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He always appears at dawn. With the first rays of the crimson sun, he walks into the battlefield, his hair long and unkempt, his eyes unseeing and his sword sharp.

They tell tales of him in the east, in the south and in the far north. Black Tempest, they call him, Flame Wraith, Red Death. They call him by many names but never his own.

The legend does not say where he has come from, nor who he used to be. After so many years, it matters not. He has forgotten it himself.

The ash had settled over the sea in hideous patterns. The leaden waves crawled to the shore and slid back wearily. No star sparkled, but there was light. Brilliant, unwavering, merciless twin lights, shining through their flesh cages, scorching the very hands that had once held them in awe and wonder.

A figure stood on the edge of a chasm, a gaping wound on the skin of the dying continent. Another was running towards the ashen sea, his mouth frozen in an agonizing silent scream.

Even with his back to his brother, Maedhros knew what he was preparing for. They both had one single thought on their minds. The only thing that was left to do. Just another step and the fiery mouth of the chasm would swallow Maedhros and put an end to his needless existence. His brother had chosen a different way to go, though no less cruel. Soon the damp ash and tepid water would fill up his lungs, and struggle as he might, he would still be pulled down to the black depths of Ulmo’s realm with the jewel in his charred fist.

It should not have mattered. It could not have been avoided. And yet, when Maedhros turned his head to look upon his only remaining brother for the last time and saw him walk slowly into the waves, an instinct long but not deeply buried awoke inside him and shook him so violently that for a moment he forgot the spasms of agony racking his body because of the jewel.

He threw the Silmaril into the fire and did not follow it despite wishing for it with his entire being. Instead, he turned and ran towards the shore, calling his brother by all his names and pleading with him to stop.

But Maglor didn’t. He walked as one bewitched, as one condemned, as one already dead.

It happened very suddenly. The water was up to Maglor’s knees one second, and then he vanished. Maedhros dove after him, cleaving the waves despite the excruciating pain, following the swiftly waning light of the jewel, but he was too late. He was always too late.

Maedhros ceased moving and let himself sink. For once, he would be the one following his brother. But fate didn’t grant him even that one last wish. The sea spat him out to the shore, refusing to taint itself. He lay face down, breathing in the sand and the ash, tasting salt on his lips.

His brother’s harp was by his side. He sat up and picked it up carefully with his right arm. He thought of keeping it with him, but that was a selfish desire of a corrupted spirit. He would not take this from Maglor. He put the harp on the shore, and watched how the lazy waves cradled it gently and took it with them to the bottom of the sea, where its rightful owner had found his final resting place.

Maedhros turned his head back. The chasm had to be there still, even though Beleriand every so often twisted its ruined face, exposing new scars and wounds and concealing others. If not the chasm, then he could find a cliff, or he could seek his end on his own sword. It mattered little now. The jewels were gone, all three of them, and none could reach them until the world was broken.

Slowly, he stood and found himself gazing into the fire again. It would not reject him, he knew; it would take him in, it would embrace him and consume him. The fire was his last friend, his judge and his executioner. It would welcome him. It would give him the relief he sought, the relief he was worthy even less now after leading his brother to his death.

Somewhere in the distance, a sword met a shield. Maedhros could tell from the sound that it was an orcish blade. The shield was harder to identify. It was not Noldorin, perhaps not even elven-made. Could be Mannish, could be Laiquendi if there was any Laiquendi left in the scorched forests of Beleriand.

It did not matter. Maedhros could not save them. He was not a savior. He had failed to save his father, had failed to save Fingon, had failed to save his brothers, even the very last one. He closed his eyes and prepared to jump. Someone screamed. A young voice, most definitely Mannish. The child’s incredibly short life was going to be cut even shorter by the ruthless orc-blade. But the fight still continued. It was closer than Maedhros had thought at first. If he went now, he could still make a difference. He moved his fingers. Holding a sword would be agony, but he could fight through any pain.

He looked into the inviting, tender glow of the fire. It was tempting, but it would still be there after he had killed the orcs. He gripped the hilt of his sword and turned away from the chasm.

