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He means to die. He steps to the very edge of the crack, looks into the magma below, and means to jump. It cannot possibly hurt worse than the Silmaril burning through his hand.
But Maglor sees him, and Maglor runs forward, and Maglor shoves him to safety -
And then Maglor - Maglor -
It is not, it turns out, a very stable piece of land, that edge.
Maedhros springs forward with a cry, but his last living brother slips through his fingers, and the last he hears of his brother’s beautiful voice is a scream as bad as any in Angband.
Maedhros stares down at the magma and there is no reason in the world not to join him.
No reason save that Maglor has just - just -
Maglor is gone because he didn’t want Maedhros to do that. All of his other brothers have died for nothing. He cannot let Maglor do the same.
That’s what he reasons out later.
The moment it happens he just stands there and can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t -
Can’t.
He wanders. He doesn’t care where he goes. It doesn’t matter.
He puts the Silmaril in a pouch at his waist.
In his dreams, it still burns.
He hears scraps of news sometimes. Tyelpe still lives and is building a city. Elros is mortal and sailing to build a new kingdom. Elrond is serving under Gil-Galad.
There is other news too, but it falls out of his head like water through a sieve, like hope from the Noldor, like Maglor from his outstretched hand.
It’s hard to survive on his own with just one badly scarred hand.
When the Silmaril falls from its pouch and he reaches out unthinkingly to catch it, hard becomes impossible. The fresh burn on top of the scar makes nearly everything unmanageable.
In a hand curled like a claw, he manages to scoop the Silmaril back into its pouch. He doesn’t bother looking for water to soak his hand in.
He just turns his face to Tyelpe’s city. Possibly he will be cut down at the gates, but it doesn’t matter.
All that matters is getting the Silmaril somewhere safe. He cannot just hold onto it until some poor traveler pries it from his corpse and accidentally starts another war. Tyelpe will know what to do with it.
And then Maedhros can go back to the wilderness and walk until he cannot walk anymore, and it will not be his fault when he falls.
Or at least no more his fault than everything is.
He has a dozen stories planned to get through the gates. He doesn’t end up using any of them because absolutely no one tries to stop him from strolling right in.
Maedhros frowns and thinks that perhaps before he goes he should talk to Tyelpe about his security.
He is not sure where to find his nephew, and he doesn’t dare draw attention to himself by asking, so he just heads toward the forges and hopes for the best.
It works. He hears a familiar voice ranting passionately inside the largest one, and he slips inside. Tyelpe is there, project momentarily set aside to debate some point with his companion.
“Tyelpe,” Maedhros calls, and his voice breaks. “Celebrimbor,” he corrects because that’s what his nephew prefers now, isn’t it?
Celebrimbor turns, eyes going wide. His companion turns too, and Maedhros stumbles back when he sees those eyes.
“Gorthaur,” he chokes out in horror. A thousand remembered pains return.
Celebrimbor tenses, but the monster just frowns in concern. “I am called Annatar, my friend. Are you quite well?”
“Do not try your tricks on me,” Maedhros spits. “I learned to see through them all by the end.”
“By the - Then you were a thrall! I assure you, you are safe here. Perhaps a healer - “ He stops when Celebrimbor draws back towards Maedhros. “Surely you are not taking these ravings seriously!”
Celebrimbor says nothing, just looks grimly between them, and Maedhros -
Maedhros is desperate and has nothing left to lose save his nephew, so he puts his ruined hand into the pouch and draws forth the Silmaril with its condemning light.
It does not burn.
In the amazement over that, he almost misses Sauron’s flinch.
Celebrimbor does not, and Sauron knows it. He immediately changes tactics.
“I did warn you that not all in my past was to the good,” he says mournfully. “I have changed, Celebrimbor. I desire a new start. Surely you of all people can understand that?”
Celebrimbor hesitates.
Sauron presses. “Think of all the good we could still do together, the things we could build, the power we could share - “
Celebrimbor’s face shuts down instantly. “As my grandfather once said: Get thee gone from my gate, thou jail-crow of Mandos.”
