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Most days, Maedhros rose in the morning thinking of nothing. When the First Age had dawned on Ennor, Maedhros had always had a plan for the day. He had spent hours of his life trying to predict Morgoth’s next move, thinking up strategies for their next attack, and coming up with ways to prevent his brothers from killing each other or the rest of the high elves. Looking back now, he had seen more defeats than victories in all of these areas.
The beginning years of the Second Age he had spent as little more than a shell, his mind caught in past regrets and near insanity. His brother had only fared slightly better; it was ironic how, in the end, Maglor had proven to be the strongest of them all.
Since then, Maedhros did not make plans for the day anymore unless he could not avoid it. He liked to think that it helped him avoid surprises, because he didn’t expect anything, but it really did not.
All his life he had considered Maglor to be the most predictable one among his brothers. While Celegorm, Caranthir, and Curufin had often caused him headaches, he had always been able to count on Maglor to be the most even-tempered of them all. The bard did not take pleasure in catching his family or friends off-guard.
Yet from time to time he did. Maedhros expected to find him at the breakfast table this morning, but his brother was not there.
“Himedhel,” Maedhros called to his steward. “Where is Makalaurë?”
“He left early this morning as the sun rose,” the elf replied.
“That early?” Maedhros frowned. “Did he take his horse? A guard?”
“He took his horse, sir, but no guard.”
A displeased look crossed the Fëanorion’s face. Maglor never left alone without telling him, never - except...
Thoughtfully, Maedhros ate his breakfast.
He had nearly forgotten, and considering his own role in the whole affair, that was astonishing. The anniversary of the day on which hundreds of years ago they had attacked the camp of the Valar was not far off; that day, they had lost the last two Silmarilli, one to water, the other to earth.
His hand was numb today, no better or worse than usual. Maedhros could guess what drew Maglor: the sea.
Even if threatened with death, Maedhros would not have been able to find the chasm into which he had thrown the jewel and nearly himself. He supposed that the Valar might have closed it in the aftermath of the War of Wrath, or that he had simply suppressed any memory of the location. Even trying to remember earned him nothing but blankness.
Yes, he yearned for the Silmaril; but it remained unattainable, and only in his weakest moments did he allow himself to feel the thirst.
His brother Maglor had given his Silmaril to the sea. Moreover, the sea also represented the path to their home which might or might not be barred from them - perhaps even forever. During the first years after the end of the War of Wrath, Maglor had not dared leave Maedhros’ side. The older elf had been too unstable to be alone. Yet later the bard had wandered off whenever they were near the sea to see it, the illusion of proximity of the jewel and their home drawing him towards it.
Maglor would be back, and thus Maedhros had at first no intention of following him. But one day turned into two and then three, and while logically Maedhros knew that it would take at least a week for his brother to return, he found himself restless without him near. The days stretched on seemingly infinitely and full of boredom – as did much of an elf’s life, if Maedhros were to be truthful - and with nothing to distract him, he decided to follow his brother.
Thus he spent the evening making lembas with Himedhel’s aid, took a bath, and finally went to bed. The next morning, he set out without guard. Times were peaceful for a change, and he had no desire to be with anyone on those days but his brother.
The sea was closest to their fortress in the north, so Maedhros rode in that direction. He did not know where to find his brother, but he felt certain that their family bond would lead him better than any map.
It did not betray him. He found Maglor’s horse first, grazing not far from the beach. Maedhros left his horse there as well before climbing up the muddy hills.
Not seeing Maglor right away, he followed the shoreline westwards. Surely his brother would not leave his horse too far behind.
He heard Maglor before he saw him, and the song made him freeze once he recognized it. It was the Noldolantë as Maglor had sung it to the camp of the Valar. Maedhros only vaguely remembered it. Now that he heard again, he remembered the indignity of rough rope binding his limbs when he woke and heard his brother singing.
Maedhros had never heard it in its entirety. It was long, Elrond had once mentioned, and brilliant as all of his brother’s works, with the Noldolantë probably being the best of them all. The eldest son of Fëanor would not have been so quick to claim that. He had heard his brother sing regularly in Valinor, and he found that he preferred the songs his brother had composed during that time above all others.
Maglor had never sung the Noldolantë anywhere where Maedhros had been around to hear. Even now Maglor had already long begun the song, his voice recalling the events of the first kinslaying at Alqualondë. If the pictures for those who had not been there were even half as vivid as the ones which came to Maedhros’ mind now, it was no surprise the unlearnt claimed that this was Maglor’s best work.
He lowered himself into the sand where it was less wet - rain being very common in the north - and listened while Maglor remained unaware of his brother’s presence. The piece was indeed long; Maglor had not spared any detail, the song not meant to defend their actions nor excuse them. That had never been their way.
Once Maglor had reached the end, he remained facing the sea for some time before heaving a large sigh and turning to go back along the shore. That was when he spied Maedhros out of the corner of his eye.
He hesitated for a moment, only moving when Maedhros rose and walked towards him.
“How long have you been here, brother?” the bard asked.
“Only since you sang of Alqualondë. I have never heard you sing the entire Noldolantë, though many have praised it.”
“I did not know whether you wished to hear it,” Maglor replied, avoiding his eyes.
“Aye, you are right that I am weaker than I used to be. But we have never denied our deeds. Sing it for me again, brother, if you would.”
Maglor sang, from beginning to end, leaving nothing out. And Maedhros sat next to him in the sand, dry eyed as they gazed across the sea towards the west.