Before turning west Elrohir looked back for the last time. The Great Gate of Gondor shone silver under the setting sun. Elrohir kept his eyes on it, trusting that his horse would know the way even without him guiding her. Only when it was impossible to see the Gate, he turned back and found his brother watching him.

“You were saying farewell,” Elladan said.

It was not a question, so Elrohir did not answer.

“Perhaps we will see her again one day,” Elladan said.

“No.”

His brother could pretend all he wanted, but Elrohir and Arwen both knew that this was the last time they met in this world. Elladan usually trusted his twin’s sight, especially if Arwen agreed too, but this time it was harder for him to accept. It had been the same with their mother. To the last moment, Elladan had hoped she could stay, even though Elrohir, Arwen and their father had made peace with her departure.

Very soon, Arwen would depart too, and Elladan would have to make a decision. He still had a chance to follow her. That prospect made Elrohir, who had long before made his choice, regret his haste.

“I do not wish to leave her alone,” Elladan said, perceptive as always despite the absence of true foresight.

Now it was Elrohir who decided to pretend. “She is not alone,” he said. “She has her children and grandchildren with her. She has an entire city that adores her.”

Elladan said nothing but looked away from his brother and patted the mane of his horse.

“She has her husband waiting for her,” Elrohir said. “She has an entire line of Men. She has our uncle, she has Lúthien, our foremother.”

“Has Ilúvatar himself revealed that to you?” Elladan asked thoughtfully, as though he was truly wondering.

Elrohir was in no mood to play along with the roundabout way his brother argued. Usually, he would be more indulgent, but the pain of losing Arwen was still fresh in his heart. Elladan would have accused him of burying her while she was still alive, but Elladan had a habit of not letting go.

“Are you going to accept the Gift of Men?” Elrohir asked.

Elladan stroked the dark mane of his horse again. “I have not decided yet,” he said, for once giving a straight answer. “I know it is not what you want to hear, but it is the only thing I can say.” He looked up at his brother. “Let us hurry now,” he said. “Grandfather is waiting for us.”

But Elrohir was not ready to end the conversation. “He is,” he said. “He is waiting for us to make a decision.”

“I have told him to depart if he wishes so.”

“Why have you not told me that?”

Elladan smiled. “Our sister’s son and daughters might need us yet. There are still sightings of orcs and wargs in the mountains and in the lands far away. It is not the time for me to make a decision.”

“Very well,” Elrohir said, holding back a sigh. “I will wait for you.”

“I know,” Elladan said.

They rode on and did not look back until Minas Tirith was hidden even from elven sight.

At the daybreak of the ninth day of his search, Maglor finally found his eldest brother on the top of a hill. Only when the tension finally left his shoulders did he realize how worried he had been. He had refused to send for any of his brothers, even though Celegorm would have likely found Maedhros faster than Maglor did. He had refused to take any of his people with him, even though many insisted. If something had happened, Maglor wanted to be alone when he found out.

Maedhros was standing straight, facing north, as he had done every morning in Himring. He had that strange too-bright look in his eyes that had so often unsettled Maglor after Maedhros’s return from the Thangorodrim. Perhaps he was back in his fortress in his thoughts.

Nothing else betrayed that he had once been a great and proud lord, a leader of his people. He was all alone, his wasted body wrapped in a faded and tattered cloak, his hair falling limp and tangled past his shoulders.

He must have heard Maglor approach because his face didn’t show surprise. He offered no greeting, staring at his brother with a question in his eyes.

“We came across your people,” Maglor said by way of explanation. “They said you had left weeks ago. I was concerned.”

“I wished to be alone.” He stared Maglor down. “I still do.”

Maglor shot him a disapproving look while contemplating how to approach the problem. He hadn’t felt the need to be so careful around his brother for a long time. Maedhros looked so brittle; one wrong word, and he would crumble into dust and slip through Maglor’s fingers. But he had always hated being coddled.