Sauron’s face becomes terrible in its wrath. “And how will you make me, least and weakest of a failed line?” he hisses. “Your mightiest elders could not vanquish me, and you think you will? With what? The sword you leave carelessly in your room? The Silmaril you know not how to wield? The aid of an uncle who can no longer even grasp a weapon?”
He’s not entirely wrong. Maedhros does the only thing he can think of.
He is already far beyond his father’s forgiveness in any case for letting his brothers die, and the Oath is given up for lost.
He throws the Silmaril directly at Sauron’s face.
Only Feanor and the Valar may know how to properly wield its magic, but its burning properties are straightforward enough.
Sauron screams.
And Celebrimbor reaches into his pocket, and when he pulls his hand out, he’s wearing three blindingly bright rings. He clenches his hand into a fist and repeats, “Get. Thee. Gone.”
The wave of power is so immense that Maedhros stumbles back.
Sauron howls in wounded fury and vanishes.
“He’ll be back,” Maedhros says wearily and plods his way towards the Silmaril. He probably ought to scoop it up again, but he’s not sure if the non-burning trend will continue when he’s not in direct opposition to the greatest evil remaining in this world.
“Of course he will be,” Celebrimbor says and sits down rather hard on the nearest available surface in order to better laugh rather hysterically. “Sauron. In my city.”
“You dismissed him well,” Maedhros offers. “Though I don’t think he was technically ever a prisoner of Mandos.”
“Yes. Well. You try thinking of something nicely witty in the moment. I don’t know how Grandfather did it.”
Maedhros squints at the rings still on Celebrimbor’s hand. Their glow is dimming now. “Speaking of Father,” he says cautiously, “I thought you were foreswearing our mistakes, not reliving them.”
Celebrimbor looks down at them ruefully. “I’m not a complete fool,” he says. “I knew something was off. These were just … a backup plan of sorts. Although I don’t think I’d admitted that even to myself.”
“Right,” Maedhros says, still more tired than anything. And who is he to lecture Celebrimbor? “While we’re on the topic of our family’s mistakes, I want you to have that one.” He nods to the Silmaril still on the floor. “It’s why I came, actually.”
“And I’m very glad you did,” Celebrimbor says. Maedhros tries not to dwell on the undeserved warmth the words summon. “But are you sure? The Oath won’t … “
“Won’t matter in a few months,” Maedhros says dismissively. “I can hold it for that long even if the Oath doesn’t recognize you as a legitimate holder of it.”
Celebrimbor freezes.
Maedhros holds up his ruined hand. “He was wrong about many things,” he says, “but not when he said I couldn’t hold a sword.”
Celebrimbor is by his side in an instant. “You need to see a healer for this. Elrond is coming for a visit soon, I’m sure he can help, and until then there are many talented healers in the city - “
“I did not come to impose upon your hospitality,” Maedhros interrupts.
Celebrimbor glares at him. “No, you came so you could die in peace. Surely you don’t still mean to do that after what we’ve just discovered.”
He ought to stay, Maedhros realizes. Celebrimbor never fought on the front lines of the war. Maedhros could help.
“I’m very tired,” he says quietly.
“Please, uncle,” Tyelpe begs.
Maedhros’s shoulders slump in defeat. “We keep my identity quiet for as long as we can.”
“If you like,” his nephew agrees instantly. “Although some of your old followers would be very glad to see you.”
Maedhros ignores this. “If my being here starts to cause trouble, I leave immediately.”
Celebrimbor begins to steer him towards the door, probably with the intention of getting him to a healer. “I’m sure we can resolve it peacefully.”
“And we are not bothering Elrond with my hand.”
“Whatever you say, Uncle Maedhros. Whatever you say.”
Maedhros doesn’t trust that tone, but he’s tired.
If this is the outcome, perhaps for just a moment it will be alright not to fight.