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"What was he like to you?"
Sam hesitates, thinks carefully on his next words. The shovel he holds hangs in midair until his arms grow tired of holding it. He sets it down with a loud clang, uncomfortably loud on the otherwise silent terrace.
He sneaks a quick glance at Maedhros. The elf-lord stands near the white stone parapet with one hand on his waist, where a sword would be if he still carried one. In the light of the sinking sun, his deep red hair seems to catch fire. He still holds himself like a warrior, Sam thinks. Even after thousands of years in the Halls and then another few dozen back in Tirion, Maedhros seems to find letting go of his past habits difficult.
Not that Sam has any right to point that out, of course. After all, he's equally awkward without any real work to do - the elves have invited him to their councils, but it’s clear he isn’t really needed - and eleven months of joy with Frodo and Bilbo have done nothing to make his nightmares go away.
Sam shudders at the thought of them. Always they are filled with the same decades-old shadows and spiders, with the hideous faces of Orcs, although they have been noticeably less terrifying to him since he left Middle-Earth. Occasionally the last storm of his crossing will make an appearance, all roaring water and battering-ram winds.
In the waking world, all he remembers of that storm is Maglor’s face; the rest is but a blurred brushstroke. He contemplates his image of it as he tries to dig up a suitable reply.
Maglor. Or rather, Eärion, as he'd introduced himself. Sam would have thought him to be one of the Ainur of the oceans for the rest of his life, if it weren’t for his brothers’ strange interest in the Periannath.
(“I hear you were of great skill with the blade, Master Samwise!” Celegorm exclaims, and bends down to shake his hand. Huan stands by his side, looking at once prim and affectionate. “I have heard much of your exploits at the Dark Tower, to which I can only offer my compliments!”
“Thank you very much indeed, Lord Celegorm,” Sam says brightly. A few seconds pass in awkward silence before he thinks to himself, Remember your manners, you rusty old fool! and quickly responds, “Your deeds in the War of the Jewels, I hear, are no less renowned.” Not so bad, if he says so himself. A few weeks with dear Frodo’s books have done wonders to help him fit in here.
“It was I who took up arms for a fell cause in Middle-Earth,” the elven-prince says, suddenly somber, “and it is I who must now stand aside and admire the more honorable intents of others.”
“It will not do to mention those things in such good company, Tyelko,” Curufin interrupts. It is all Sam can do to keep up his smile under his bright gaze. “I have looked forward to meeting you, Master Samwise.”
“Oh, simply Sam, thank you, my lord Curufin,” he says, still smiling. He was Mayor of Hobbiton for more than forty years, he reminds himself, and he is determined to see this through without breaking down.
“It is a curious tale, how you came to find Valinor,” says a low, soft voice. Sam turns around to see who the fair and dark brothers have parted for so respectfully, and comes face-to-face with legend. He holds in a gasp, the old fire-stories of Bag End dancing through his thoughts. “My lord Maedhros…” he says somewhat faintly.
“Simply Maedhros, thank you, Master Samwise.” The red-haired elf smiles wryly and inclines his head, and this is entirely too much for any sane Hobbit to deal with in the morning. “Bilbo and Frodo sailed here under the protection of my son, but I notice you did not mention any elven companions. How came you by Aman, Sam?”)
They have grown close since that first meeting- or as close as a Hobbit and an immortal elf can get, anyway, with so little common ground between them. The garden has become their favorite meeting-place, where the sight of the flowers and Sam working seems to calm Maedhros and the friends he so often brings along.
Here in this beautiful place they have spoken of all the ugliest things. Their discussions often end in tears, or with one of them trying in vain to console the other of some eternally-fresh wound. Maedhros tells Sam about the oath and his war and, most importantly, his family; Sam often seeks the elf’s help when composing verses to remember Rose and their children.
There’s no difficult topic they haven’t touched, or at least skimmed past, with the sole exception of Maedhros’ lost brother.
Sam looks up at him again to find he has gone deathly still; he might as well be one of the Lady Nerdanel’s statues. One would think him calm, but his brothers know better, and so does Sam after seeing him like this so often. Maedhros likes to fall apart silently, drawing as little attention to himself as possible.
An old habit from Angamandi, he remembers Fingon whispering as he pulled a soft blanket over the prince’s unmoving shoulder. Signs of his grief would have gotten him killed there.
“What was he like to you?” Maedhros repeats. “How did he treat you…” He falters. “How was he?”
(Sam scrambles to pick up his copy of the Red Book, a scarlet beacon in a world of churning blues and greys. The sea rocks his boat, invades it, until nothing stands between it and him. The thunder seems almost like a living thing; it howls its indignation in his ears, and Sam hears How dare you approach these lands and curls up in the ruin of his cabin, waiting for death-
He hears another voice, every bit as terrifying as the first, but it seems to be… opposed to it, in some queer manner that Sam can’t explain. Either way, the waves have calmed a bit, and so he pulls himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his knees.