“Have you seen yourself?” Maglor asked kindly but looking straight into Maedhros’s eyes to let him know that he would not back down easily. “Your clothes are torn and stained, you are nearly as thin as when—” He cleared his throat. “And your hair is all wild and disheveled.”

Maedhros did not say that he cared little about that. It was clear from his hollow look, which still hit Maglor’s chest with bludgeoning force.

“Come with me,” he offered. “There is a brook not far away. We can clean up there.”

He waited, almost sure that Maedhros would refuse. But in the end, he nodded and followed Maglor down the hill.

The cold water of the brook seemed to liven up Maedhros somewhat and brought a little color to his face. They washed their clothes and themselves, then lay down on the grass.

“Do you have news from Moryo and the twins?” Maedhros asked.

“Last time I heard they were back in Amon Ereb,” Maglor said. “I have not seen Turko or Curvo in a while. Do you have news from them?”

“Yes,” Maedhros said and added nothing else.

Maglor sighed but did not pester. The news had to be unpleasant but, judging by Maedhros’s reaction, not disastrous. Maglor would know sooner or later. Better later, he thought and cringed with guilt. He reached for a lock of Maedhros’s hair, following the thread of a nearly forgotten childhood memory, and immediately pulled his hand away, jolted back to reality by the coarse, matted strand beneath his fingers.

“I could comb your hair,” he said carefully. “Put it in a braid. It is more practical.”

Again, to his surprise, Maedhros did not refuse. He sat silently and bowed his head as an invitation. So Maglor began his long and laborious effort that took nearly all day. He doubted Maedhros had touched or let anyone touch his hair since the battle. Or maybe none dared to ask.

“I wanted to go back to Himring,” Maedhros said suddenly, while Magglor was struggling with the knots in his hair.

“What?”

“I was halfway there when I remembered that it is taken,” Maedhros said. “My first thought was to ride west to request help from—” He stumbled on the name and then said it carefully as if it was a precious, fragile thing, and he was afraid to shatter it just by uttering it. “Findekáno. Then I remembered everything else.”

Maglor had no words for him, no comfort to offer. He started moving the comb slower and gentler. “It is nearly done,” he lied.

“Turko wrote to me,” Maedhros said after a long pause. “He says it is imperative we move on Doriath.”

There was the news. Maglor sighed. “When did you receive the letter?”

“A few weeks ago. That was when I set out alone to think on what to do before I... lost myself.”

“Have you made a decision?”

“There are better ways to die than to waste away slowly in the mists of Melian.”

“Do you think it will be enough of an argument?”

“Yes. For a decade or a few more. I can hold out for that long.”

Maglor put the comb away and started on braiding. “And what then?” he asked.

“Then we will have to decide if we are to die before Angband or inside the Girdle.”

“We know now it is impossible to beat Morgoth.”

“Yes.”

Nothing else was said until Maglor was finished with the braids.

“Here, see?” he asked, pointing to Maedhros’s reflection in the brook. “Doesn’t it feel better?”

“It does.”

Maedhros looked up, and for a moment, Maglor believed that he would smile.

“Thank you,” Maedhros said, gravely.

“I can do this whenever you wish if you let me,” Maglor said. “For as long as… As long as we have left to live.”

Maedhros stood and traced his fingers over the braids. “Shall we go and join our people?” he asked. “Stay with me for a while. You will help me pen a letter to Tyelkormo.” The smile Maglor had been waiting for finally appeared. “And braid my hair.”

Maglor took his outstretched hand and let his brother pull him to his feet.

He wiped the blood off his sword with a soft cloth. Behind him, the smoke was still coiling like a serpent over the funeral pyre. He had not stayed for that part. He never did. He had to move soon. He had lingered here for too long. He would go further north and then walk east and would not return to these lands for at least a millennium. By then, his story would have become a legend, a tale wise women tell children to entertain them during long nights.

He looked to the right, and the figure was there. Today he appeared drenched, covered in seaweed; his hair was dripping, and when he spoke, ashwater gurgled down from the corners of his mouth.

“Who was it this time?” he asked in his terrible underwater voice. “Were they at least orcs or just ordinary people, unfortunate enough to be on your way?”

