Chapter Six: One Last Chance at Redemption

He did not understand why Mandos had chosen him for this quest. He had expected that the Vala would choose Amrod or Amras, but not him, surely not him. He had acted rashly before, had done things that had caused pain to the hearts of many. His actions had, either directly or indirectly, caused the deaths of many, and the suffering of countless more.

And yet here he was, in a new body, whole and well again. He even had his right hand back – the hand that he had lost in Thangorodrim when Fingon came to his rescue.

He smiled softly as he flexed his fingers, testing them. It would take some getting used-to, having his hand back. He had gone for so long without it. He wondered whether he could still wield a sword with it. What an interesting ability that would be, he mused, to wield two swords at the same time, using both hands. He was certain that he had lost none of his skill at wielding a sword with his left hand.

His thoughts drifted back to Fingon, and his smile became broader. He wondered how his dear friend was faring. He knew that Fingon was one of the first Eldar who had died in Arda to be rehoused. It was for no small reason that Fingon was known as the Valiant, and it was obviously for these meritorious deeds that he had won the right to be rehoused and returned to the society of Tirion.

He looked up then, gazing forward as his horse made its way towards the city of Tirion, which began to loom larger and larger on the eastern horizon. A breeze picked up then, lifting his blood-red hair from the nape of his neck and cooling the skin there somewhat. While he was happy to see the city again, a weight also settled in the pit of his stomach. What would the people there say when they saw him? What would they to do him? He inhaled, preparing himself for a very frosty welcome.

The memories of the Quendi are as long as their years, he thought as he came within sight of Tirion's walls. He knew that those who lived in the city would not have forgotten his deeds, and he felt that they would remember more his acts of brutality than his acts of kindness.

He looked upon the Tower of the Mindon, as it rose above the rest of the city, piercing the golden canopy of the afternoon sky. Whether or not he was welcomed with favor in the city was not something he could fix. He could not change history, and he could not undo the fell deeds he had committed in the past. All he could do now was atone for them. All he could do now was seek redemption.

Maedhros, eldest son of Fëanor, straightened up in his saddle, raising his chin slightly. He would redeem himself – and hopefully, in doing so he would redeem his family.

This was his only chance.

Fingon was in his study, poring over some documents concerning whether Tirion should expand northward or westward, when a knock on his door announced the presence of someone who wished to speak with him.

"Enter, the door is open," he called, not once looking up from the documents he was trying to analyze. The population of Tirion was beginning to grow due to the influx of rehoused Elves from the Halls of Mandos, and so the original bounds of the city were no longer enough. They had to expand to be able to accommodate all the residents. The directions for expansion would either be north or west, and therein lay the problem: Finarfin the High King's council could not come to a conclusion as to which direction the city should expand. In his heart, Fingon favored a westward expansion, but that did present some problems, as Finrod had pointed out during the-

"My Lord Fingon?"

Fingon looked up, and looked upon the face of a rather troubled Elmir – one of the many scholars who resided in the Halls of Fingolfin. "Yes Elmir, was there something you needed?"

Elmir bowed his head slightly. "Your father requests your presence in the Great Hall. There is a…guest who has come looking for you."

Fingon felt something niggling at the back of his mind. The hesitation with which Elmir spoke of the "guest" called his attention more than the fact that there was indeed a guest looking for him. He was certain that he had not invited anyone to the halls that day. And why would his father have to interfere in this, if this "guest" was indeed looking for him? "And who might this guest be?"

Elmir's voice quavered just a little in nervousness when he gave the name. "Lord Maedhros."

Fingon froze at that name. Maedhros? Surely not. He shook his head disbelievingly. Maedhros would not be able to leave the Halls of Mandos. He, his brothers, and his father were fated to remain there until the End, because they had sworn an Oath that was damned from the beginning. He could not leave the Halls.

Could he?

He looked at Elmir, and said, "Tell Father that I shall be arriving shortly."

When Elmir had left the room, Fingon shifted in his chair to stare out the window. Maedhros. Brother-in-arms, dear friend, ally. Fingon knew that Maedhros had done many dark things in the past, things that were tainted by the evil of Morgoth and the Oath, but he also knew that Maedhros was a kind friend, and a devoted ally.

And Fingon still held him thus.

He stood up on rather shaky legs, and walked towards the Great Hall. He only hoped that Fingolfin did not turn Maedhros away before he had a chance to interfere.

