surely now that the balrog was gone, the orcs would return. Maedhros followed them, just out of sight and silent as the grave, through more tunnels, and then, finally, out into a great hall. There was no hiding here, and Maedhros might have very quickly become the next enemy, had there not indeed been a guard of orcs at the gate. The leader prepared to fight them, but Maedhros was faster, especially with a blade in hand. It took only one stroke to remove the first orc’s head, and the rest fled in terror. The party cast themselves out of the mountain, and then, once they had made it far enough down the steps to see any approaching orc, as one being, they all turned their weapons on Maedhros.
“I mean you no harm,” Maedhros told them, which was about at the point when he realized that he seemed to be speaking the Quenya of his younger days. Given that the elf had a more Teleri or Sinda look about him, that was unlikely to go well.
The elf looked at the leader, who shrugged vaguely and said, in faltering pre-shift Quenya, “I to speak Sindarin, with your knowing.”
Maedhros resisted the urge to give him a pithy comeback. He switched over to Sindarin. “Any speech other than the black speech is music to my ears. I mean you no harm.”
“I do not trust him.” The Sinda said, in Westron. Maedhros didn't know how he knew that tongue, but he did. And its name. When had he picked up such a thing? Then he switched back to Sindarin and said, “how are we to know that can be trusted?”
“Well, I speak Westron, first of all,” Maedhros told him, trying not to let his worry show. “And as to prove how I can be trusted, I do not know if I can do that. I know not how I got here, nor even where here is. I just awoke as the first elves a couple of hours ago.”
The Sinda and the leader looked at each other again. The leader made a couple vague hand gestures, and the Sinda nodded.
“Out and say it.” The dwarf snapped. “What are you thinking?”
“I can go stick my fingers in my ears and hum, if you’d like,” Maedhros offered.
“Would you all just stop talking?” One of the children snapped. Everyone turned to look down at him. “Gandalf’s dead, and you’re all standing here bickering like fauntlings.”
The leader knelt beside him. “I am sorry Frodo,” he began, and, with something like protectiveness, ushered the rest of the party away from Maedhros.
The other elf and the dwarf stayed, bow and axe solidly aimed at Maedhros. It would have been no hardship to disarm one or both. They seemed tired, and they didn’t seem like they’d fought with each other before. It would have been very easy to set them tripping over each other, but, as Maedhros realized with considerable glee, he didn’t have to do that. There was no force now in the world that could make him. His mind was his own.
“I’m going to put down this sword now.” Maedhros declared in Westron, and did so. The uneasy eyes of both his watchers followed his hand as it traced a sure path to the ground.
“Who are you?” The Sinda demanded. He had something familiar about him, in his conduct and cadence.
“Gaelon.” Maedhros replied. This was an entirely untruthful answer, but the joke in it amused him, and it had been a long time since he’d gained a new epessë
“That is by no means a Quenya name, nor ought it be yours.” The elf commented, with some suspicion.
“Yes, well, in my youth it was considered very bad form not to defer your name to the language of your hosts. Even Fëanor’s sons did it.” Maedhros said, taking some wicked pleasure from the situation.
The Sinda shook his head in irritation, and the dwarf asked, “what’s Gaelon mean that’s so inapt?”
“It means pale and glimmering, like the colour of moonlight. Unfortunately, it is not an especially apt description of my looks. It would better fit someone with fair hair, though I promise that when I am not covered in several tons of mine dust, I am fairer all about. A better name for me would likely refer to my hair.” Maedhros, demonstrating, waved a strand around in front of his face. The whole mess was unbound, but tidier than it had been in centuries. And it would stay that way. After all, Maedhros now had two hands to keep it.
“Though among his people,” the other elf said, “most names referring to red hair would have been taken by Maedhros the Kinslayer. So perhaps your inapt name is luckier.”
“I hope so,” Maedhros said, with a glimmer of mirth in him. “Now, your names, before I feel as though I’m the only named creature in all of Arda.”
“Gimli son of Gloín, at your service,” said the dwarf. In light of how he was still waving an axe at Maedhros, he didn’t bow.
“Gaelon, son-of-none, at yours and your family’s.” Maedhros bowed, as dwarves did, from the waist. They both turned to the Sinda.
“Legolas Thranduillion,” he said, rather as though he begrudged the name. The name Thranduil meant nothing to Maedhros, but the same could not be said of the dwarf, who grimaced.
“A son cannot be judged by his father.” Maedhros told them both. “Do not miss an opportunity to know each other before it even arises. Now, one of you go tell the young lord over there what, exactly, is going on.”