“Does it matter?” Maedhros answered, his hand moving evenly along the sword.

“Not to you. You have killed indiscriminately before. Why would you join the battles of Men?”

“They asked for help.”

“Woe to the other side who did not think of asking your help before their enemies.”

The sword cut through the cloth and drew blood from the wound in Maedhros's hand. His vision whitened with pain.

“They were orcs this time if you need to know,” he said a minute or an hour later.

The blue lips pulled back in a dreadful, rotten grin. “Less and less frequent such encounters have become. What will you do when you run out of orcs to kill? Go west? Join the wars of Men and kill them again?”

Maedhros stood and sheathed his sword. The wind had changed direction, and now the smoke was burning his lungs like the acid rain over the Thangorodrim. So many years and he still had not gotten used to it. He covered his nose and mouth with his cloak, wondered if this was how his brother had felt when drowning.

“Why are you here?” he asked the ghost haunting him.

“Because you want me here.”

“No.”

Still grinning, the figure slipped a hand, pale as a fish belly, through Maedhros’s matted hair. His other hand, the most substantial part of him, blackened but still glowing blindingly bright, slowly approached to join the first. Maedhros recoiled and shuddered when the hollow laughter rang out and spread like water rings.

“Will you not let me help you with your hair, brother?” the phantom asked, echoing and twisting the kind words once said by its likeness.

Maedhros walked away. North and east, away from the sea. Maybe then the wraith would leave him alone. But no matter how far he went or where he turned, the smoke from the pyre still lay heavily on his shoulders like a foul-smelling cloak, and the cold, swollen fingers of his dead brother were still undoing the knots in his hair.

Long and slender musician’s fingers made quick work of Maedhros’s hair. Maglor had been good at it even when he was a young elf practicing on his younger brothers. What he had lacked in experience, he had made up with speed and creativity. He had become quite experienced during the last decades thanks to Maedhros and the children who were children no more.

Maedhros brushed his hand over the convoluted braids. Anger overtook him, but Maglor continued smiling that distracted, airy smile he had put on after their argument.

“If you are to die, you shall die as a king,” he said flippantly.

It was too late to undo the braids, and it did not matter anyway. Those who would see his body after his death could not think less of him. Kinslaying surely was a sin worse than jumping above one’s station. Still, he was irritated with his brother for this petty revenge.

“And what shall you die as?” he asked.

Maglor finished tying up his braid and grinned. “The same I have always been, a follower.”

He took his polished sword, hung two daggers from his belt and slipped another one inside his sleeve. He was humming a song, a new one or at least one that Maedhros had not heard before. Fast and joyful, it grated on Maedhros. He walked away. There was no point in snapping at his brother, not now, at the end of things.

They walked on without exchanging a word. Maglor had started another song, a drinking ditty that went back to Cuiviénen but had been transformed so much through the ages that now it was nearly unrecognizable. If one saw him, smiling and singing, his feet light on the ashen ground, they would never think he was walking to his death.

When they were near enough the camp that another few steps would take them within hearing distance, Maedhros stopped. Maglor did too, turning his head to his brother, a mischievous eyebrow raised.

A gust of the western wind blew away the noxious smoke, and for a moment the sky sparkled with the clear brilliance of thousands of shining stars. There would be no better night for dying.

“Makalaurë,” Maedhros said and watched Maglor’s playful mask waver as he knew it would.

He had not used his brother’s Quenya name for years, perhaps decades.

“I am sorry,” he said.

Maglor grinned. There was nothing left in it from the joy of before, and it pained Maedhros, no matter how fake that joy had been.

“A bit late for that, isn’t it?” Maglor asked.

“Yes. I still am.”

He reached for Maglor’s hair and pulled it lightly and gently, but Maglor still fell into his embrace. They stood in silence for a moment, Maedhros’s hand going up and down Maglor’s braid, and Maglor just breathing, safe in his brother’s arms for the last time.

“Thank you,” Maedhros said.

Maglor raised his head to look at his brother but did not let go. “What for?” he asked.

