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"Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean
Brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,
Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth,
Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,
Dread nor danger, not Doom itself
Shall defend him from Fëanáro, and Fëanáro’s kin,
Whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,
Finding keepeth or afar casteth
A Silmaril. This swear we all…"
- The Oath of Fëanor
There was something following Maedhros. The elf had spent enough time in pursuit of the Enemy to know when a spy was lurking about. This particular little grub was clever and quiet, and its persistence irked the elf. Maedhros had picked up his unwelcome entourage as he had passed into the old country of Arnor, and the elf was determined to be left alone as he made his pilgrimage north. He had not been this way for several lifetimes, and whilst he was a swift rider, his frequent pauses and explorations of familiar old ground had made him easy to track.
The elf had planned to lose his unseen enemy somewhere in the forests of Doriath, but his scheme was abruptly ruined on the fifth day of his ride through the low, rolling hills. The scent of seaspray had caught Maedhros' curiosity as he bore further North, but it fully grasped his attention when by evening he had ridden to the edge of a great rocky cliff that dropped to the crashing waves of the ocean below. As far as Maedhros' elf eyes could see, there was nothing but rolling swell and white foamy crests as they hammered the shoreline.
Maedhros lingered there for the night, his brow furrowed, his long red hair uncharacteristically tussled and ruffled by the stiff sea breeze. Had he severely missed his mark in coming this way? He knew of no ocean north of Arnor, the Sundering Seas lay to the west. The region itself was sparsely populated, and not by elves. An elf could tell him how an ocean came to be where he had expected the green and fair country of Beleriand- a mortal being that was lucky to live to fifty years could not. Besides, Maedhros hated asking for directions.
It was while Maedhros was pondering his geographical puzzle that his horse nickered and tugged at the rope binding him to a nearby tree and flicking his ears. Maedhros could hear the steady thump of hooves walking closer, and the heavy breaths of an exhausted mare. The elf drew his curved sword with his left hand, instinctively tucking his right arm behind his back. Whilst his sword arm was clad in gracefully interlocking plates of steel, his right was barely armoured at all, and in place of his hand, there remained nothing but a stump wrapped in dark cloth. His missing hand, a maiming from a past age. He had had plenty of time to practice swordplay with his left hand since then.
Peering into the darkness, the elf was unsure if he should be relieved or even more worried that its blade did not glow blue. Not orcs, then. Maedhros' pessimistic side told him that meant something worse. An elf can see far better in the gloom than a mortal can, but nothing stirred amongst the trees. He heard the spy's horse come to a halt, his ears pricked to listen over the boom and crash of the waves below.
"Be still, Dregnir," Maedhros addressed the horse, his voice light and quick in the Sindarin tongue. Dregnir snorted, but obediently stopped tugging at the rope. The elf had ridden many horses, but they had all been steeds of war, used to being clad in mithril barding and charging the enemy head on. Dregnir was more accustomed to charging at buckets of oats, and was prone to dashing off at so much as a raised voice. Maedhros had named him in Sindarin, but Dregnir was hardly the name of a noble steed. It meant "He Who Runs Away."
"We have come far enough, O unwelcome guest!" Maedhros bellowed into the night, challenging his pursuer. "By the Light of Telperion and Laurelin, show yourself!"
"Stay your hand, Maedhros! There is no battle to be fought in Arnor tonight," a familiar voice answered. From the trees emerged a tall figure, with stern, pointed features and long, flowing dark hair. In his hand he held the reigns of his horse, which obediently followed behind.
Maedhros nearly dropped his sword.
"Elrond!"
The dark-haired elf seemed amused by Maedhros' stunned look; he stepped closer, peering at Maedhros the way elves do after a few centuries apart. The red-haired elf did not appreciate being studied, and sheathed his sword with a forceful jerk. It didn't matter to him how old Elrond was now – all he could see was a mischievous youth.
"Is it your custom these days to chase travelers across the land, skulking in the shadows like a thief?" Maedhros demanded, raising his chin higher and fixing the younger elf with a fierce glare.
"I would have announced myself earlier, had you not being avoiding the roads and fleeing into the forests with such haste," Elrond replied drily. "Who here is the one skulking like a thief?"
Maedhros turned to calm Dregnir, fiddling with the horse's saddle as an excuse not to let Elrond see the offended scowl on his face. The last time Maedhros had been heard from in these parts, he had being riding east as hard as he could, a Silmaril burning his hand as he bore it away from the camp of Eönwë after the defeat of Morgoth.
"I am no thief, Elrond," Maedhros answered, after a moment of silence. "The accusation is unworthy of you. What business have you here? Surely the Lord of Imladris doesn't wander into the wild on a whim?"
Elrond did not reply, and Maedhros turned to see that not only was the younger elf not paying attention to him, but he had wandered off a short way to collect firewood. Maedhros bit back the urge to shout at Elrond; he knew his former ward was trying to get under his skin. It was working, too. Elrond returned with kindling, and withdrew a tinderbox from his cloak.