At some mute debate, Legolas was sent to report back. Maedhros and Gimli, for their parts, both sat, eyeing one another.
“Were those your people, in there?” Maedhros asked, but, by the sorrow on the dwarf’s face, he thought the answer already clear.
“Cousins and the like, aye. No siblings or sons, but I didn’t start with any of those so I had none to lose.”
“I would tell you that I felt your pain, but I doubt that anyone can, in this moment. So instead I will say that Mahal watches over all his children, and takes them into his halls when the time comes. And I tell you that I’ve lost cousins too, in my time. It still hurts.”
The dwarf murmured something in Khuzdul. A prayer, possibly. “Do elves count such relations closely?” He asked, after a breath. It seemed as if he wanted to be distracted, which was a feeling Maedhros knew well indeed.
“Some do. Large families were never common among my people, and grow less common every year. But when I was born, it was not too strange for a family to have three or four children. Of course, because we all live so long, everyone becomes connected to everyone, eventually. By now-“ a thought occurred to Maedhros. “When is now, exactly?”
Gimli gave him the year, polite as you like. But that did not soften the news any. By now, like as not, everyone Maedhros had ever cared for was dead. Or if they weren’t, then they were now older than him by millennia.
“Who is the king?” Maedhros asked, which was a subtle way of asking after his family.
“Thranduil.” The dwarf replied, which might be true enough, but wasn’t really the answer he was looking for. Though it did explain something of what was familiar about Legolas. He had something of that Sindar-Teleri royal look. Like Finrod had. Like those they’d slain in Doriath had.
“No, I mean the king of my people. The High King of the Noldor.”
“There hasn’t been a High King since the second age,” the leader told him, rejoining their two groups. Then, he turned to the dwarf. “I’m sorry Gimli, but we have to move on. It’ll be dark soon, and the orcs will not wait for us to mourn.”
“Where to then?” Gimli demanded.
The leader pointed towards a vast, golden forest at the end of Maedhros’s sight. “Lothlórien,” he said.
“Excellent.” Gimli snapped. “The witch.”
He stormed off, vaguely in the direction in which his commander had pointed.
“What happened to Gil-galad?” Maedhros asked the leader, as casual as he could manage.
“He died in battle against Sauron.” The leader informed him, and then, seeming to consider. “I’m sorry. Did you know him?”
“Something like that.” Maedhros murmured. “I knew his family. But if there’s no more High Kings, I suppose they must all be gone too.”
The leader passed Maedhros his sword. Having no belt in which to put it, Maedhros simply shifted it to his right hand. “They’re not all gone. Just- nobody left who wanted the crown. Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel both trace their lineage back to Finwë.”
Maedhros resisted the urge to punch the air in glee. It was a sombre moment. But Elrond lived. Elrond Lived. It was news enough to make Maedhros want to cry out with joy. Instead, he asked, “And your lineage. Where do you trace it to?” For it was sure that this mortal had some sort of title. Nobody had the innate leadership this man had without some kind of noble upbringing.
“Nowhere important.” The man said. “I’m called Aragorn, if it means anything to you.” The name meant nothing, but the lie was clear. Like Maedhros himself, he’d slipped right past the name of his father.
“It means as little to me as you knew it would, My Lord. Now, your companions. The young one is Frodo, I gather, and the Maia was called Gandalf. Who are the others?”
Aragorn, Son-of-Someone, deigned to name the rest of his companions, and explained what a Hobbit was. The one called Frodo seemed greatly distressed by the death of the Maia, and so did not speak to Maedhros. His kin gathered around him, and in time, drew Aragorn to them as well. This left Maedhros with the other man, Boromir, son of Denethor. He made not nearly so good an impression as his companions. He had the level of egotism that Maedhros despised in kings and lords, with less of the true nobility than Aragorn. That being said, he was a good deal more informative than his companions. So informative, in fact, that Legolas had to sneak in to shut him up more than once.
From all this misbegotten information, Maedhros gathered the purpose and the origins of this rag-tag party. They were on that most classic of quests: retrieve/destroy (Maedhros was not entirely sure which) some article of importance to the enemy. Elrond had sent them, and the Maia had been their leader.
They passed by something called the Mirrormere, at which they stopped, for some purpose of faith or devotion, so Gimli could pay his respects. The sight was beautiful, sure enough, and though Maedhros appreciated it, he could not but wish they would move a little faster. Gimli, for all his temper at their destination, took the lead. He seemed to know the area better than the rest, at least for its history. Certainly, of the bunch, he was the best company. And rightly so, for it seemed these lands to much of the history of his people, and this was the first time he’d seen them. To be in ill spirits at such a thing, one would have had to be made of stone.