“For helping me with my hair.”

A smile broke upon Maglor’s face, one very different from his fake and happy grin. This one pained Maedhros too.

Maglor drew back and began walking forward. Maedhros followed him.

Glorfindel was not surprised to see that Elrohir had ridden out to meet him, even though he had sent no news of his return. The young elf greeted him with excitement and for a while chatted cheerfully about the happenings in Imladris while they rode north along the Bruinen.

Then he fell silent abruptly and turned to his companion with a look so reminiscent of his father that for a moment Glorfindel believed Elrohir could see all that he was thinking just as easily as Elrond did.

“You have been gone for a long time,” he said. “Where exactly did you journey to?”

Straight to the point as usual. It was always slightly surprising, especially that his brother would take ages to ask the question. And even then, he would never ask it directly. Glorfindel smiled to himself, while Elrohir frowned.

“Your father asked me to look into something,” Glorfindel said. “If you want to know more, you should talk to him.”

“I did. He gave me no comprehensible answer.”

“Then I fear I cannot help you.”

Elrohir looked displeased but did not argue. “Did you at least find who you were looking for?” he asked. The impish sparkle in his eye was all his mother.

“In a sense,” Glorfindel said and elaborated no further.

His mood changed as his thoughts once again turned to what he had discovered and how Elrond was going to take it. He declined Elrohir’s invitation to go and see his brother and went straight to Elrond, no matter how much he longed to postpone the conversation.

Elrond, of course, berated him gently for not resting, but even he could not hide his impatience. Glorfindel didn’t want to torment him despite his reluctance to share his news.

“Far into the north I went,” he began. “There they tell tales of the one-handed warrior, pale as death, red as blood, grim as the cold mountain peaks. Those are old tales, even the wisest consider them no more than stories. The warrior has not visited them for long years.

“Further into the north I went and heard more of the tales. He is a vengeful spirit of war, I was told. He is a scourge sent to deliver punishment for the sins of mankind. He is a benevolent shade who arrived at the last moment to turn the tide of war.

“I rode east for long days and nights, and everywhere I found people, I also found a tale of him. I followed down the line of tales from old to new, and finally, I reached a place wrecked by a recent battle.

“He had been gone long before I arrived, but the traces he left will take many years to be erased. They say he appeared on the battlefield out of nowhere, his sword reflecting the terrible gleam in his eyes. As soon as he did, the fate of the battle was decided. The other side stood no chance. They were decimated.

“I lost his trail after that. No one knew where he had come from and where he had gone. It might have taken me ages to find him again, so I turned back and returned home.”

Elrond sat silently, his gaze fixed on the flickers dancing in the fireplace.

“Do you believe it is truly him?” he asked finally.

“I cannot imagine any other elf that fits the description.”

Elrond nodded. “Why did he decide to join the battle?” he asked. “Was there a purpose?”

“Who could tell?”

“Was the side he fought for in the right? Did he fight to protect the weak? Was he fair in his judgment?”

“Elrond…” Glorfindel’s voice was soft. “It was a petty dispute over a hill. One side had no more right to it than the other. Elrond, I do not believe he took into consideration which side was in the right. He saw a battle and he went to spill blood.”

“He is not bloodthirsty.”

Glorfindel had never thought of Elrond as young. When he had arrived, Elrond was already a wise and venerable lord with ages of grief behind him. Now, though, he seemed an obstinate child, unwilling to see beyond what he believed true.

“They say his sword cut through armor like butter,” Glorfindel told him. “They say he paid no mind to who was before him. He killed. He chased down these people with the same ruthless competence he had once chased down orcs.”

He sighed, wondered if he should spare Elrond one last blow and decided he had to be honest.

“Do you want to know what I think?” he asked quietly, and when Elrond nodded, he continued. “I think he would have fought against the other side had he happened to wander into the battleground from the opposite end. I do not think he cares who he kills, Elrond.”

“I have to find him,” Elrond said.

“He has no wish to be found. Especially by you.”

Maybe there was something honorable left in him, after all. Glorfindel didn’t say that. Elrond knew what he thought about this endeavor of his.