The noise emanating from the Great Hall was audible, as Fingon had expected. Nobody in Tirion had anticipated that one of the sons of Fëanor would return, or that the moment he arrived in the city, he would first seek out his dear friend from long ago.

The weight of the years that had gone by weighed heavily on his shoulders as he walked down the stairs to the front of the hall, where the great doors stood. He was suddenly reminded of how long he and Maedhros had been apart, how long it had been since that day when he had fallen, in what was now remembered as the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Maedhros had met his own end, several hundred years later, but by then Fingon was back in the society of Tirion, and had other things to keep him occupied.

And yet, even after all those years, Maedhros still remembered him, and their friendship, and thus chose to come to him, of all the people in Tirion.

That did not mean that he had forgotten the friendship that existed between him and Fëanor's eldest son. He had never forgotten it. He had merely pushed it to the back of his mind until now. There were times, when he was alone, that he thought of the days when he and Maedhros has been together: here in Tirion, during the happy days before the rape of the Silmarils and the swearing of the dreadful Oath; and in Arda, when they had once worked in close alliance with one another, plotting Morgoth's downfall.

He was almost at the doors, and his father stood just ahead of him. Fingolfin's back was turned to him, and it was apparent that he was speaking with someone.

The crowd that had gathered in the hall slowly hushed as he slowed his walk, until he was standing a few feet behind his father, and the crowd went entirely silent. Perhaps sensing that his son had arrived, Fingolfin turned around, and acknowledged Fingon's presence with a small nod before stepping aside.

For a few brief seconds, Fingon felt as if all time were suspended, and that every heartbeat seemed to last a lifetime. He stared at the figure in front of him: tall, even by the standards of the Quendi; deep red hair flashed in the sunlight streaming from the doors; and gray eyes that brimmed with joy stared back at him.

He could scarce believe his eyes, yet there could be only one.

Fingon walked slowly towards the figure, never taking his eyes off the face – a face he had known through many hundreds of years of friendship, a face he had sorely missed. When he was standing just in front of the figure, he offered a small smile, and glanced down at the figure's right arm. "You have your right hand back, I see." He lifted his gaze, and grinned at the merrily twinkling silver orbs that gleamed against the coppery fire of the figure's hair. "I hope that I do not have to cut it off again to save you."

And then Maedhros son of Fëanor, bosom friend of Fingon son of Fingolfin, reached out with his right arm, and clasped it around Fingon in a fond embrace, which Fingon returned enthusiastically.

Maedhros patted him soundly on the back as he drew away, though he let his right hand clasp his friend's shoulder, in the spirit of true friendship. There was a smile on his face as well – a smile Fingon feared had all but disappeared, the last time they had seen the other alive. "I do not think that will be so this time, dear friend. And I certainly want to keep my hand this time."

Fingon laughed, glad that there were some things that had not changed in spite of the many years of separation – like Maedhros' ability to throw swift retorts in response to his sarcastic remarks. He threw an arm around Maedhros' shoulders, and whispered, "I suggest that we head for my study and get away from this gaping crowd."

Maedhros raised an eyebrow at him. "You have a study?"

"Yes. Why? Are you surprised that I have one now?"

Maedhros did not reply: merely chuckled, and shook his head. "Nothing, it was nothing."

Fingon smiled, and the two of them started walking down the hallway, back to his study. "Your arrival was certainly a surprise of the first order, if you managed to lure Father out by doing so. Though it certainly pleases me that you are here."

The smile on Maedhros' face faded a little. "I know that my coming was unexpected, but I did not know whom else to seek out in the city. You were the first person I thought of, and I…felt…that you would not have forgotten our friendship." Pain flickered through his eyes momentarily. "Until I have redeemed myself and my brothers, until I have proven to everyone that the sons of Fëanor have repented of their ancient sins, only then, perhaps, will the people of Tirion look upon us again, if not with favor, then at least with respect."

They were standing in front of the door of Fingon's study, and the dark-haired Noldo was beginning to feel worried about his friend. "Mandos did not let you go because he thought you had atoned enough for your deeds," he said softly, more of a statement than a question

"No, for I have been told that I must find atonement some other way." He looked up at Fingon, and offered another half-smile. "I think it would be best if we sat down, and had something to eat while I told you my story."