When they finally reached the point at which the mortals could see the forest well, they stopped again. Lóthlorien, Legolas named it, though based on the reverence in which he held the name, his father was not the king that ruled there.
After a time, the conversation subsided utterly, and the party of nine marched on, wearily and in descending darkness. The hobbits began to lag behind, which was no surprise. They were almost taking three steps to every one of Maedhros’s, and they did not have the strength of elves. Aragorn, thinking on his feet, called for a halt.
“Come, Boromir. We will carry them,” he said, and made to do so, but Maedhros interrupted.
“That makes little sense. I am unarmed, more or less, and am carrying no weight whatsoever. With your permission, master hobbit, let me do the carrying. Or give me a proper sword. No offence to dwarven craftsmanship, but I am tall for my own people, and this blade is not the length of my forearm.”
There was some silent deliberation at this, and in the end, Maedhros ended up carrying the one called Sam, while Aragorn carried Frodo. There was, it seemed, something odd about their conduct concerning Frodo. But perhaps they merely worried for him. He did seem the most easily tired of the bunch, and not at all well. Maedhros’s suspicions only intensified when they stopped for a rest. Maedhros, having little skill as a healer or a cook, offered to do neither task. Instead, he preoccupied himself with trying to remove the dust and grime of both the road and the mines from his hair. Over by the stream as he was, he caught little of the conversation. Until Aragorn held Frodo’s chainmail up to the light, and the whole party froze as if hypnotised. Maedhros gathered, from context, that the metal had taken a blow of extraordinary force and entirely protected its wearer. (Save from some bruising, but such things could hardly be helped.) Combining that and the beauty of the thing, he rather thought his father would have killed for a chance to work with it.
They shared their food with Maedhros, in the growing darkness, and hurried on. They were now so exhausted that there was little point in speaking. Frodo and Gimli fell to the back, while Legolas, still mesmerized by the woods, even in twilight, walked close to the front. Maedhros, though not consciously avoiding the Sinda, worried over him. If there was anyone who was liable to actually figure out Maedhros’s true identity, it would be Legolas. Or Aragorn, who seemed to know more about elven history than your average elf would. Maedhros respected that, but that lessened his worry not one whit.
Equally worried, though perhaps less reasonable than Maedhros, was Boromir. He was reluctant to enter the woods, and spoke, as Gimli had, of evil magics there. Maedhros, who could actually feel said magic, could not have disagreed more. He knew evil magics, and this was not one. If anything, it bore the most resemblance to Melian’s protections of Doriath, which, though stronger, were similarly fair. And, unlike Melian’s Wards, Maedhros was allowed to pass these. Though he had feared some when Aragorn had spoken of evil fearing Lóthlorien, no force seemed inclined to stop Maedhros, and he was allowed to carry on.
The magic was familiar, but wrong. Like a painting of someone you knew, but in that unfinished stage before features take on their true nature. Maedhros, with caution, reached out to touch it further with his mind. Whoever, whatever this force was, they felt a little like Celebrimbor. It wasn’t him, certainly. Celebrimbor was dead- must have been, not to make Aragorn’s list of remaining Finwëans- and this energy was more like an imitation of him than it was like the elf himself.
They moved into the woods in the darkness, Maedhros and Legolas using elven sight to guide themselves and their companions. Like Gimli at the Mirrormere, Legolas stopped and paid respects to a myth of some renown, and sang a song, though Maedhros did not know it. Maglor, he thought, would have been able to join in after a few verses, proud as a jaybird of his singing. But Maedhros was not his brother, and had no such skill.
After their stop, it was no more than a few minutes before Maedhros noticed they were being followed. Their trackers were very, very good, but Maedhros was used to being followed. The trackers moved above ground, in the trees, and were all carrying at least bows. Given their being out-armed, if not out-numbered, Maedhros thought it prudent to take this opportunity to pass his short-sword to Legolas. He’d regained the thing when they’d stopped to eat, but was relieved to once more have it out of his hands.
“They’re called the Galadhrim,” Legolas was saying, to the group at large, as he expounded once more on the virtues of Lóthlorien. For someone who’d never been there, he seemed terribly nostalgic about the whole thing. Maedhros, personally, felt that it was a step up from Himring. But at the moment, he would have settled for just about anywhere with good, Noldorin engineering. Walls. Beds. Hot water.
Gimli, Boromir, and the hobbits seemed resigned to the possibility of being forced to sleep in the trees that night. But then, they did not know how close their hosts truly were. Indeed, none of them did until Legolas leapt up to climb the tree, and one of their watchers shouted him down.