“He makes a point of staying away from places where someone can recognize him,” he said. “No matter what transpired here, he never came close. Perhaps he did not know. Perhaps he did not want to know.” He put a hand on Elrond’s shoulder. “I will set out in search of him again if that is what you wish,” he said. “I can promise not to return until I have found him. But I cannot say what will happen if I do find him.”

Elrond smiled, and he was once again Idril's kind and wise grandson who Glorfindel had immediately taken a great liking to.

“You have done more than enough,” Elrond said. “I cannot begin to thank you for it. You speak true. For someone so recognizable, he can hide surprisingly well. There is no need for you to look for him.”

His smile was absent now, his look distant once again, and Glorfindel knew that the search was over for him but never for Elrond.

He was walking through a desert. It changed to a valley then. It turned into a forest. It became a frozen vastness. Then it was a desert again.

He was following the stench of blood. It was the only thing he remembered, the only thing that had always been with him. Perhaps it was the stench that was following him, perhaps he was carrying it along everywhere he went.

The wraith was with him. It, too, had always been with him, even when it disappeared. It always returned, talking about things he did not understand anymore, grinning at him like it knew a secret and refused to share it, pulling at his too long, hopelessly tangled hair with its pincher-like fingers.

“Do you hear the crackle in the air?” it asked. “It reminds me of the day we entered Doriath. A Maia surely used to live in these parts. Turko said it felt like being pierced by a thousand tiny needles. He said he liked the feeling. He said it was a good sign and grinned. He was so convinced he was right, so convinced that everything would turn out fine for him in the end. When we found him, he was still grinning. He had been a smiley child, our Tyelkormo.”

“Who?” he asked, dragging his feet through the sand.

“Elros reminded me of him sometimes,” the wraith continued. “Do you remember when he tried to run away and live in the forest just like Turko had done so many times?”

“No,” he said. He remembered nothing. He knew nothing but the smell of blood and the pain in his palm as he gripped his sword.

“Of course not,” the wraith said. “You think only of killing. You know nothing else. You have always been exceptionally good at it.”

That much was true. It was the only part of the conversation he understood and agreed with. The branch of the tree he had pushed away passed through the wraith and hit him on the face. He wiped the blood off of the thin cut, heedless of the distant mocking laughter.

“Where to now?” he heard. “You do not even have the excuse of killing the creatures of evil anymore. Another war? Another battle? More people to kill? How long will it go on?”

He didn’t answer. He knew the wraith didn’t always want his answers. It liked monologues. It also liked repeating itself, but it was fine because he hardly remembered what it had said before.

“Is the water warm?” the wraith asked.

He washed his face in the cool river water and got up, walking alongside it.

“The sea was warm,” the wraith continued. “But it makes no difference when you are drowning. You could have saved me, you know? If you had been fast enough, if you had started running a moment sooner, I could have been alive. You would not be alone.”

He coughed up the ash he had breathed in and stopped in the middle of the black field.

“You should have followed me,” the wraith said. “It would have been so much easier. But you could not, could you? You are undeserving of peace and rest.”

It was most likely true, but he wasn't certain, so he said nothing.

“I wish you had not thrown away my harp like it was useless,” the wraith said, almost wistfully.

He stumbled on the steep incline. “Who are you?” he asked.

The sounds scratched his throat and made his cracked lips bleed. He was startled by his own voice. He did not remember speaking aloud to the wraith before. It always heard his thoughts.

“Who are you?” the wraith echoed. “You do not remember, but I do. You have no name. You have never been anything else but a killer. You have never had a family, never had anyone who loved you.”

He was lying amid flowers. Thick, suffocating smoke was rising over the hill behind him. His sword was at home among the red poppies.

“I know,” he said.

“You will frighten them.”

Maglor spoke in Quenya and softly enough that the children could not hear. Maedhros blinked and turned to his brother, only now realizing that he had been staring at their guests with a look that many, including Maglor and Fingon, had described as unnerving.

He tried to smile, but it seemed to make the situation worse, so he walked away and stood with his back to the children.