Really, some hysterical part of him thinks, I’m getting much too old for this adventuring nonsense. If I make it to Elvenhome, I’m never leaving land again .
Still clutching the Red Book like an anchor, he makes his way onto the deck, where his legs almost give at the sight of the figure standing at the stern.
He is more sound than sight, his words bending winds and flattening seas, the high, piercing notes much clearer than his fog-shrouded face and figure. One hand is outstretched from the ruins of his robe. The storm stretches before him, and again Sam gets the queer sense that it has a mind of its own. This swirling dark mass doesn’t feel evil like anything he’d encountered in the Ring debacle, but Sam can sense its ill intent all the same.
The two songs clash, the force of their wills making the air crackle, until the new apparition’s voice dives deep and scrapes at Sam’s ears. He cries out as the wind knocks him onto his side again. He must stay awake-
When he opens his eyes, it is to the sight of a calm sea and a blinding sky. A slender, pale hand reaches down and helps him sit up against the wall. His rescuer kneels by his side, his long hair flowing like a cloak in the wind, his face something straight out of a painting.
“I am Eärion,” he says in accented Westron. He sounds like he is talking to a child, and Sam is vaguely offended until he realizes that he could be just that to the singer. “You will be safe now…”)
“He was beautiful,” Sam says without a second thought.
Maedhros turns to face him, and Sam winces; that didn’t even come close to describing him in full. “Beautiful, wild. If anything," he says as he reaches up to place a comforting hand on Maedhros' wrist, "he seemed- free." Yes, that's more like it. Sam had never seen anyone look so untethered to the world and its troubles. “He seemed at peace,” he concludes, and steps away.
A few moments pass before Maedhros speaks again. This time he is more composed, more like the elven prince Sam first met at Bilbo’s house. “My mother-name means beautiful, or something to that effect. I am… glad you find we still share at least one thing.”
“Maedhros…”
Maedhros smiles sadly at the look on Sam’s face. “Do not have too much pity for a kinslayer, Sam. I have never been free, and I never will be.”
Sam frowns- now that’s an attitude he’s faced far too often, in Frodo and even in himself on his bad days, and he won’t stand for it.
“Well,” he says, “you’d do well not to speak like that, not when everything else has turned out so nicely. I have faith that peace and happiness will find time for us eventually, my dear friend, and I insist that you share that same faith.”
“You said he called himself Eärion.” Son of the sea. Not the son of Fëanor, or even of Nerdanel. Maedhros’ voice turns bitter. “How cruel life as a Fëanorion must have been, must be, that the only way for him to be free was to renounce his family entirely.”
Sam puts his hands on his hips, and suddenly he is on the road again at Frodo’s side, not knowing where they are or where they will end up but knowing they will get there together. “Now don’t go saying such things, Maedhros! Lord Maglor has not renounced you…”
“And how would you know that?” The elf turns suddenly, putting the blaze of the sunset behind him. In that moment Sam catches a glimpse of the fearsome warrior the lore-books described, and his heart breaks at the thought that the part of Maedhros history is most familiar with is the part of him that hurts most.
His heart breaks, but old habits die hard, and he will cheer up Maedhros somehow or he will have failed to comfort a friend properly. Again.
The last time he failed in this, Frodo left.
Sam swallows and forces the memories down- No, wait. He will need these memories if he is to give Maedhros the straight answer he deserves.
“When Frodo sailed,” he begins, “my family was not the only thing that kept me from following him. I was… confused, at the time, and still in shock from all that had happened to us. I had many reasons not to leave.” His voice picks up, gathering up courage as it goes. “I felt guilty that I didn’t know the extent of his pain, and blamed myself for his departure. I was convinced that I loved Middle-Earth, and would never go anywhere else. Deep down-” He falters. “Deep down, some selfish part of me was even glad he was gone, so that I could forget our journey completely and go on living the normal life I wanted so desperately to return to… and some other part felt that Frodo would feel the same way. I’d only be a reminder of pain to him, I thought. It was best for us to forget each other.”
Maedhros has gone still again. Sam briefly debates dropping the subject, but he needs to put this into words as much as his friend needs to be reassured. “But one thing is sure as the tides and the sun, Maedhros: That last part, that was nonsense to me five seconds after I thought of it. I would have never wanted to forget Frodo, if the war was not so firmly tied to him in my mind, and in the end he alone won against the memory of the dark. Despite all the pain we’ve been through together, I would rather die or keep the pain forever than lose him, and I am sure your brother feels the same.”
“It has been so long,” Maedhros whispers. “So long.”
“In the end, Maedhros,” Sam promises. “In the end his family will win in his heart. You will see him again… oh, come here.”
Maedhros loosens, almost crumples, when Sam wraps his arms around him; he even kneels so that Sam can reach his shoulders. The elf’s silver bracers dig into his skin, but Sam only clings tighter.
They stay that way for a long while, until the sun has disappeared into the waves and all the light they can see is the thousands of twinkling stars, so much brighter here in Valinor.