Elrond screamed as the fire burnt him. He screamed, and he screamed, and he screamed, and he screamed. The last thought he had was of Maedhros – how very like father like son. He woke in what appeared to be a dimly lit hall, and knew he was dead. He walked – as if in dream – with unfeeling feet. He must be non-corporal, and these must be the Halls of Mandos. He was alone, and he felt loneliness dragging him down like a weighted cloak.

'Ereinion, Gil-galad!' Elrond called, and called a second time, and as many as a hundred times. The Halls echoed with his voice. He was alone.

He trembled. Maybe Gil-galad had left the Halls, maybe he had been reincarnated and had just chosen, or been ordered, to stay in Valinor. Elrond felt suddenly foolish. It had been so quick in coming, this desire to die. Or no, it had been there for ages. He had just fought to ignore it, suppress it. Had tried so hard to be good and responsible and patient.

Now he thought of Elros, and he cried out his brother's name. No answer. But of course, mortals did not stay in these Halls. Their spirits went out beyond the circles of the world. If there was even anything beyond the circles of world – other than cold void and burning stars. The Valar had promised his brother there was. Elrond had not been content with a promise. He had chosen the long road in this world, to be bound to Arda, to endure as long as the planet, and then perish with it. Again and again over the years, Elrond wondered if he made the wrong choice, the easy choice. Was there even a right choice when nothing was certain?

Elros seemed to think that they would meet again. He had died, smiling, a final vow on his lips: 'I'll see you again, darling.' Elrond had never been as confident, never as trusting, and now even this step into accepting death was not wise or good, but a violation. He had thrown his life away, but he had been so, so alone. Eru had allowed everyone Elrond ever loved to get taken from him. Eru must hate him. The Valar too. Elrond felt so hated, so weighed down. He had tried to tell Mithrandir before, explain his doubts and fears, but even that great friend had not wanted to hear it, had not listened – not in the way Elrond had needed him to. Maybe if Mithrandir had, if someone had, Elrond wouldn't be here now.

But no, he shouldn't blame others! That would only add to his guilt. He should declare himself culpable. He had thrown himself headlong into flames. Like Maedhros. Like Maedhros. Like Maedhros. His foster father with the haunted eyes. His foster father who had sworn an oath, under the influence of his father, that he would be damned to everlasting darkness if he did not reclaim Fëanor's jewels, the Silmarils. But the hallowed jewel Maedhros finally got hold of burnt his blood-stained hands. He had hurled himself into a fiery chasm rather than be parted from it and risk eternal damnation.

Elrond turned to the left and saw himself as an infant in his mother's arms. She cradled him, sang softly to him. Crooned of a father who was not there, who was out at sea – a mariner husband who would not come home. And though Elwing held her children close – a twin in each arm, pressed against her bosom, she was not fully there herself. She would scarcely look at them. Her eyes were ever on the Silmaril or the sea. Her mind would not allow her to attach to creatures as fragile as her newborn sons.

The kinslayers had come when she was a child. Down went father. Down went mother. Blood on the walls, guts on the floor. When the kinslayers came again, came to Sirion, Elwing took the Silmaril and left her sons, in the cold of a cave. She made the right choice, saved the world – as Elrond would record centuries later. Without the gift of light she had offered, the Valar – the oh-so-kind-and-caring-powers-that-be – would likely have never received Eärendil's plea for aid.

And hadn't it worked out all right for everyone in the end? The kinslayers had found the boys in the cave, but they had not killed them, for Maglor took pity. Maglor, and his brother Maedhros, had raised Elrond and Elros. Maybe not the way fathers should, but they gave them food and clothes and snatches of love. It was enough to ensure that Elrond grew up, and grew a conscience. Elrond wept bitterly when Maedhros died, and missed Maglor when he exiled himself. People said it showed that Elrond was not completely twisted – this pain and grief. But it had to be measured. Elrond could mourn his foster fathers – he should mourn them – but not too much. His sorrow at his brother's choice of mortality seemed to please people more. It was more legitimate to cling to a brother, then the memory of his kidnappers.

Elrond sunk to his knees. There were torches on the walls, which flickered in a light wind. Was this how he had imagined Mandos? Had he imagined his loved ones here in this gloom? Or was this his own personal prison? Would he be forced to endure eternal solitude until the end of the world, with only obliteration to release him? He thought of calling out the names of his sons, but he was too ashamed. If they saw him here, they would ask how he came, and he would have to admit that he had abandoned Middle-earth. Elrond covered his face, as the tears came. He had wanted to be good. He had tried so hard.

A figure stepped out of the darkness. He was very tall, and pale as mist. His red hair was shorn close to his scalp on one side of his head, and long but unevenly cut on the other. His grey eyes shone bright as a brand, and his face, neck, and naked chest bore scars from many cuts and burns. He knelt near Elrond and pulled him close.

'Child,' he soothed, 'my child, Elrond.'

Elrond sobbed, and clung to him. 'Are they gone? Did they choose?'

'Who?' Maedhros said.

'My sons, my sons,' Elrond said. 'They had to choose, like Elros and I – to be counted among Elves or Men. Do you know what fate they decided on?'

Maedhros shook his head. He stroked Elrond's hair. 'No, but we can ask.'

Elrond pressed his face against Maedhros's chest. The Elf's skin felt hot and rough. 'I don't know if I want to know.'

'What do you want then?' Maedhros said softly.

'I want, I need to see your father,' Elrond said.

'My father?'

'Yes.'

'Fëanor?'

Elrond nodded slowly.

Maedhros held Elrond out at arm's length, touched his cheek. 'Elrond, I'm sorry, but he won't see anyone, not even his own children.'

'He'll see me,' Elrond insisted.

Maedhros shook his head. 'Why do you say that?'

'Because,' Elrond said, 'I demand it, and if he will not see me, still I will find him. I will pursue him through every dream, thought, fantasy, and nightmare he has ever envisioned.'

Maedhros laughed dryly. 'You've grown up, little one.'

'I have,' Elrond said.