“We can exchange them with the Silmaril when their parents return,” Maglor said hurriedly, as he had done many times on the way back.

“If they return,” Maedhros said. “She might be dead. They both might be dead. Their father has Noldorin blood, he is most likely dead.”

“You cannot be thinking of sending them to Gil-galad. They—”

“Of course not! I am not mad enough to send young children on their way when the roads are teeming with the Enemy’s creatures. Neither will I risk any of my people. The only way is if you or I accompanied them, but then we would have to face the King’s justice.”

He glanced at the children, who were whispering to each other and refusing to look at him.

“We keep them then,” Maglor said, “until their parents return.”

“We do,” Maedhros agreed. “Until this fort falls too. Then if we live yet, we shall decide what to do with them. But for now, they need to be washed, clothed and fed. It will be your duty. Choose your nurses and teachers well.”

“There are not many to choose from. You will have to help.”

Maedhros had not seen this look on his brother’s face for a long time. “You have grown fond of them,” he said.

He did not think there had been even a note of disapproval in his voice, but Maglor still grimaced.

“So have you,” he said. “Do not deny it. It has been a long time since we saw any children.”

“These are not any children. Do not forget who they are. Do not forget who you are.”

“Can you?” Maglor snapped. Out of the corner of his eye, Maedhros noticed the children tense. Maglor must have seen it too because he continued quietly but no less furiously. “Can you ever forget who you are?” He did not wait for Maedhros’s answer. “Then spare me your scolding and come with me. As I said, you will have to help.”

Elrohir sat beside the river and wondered how much farther they would have to go until his brother finally admitted he could not delay his decision any longer. He had agreed to accompany him for one last ride to make sure their sister’s descendants would be safe if they left. He had traveled with him further south than they had ever gone. He had not pestered him with the question. He had waited. But how long could he wait? The Sea was calling. Elrohir would have departed long ago if not for Elladan.

He reached out mentally to his brother who had ridden forward, restless even at a time of repose. His eyes flew wide open. He sprang to his feet and saw Elladan galloping back. Elrohir checked his sword, but it had not changed color.

“Someone is coming!” Elladan cried right when Elrohir called: “Something is closing on us!”

“It is no orc,” Elrohir said. “Did you see it? Is it an elf?”

“It was hard to say,” Elladan answered. “It could be a wraith. We should go and check before it disappears. It might be headed to Gondor.”

Elrohir jumped on his horse and rode alongside his brother. He noticed the wraith right away. It must have noticed them too because it stopped its staggering movements and waited, sword in hand. It was truly hard to tell what it was. While clearly visible if seen out of the corner of an eye, as soon as Elrohir tried to focus on individual features, they became hazy. Elrohir could not see the shape of its face, the color of its hair, could not even tell how tall it was. But he could see the veil of dread and sorrow it carried with him, so strong that it made Elrohir shake in the saddle.

It was an elf, he realized with shock, an ancient elf, slowly succumbing to memories and grief the size of the drowned Beleriand.

“Hail and well met,” Elladan called.

The elf did not move, did not even look at them. Elladan glanced at Elrohir, and they both dismounted. The elf finally turned his burning eyes to them, then looked to his right. His lips moved without a sound.

“My brother and I are traveling,” Elladan said, sensing perhaps that questioning the elf would be of no use or deciding to lure him into identifying himself. “We have heard of orcs and other evil creatures appearing in the south. We are going to find out if it is true to keep our people safe.”

The elf’s lips kept moving for a few moments before he finally said: “No need.”

“What do you mean?” Elladan asked.

“None left,” said the elf.

Even his voice was ancient, reaching them from beyond the ages. A relic that waves had stolen from the depths of history and had carelessly cast to the shore.

Elladan looked at Elrohir again, pointedly. Elrohir nodded and took a step closer to the elf. He focused on him and finally saw the dried blood splattered across his face and the tarnished silver of his eyes.

“Do you need help, stranger?” he asked. “You seem weary and injured. There is a dark shadow hanging over you. Perhaps you could rest for a while by the river. We are no healers, but our father is, and my brother has learned much from him.”