Nodding, Fingon wordlessly opened the door, allowing his friend to enter first, before he himself went in, and closed the door.

He could not help gaping like a landed fish. He stared first at his father, then at his father's guests, and back at his father again.

Fingon smirked at his son. "Come now Ereinion, enough of that. You look as if you had never seen Maedhros before." He indicated his guest with a nod.

"It is not that I have never seen him before, it is that I did not expect to see him again," Ereinion replied as he sank down into a nearby chair. He stared at the floor for a moment, collecting his composure. He had been in his study when Maedhros had arrived that afternoon, completely oblivious to all the excitement that had been going on – mostly because, he ruefully admitted to himself, he had been dozing when it happened.

He looked up, and gazed at Maedhros, who was currently sitting at the window seat, sipping a glass of wine. The last time he had seen Fëanor's eldest son was during the War of Wrath, when he and his brother Maglor fought alongside the countless others who wished to bring Morgoth's realm to ruin.

Then, in the dead of the night, the two of them stole the Silmarils, but because of their wicked deeds the hallowed jewels burned them both. Maglor threw his Silmaril into the sea, and sang as he walked away, never to be seen or heard from again.

Maedhros, on the other hand, met a more gruesome fate: after finding out that he was unworthy of the Silmaril, he jumped into a chasm of fire, taking the Silmaril with him.

Ereinion shook his head to clear the rather disturbing image from his mind. It is inappropriate to think such thoughts, he told himself. He focused once more on Maedhros, and spoke: "My Lord, may I know why you are here? It is surprising to see you out of the Halls of Mandos."

Maedhros chuckled as he set down the goblet on a nearby table. "Yes, so your father has told me."

The mirth slipped away from the red-haired Noldo's face, and Ereinion knew that he was about to tell them why the Valar had allowed him to be rehoused and go forth from the Halls of Mandos, where he and the rest of those who swore the Oath of Fëanor in the Elder Days were doomed to remain.

"The Valar told me that they were giving me a chance to redeem myself and my brothers," he said at last. "They told me that if I completed the tasks that were assigned to me in a satisfactory manner, then they would allow me return to the people of Tirion. If I fail, then I will have to give up this corporeal body of mine and rejoin my brothers and my father in their exile.

"The Valar gave me two tasks to complete. First, I was to join four others of the Quendi to seek out the daughter of Master Pallando, one of Ulmo's vassals."

Ereinion stared at him. "You are to join us in that quest?" he asked softly. "But why? Why would the Valar send you?"

"Because of the second errand," Maedhros replied. He paused a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft: "My second task is this: to find my brother, Maglor, and bring him back, that he may answer to the Valar for his deeds."

Ereinion fell silent at that, wondering whether it was possible or not. No one knew where Maglor had gone after he threw his Silmaril into the sea. When he was ruling as Gil-galad, he had always heard stories and rumors of Maglor being sighted someplace or other. But that was all there ever was: stories, rumors, and nothing more.

"So he is still in Arda," he said softly. "Pardon my saying so, My Lord, but I thought that he was already in the Halls."

Maedhros shook his head. "Maglor has…how shall I say…a fine instinct for survival, if he wishes it so, and I do not mean that in a derogatory manner." He sighed, and bowed his head. "The Valar must deem his remaining in Arda all this time as punishment enough – greater than being forced to remain in the Halls of Mandos. But his time has come, and he must be brought here."

Ereinion nodded. "I see." He smiled slightly. "Well then, I suppose that I must send a messenger to Alqualondë, informing them that provisions must be made for one more companion to the journey."

A shadow passed over Maedhros' face at the mention of Alqualondë, and Ereinion guessed that he was remembering the First Kinslaying. But he did not remark on it, for Maedhros smiled as best as he might then, and nodded. "Yes, that would be a good idea. If I may ask, who else is joining us on this sojourn?"

Ereinion shrugged. "Ecthelion and Glorfindel have volunteered to join us." He grinned at Maedhros. "Surely you remember them?"

Maedhros chortled then. "Indeed I do." He grinned wickedly. "Tell me: does Glorfindel still hunt Tirion to prey upon its finest beauties? I well remember his foibles, in the days when the Two Trees still cast their light upon Tirion's crystal stairways."

Ereinion laughed, while Fingon snorted in the background. "Ah My Lord Maedhros, there is many a tale to tell of that…"