"It has been too long since I have made camp by the sea," Elrond said conversationally. "I am glad of your coming; Imladris has been a lonely place since our people's exodus."
"They are leaving Imladris?" Maedhros repeated, raising an eyebrow in surprise, but glad of the sudden change of subject. "Wherever to? I thought Morgoth's servant was defeated, though by what mighty force I know not."
"Sauron is defeated," Elrond inclined his head. "Though, if I told you that the Dark Lord and his servants were destroyed by two hobbits simply walking into Mordor, I fear you would call me a liar as well as a thief."
"What in name of Ilúvatar is a hobbit?" Maedhros grumbled under his breath.
Elrond regarded him gravely. "Middle Earth has many inheritors, but the Elves are not among them. Valinor is our true home, and it is for this I sought you out."
Maedhros fell silent for a moment. He busied himself by opening one of his saddlebags, and taking out a parcel of green leaves, which kept safe a small meal of Lembas. He offered some of the waybread to Elrond, whom graciously accepted. The fire crackled as the flames were whipped by the sea breeze.
"I see your plan now, Elrond," Maedhros said. He didn't make eye contact, and his lips were drawn taut, his voice strained. "You mean well, to think of the one who raised you. But I cannot return to Valinor. You recall the old stories, of the Kinslaying? That will not have been forgotten, even after the ages have dulled its sting."
"The Teleri have long forgiven the Ñoldor of that crime." Elrond replied, his voice growing louder, his grey eyes staring into Maedhros'. "You've come to the old border of Beleriand to revisit the past, and here you find that old world is gone. Come back with me. There is a ship waiting in the Grey Havens."
"And has my brother been given the same offer?" Maedhros shot back, his eyes narrowed. "What of Maglor? Or was he slain as I suspect?"
"He has long since passed to Valinor. He wanders the shores of Aman, collecting the gems left there by the Ñoldor." Elrond contemplated for a moment, staring past the fire at the black ocean beyond the cliffs. "Perhaps he searches still for the Silmaril he cast into the sea? Though whether he would keep it, or throw it back into the water, I cannot say."
"So. My brother is deranged, my people flee to the West, and our Oath," Maedhros paused for a moment, hesitating to say out loud what he had known in his heart for centuries, "means nothing."
"Take up the harp," Elrond suggested. "A small one, that makes little noise."
Maedhros stared at Elrond for a moment. Then, the two elves began to laugh. Maedhros tried to keep his face straight, but couldn't stop himself from a few hoarse chuckles. He was surprised at himself; he hadn't even brought out the wine yet.
"I have missed your wit, Elrond," Maedhros said, and for the first time in many years, the red-haired elf smiled. His joy was fleeting though, and his gaze wavered. He had made his excuses, to no avail. Elrond wanted an answer. Maedhros took a deep breath, and steeled himself for another heated disagreement. "Valinor is lost to me forever, Elrond. I would rather remember it the way it was, then find my homeland too has changed beyond recognition."
"You are not alone in turning down my offer," Elrond said, a flicker of worry passing over his face. "At least my daughter stays for love. I fear you stay for regret."
Maedhros regarded Elrond solemnly. "When you come into the Bay of Eldamar, head for the pearl walls of Alqualondë. The Tower of Olwë is always lit with a signal fire, should you arrive in foul weather. The entrance to the harbor is made of living stone. The city is fair, its people merry, its shipbuilders unrivalled. It is the most beautiful sight in Valinor or this Middle-Earth. But it is not for me. I had a hand in the Kinslaying, and for that I am cursed. To look upon Alqualondë once more would be more than I could bear."
"If it is your final decision to aimlessly wander about a world that is rapidly leaving Elvish kind, then I cannot drag you to the Grey Havens," Elrond groused, drawing his cloak tighter about himself. He stood, and went to untie his mare from the tree. Maedhros rose as well, and followed to see him off. Elrond gracefully climbed back onto the mare's back, and looked down at his old mentor. "Mine is not the last ship in Middle Earth, and Alqualondë is hardly the only port in Valinor. Perhaps in another age you'll change your mind, and I'll see your sails on the horizon."
"Have you learned nothing of Fëanor's sons, Elrond? We are a stubborn lot," Maedhros answered, the corners of his mouth twitching as he suppressed a smile.
Elrond laughed again, and spurred his horse. "You would get along famously with the dwarves, Maedhros. I know at least one other elf that does. Farewell, wherever your path may lead!"
"Namárië!" Maedhros bade Elrond farewell, and watched as the elf lord soon disappeared into the forest. It had been ink black when Elrond had arrived, but the clouds had shifted, and now the moon shone down, its pale glow lighting the way back south.
Perhaps it was just the fire, but as Maedhros sat back down at his seaside camp, he felt a little warmer. Tomorrow, he would journey on. The whole West was his to see, now the land was at peace.
"I hope you're ready for a long ride tomorrow, Dregnir," Maedhros said, a mischievous look in his eye. "I feel quite ready for another adventure!"