The elf turned to the side again and said nothing. Elrohir stepped forward and took his arm, despite Elladan’s warning look. The elf’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword, but he didn’t draw it. He looked at Elrohir as if he was a vision, then stared at the arm Elrohir was holding. He moved it, opened his palm. The half-healed wound on it was unlike anything Elrohir had seen before. A quick glance at Elladan confirmed that he was similarly puzzled despite his vaster experience with healing. It was his sword hand too. His right had to be in worse condition if he had to resort to using his left with such an injury. Elrohir looked at it but didn’t see it. He tried to concentrate, but it still wasn’t there.

The tales of the Elder Days flickered in his head rapidly, the stories of doom and valor, of grief and joy walking side by side. He let go of the stranger’s arm and turned to Elladan who was walking behind them. His brother, however, was staring at the elf’s back, his eyes wide.

Elrohir squinted and realized that the stranger’s hair wasn’t covered in clay as had been his initial fleeting assumption. It was reddish in color, falling in dreadful clumps down his back. He had no doubts now of the elf’s identity. Neither did Elladan, who moved his hand closer to his belt, but took a decisive step forward and gripped the mangled wrist of Maedhros the kinslayer, who had once been known as Nelyafinwë, son of Fëanor, as Maitimo, a Prince of the Noldor, as Russandol, their father’s abductor and guardian.

They sat down at the river bank. Maedhros silently accepted the leather flask of water and the lembas they offered. The brothers conversed in their minds, while the ancient Lord of Himring and thrice kinslayer sat beside them and stared at the running water. He seemed to be having a conversation of his own, whether with himself or the river or with someone only he could see, Elrohir couldn’t tell.

“You may ride with us to the west,” Elladan said suddenly.

“To the west,” Maedhros repeated. “I was going to the west.”

“What for?” Elrohir asked.

Elladan admonished him with a look for the question. The answer was clear in Maedhros's dimmed eyes, in his worn face, in the way he teetered on the edge of the material world.

“We abide for now in Imladris,” Elladan said. “You may rest there.”

Elrohir wondered if this was another chance for his brother to put away his decision, or if it might be what would push him to choose the Undying Lands.

There was no answer from Maedhros, but Elrohir wasn’t expecting any.

“You may trust us,” he said. “We know who you are. You knew our father once. Elrond he was named by his mother, driven off a cliff by your sword at the Mouths of Sirion. Yet our father loved you and Maglor your brother. Long he looked for you and in vain, but here you are, found at last by his sons. Perhaps this is no coincidence. Perhaps we were destined to meet.”

There was nothing more than a twitch of an eyelid from Maedhros at the mention of their father and his brother, but Elrohir still took heart.

“Elrohir I am called in the tradition of the line of Lúthien,” he said and watched Maedhros shudder, “and this is Elladan, my brother. Come with us. In Imladris, we may heal your hurts.”

“Not all of them,” Elladan said.

“Not all of them,” Elrohir agreed, “and yet we might bring you some relief.”

Maedhros took a long look at his face, then at Elladan’s. It was hard to meet his painful gaze, but Elrohir and his brother persisted. Then Maedhros turned to his right.

“Makalaurë,” he said. “I know them.”

The legend says he still travels all over the world, following the call of the battle. He cannot be perceived by mortal eyes anymore, but he is where there is blood, where weapons are clashing, where war cry rings, his sword unseen but still sharp.

The legend says he travels now with a companion or perhaps two. They might be with him to keep him safe, they might be haunting him.

The legend says he has gone mad under the weight of his sins and wanders aimlessly along the western shore. He speaks to no one but himself or perhaps to a presence known only to him.

The legend says he has been long gone from these shores and has passed beyond the Sea on the last ship to the West with the last of his family.

The legend does not say what is the truth. It does not say his name, where he has come from, nor who he used to be. Only an echo of his deeds is left in the mortal world, only tales of blood and woe, of memories hidden away and rediscovered, of hope lost and regained.