Maedhros, thinking on his feet, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Legolas, shrinking back against the tree, did the same. Their watcher looked from one to the other, and then offered address in a heavily-accented dialect of Sindarin. There was a distinct Nandorin influence, perhaps, Maedhros thought. Maybe a sprinkling of Quenya too. It was not terribly hard to pick up. At least, not when you’d been raised by one of history’s greatest and most obsessive linguists.
“They breathe so loudly, we could have shot them in the dark,” The lead watcher said airily.
Maedhros, who had never taken well to threats, snapped back, “And if you had, we would have known you were cowards, unwilling to face weary travellers on level ground.”
He laughed. “I mean you no harm, nor your friends. We could tell, even from a distance that this one,” here, he gestured at Legolas, “was of our kin. Though it is plain that you are not.”
“In a common tongue, perhaps?” Maedhros ventured. In his experience, these sorts of elves often chose obscurer languages in front of strangers.
“Please,” the watcher said in an accented version of the common tongue, “if you two and the ringbearer could join me in the tree, I would much appreciate it.”
Maedhros, who was unsure of his welcome in the meeting, but too naturally curious to object, did as requested. With a rope ladder, and some help from him and Legolas, they got Frodo into the tree. Legolas thereafter merely swung up, while Maedhros, in a concession to his more Noldorin roots, required a hand. In fairness, he had not had the adequate number of hands for tree climbing in some centuries, and was still adjusting. Sam, who seemed distressed by the idea of being left on the ground, followed them as well, making for an awkward party of seven elves and hobbits perched on the branches.
Their main watcher, who seemed the only one in the bunch who was familiar with mortal tongues, introduced himself as Haldir, and the other two as his brothers, Orophin and Rúmil.
“Like the linguist,” Maedhros said at this, in Sindarin again for the benefit of Rúmil.
“Exactly!” Rúmil exclaimed and, having had the rare joy of actually meeting someone old enough to know his namesake, dragged Maedhros away to talk.
“So, a Sindarin-speaking Silvan with the name of a Quenya-speaking Noldo. Your parents must have quite a story.”
Rúmil, who probably rarely had the opportunity to actually speak to an outsider, launched into a very long story about a Teleri grandfather who’d worked closely with Rúmil, before following Finarfin’s army to Beleriand and falling in love with a Silvan warrior. Maedhros, who had a soft spot for battlefield romances, found the whole thing terribly sweet. Maedhros, in turn, told him a true story about Rúmil’s near-constant bickering with his father, though he left the name Fëanor out of it.
“If the dwarf is blindfolded,” Haldir was saying, “and the stranger Gaelon bound and blindfolded, then we can-“
“That seems monstrously unfair,” Frodo interrupted.
Maedhros, focusing back in, said, “Deal. Now, I assume we’ll be staying the night here, yes?”
Indeed, they were. The Galadhrim were very kind about the whole thing, providing food and blankets, and well as a hair-tie for Maedhros. Haldir quite plainly didn’t trust him, but, having struck up a friendship with Rúmil, Maedhros did not find himself unwelcome.
“So, you just woke up in the Mines, and… nothing?” Orophin asked, giving Maedhros a dubious glance.
Maedhros snapped his right hand, a task he’d never mastered as well with the other. “Like that. One instant, I was surely about to die. The next, I was healed, Fëa and Hröa.”
“Bizarre,” Rúmil muttered. “The closest example I can think of is Glorfindel, and he actually sailed back from Aman.”
“Maybe you didn’t really die, and were just unconscious?” Orophin offered.
“For two ages, and also I move continents and regrew a limb?” Maedhros asked. The brothers shared a look. They reminded Maedhros of Curufin, Caranthir and Celegorm, in the way they interacted.
“The Valar work in strange ways,” Haldir said. He was looking out into the woods, and only half minding the conversation.
“Will the orcs follow us this close to your borders?” Maedhros asked him, for a change of topic.
Haldir shrugged. “Legolas told me you killed a captain. So, I suppose they might. But they would not dare pass the proper border. It was not so long ago that there would have been a thousand elves, finely armed, at even the hint of a trespass on the borders.”
“And now there’s you.” Maedhros said.
“And now there’s us, for all the good it does.” Haldir stood. “We should go, and lead them away from this place. I doubt they’ll make it here, but if they do-“ he cast a glance over to the mortals and Legolas. “Well, you’ve made it this far.”
“I could come with you,” Maedhros offered, but Rúmil shook his head.
“Take your rest, Gaelon. You may need your strength come the dawn.”
Maedhros, weary, did not rejoin his newfound companions. Instead, he curled up tightly in a blanket and slept deeply, for the first time since he had been a child.