The Last Home at the End of the World by elennalore

The Last Home at the End of the World

I should be dead – and yet, I am here. In a cottage that strangely resembles the little house in which we lived with Elrond and Elros for a while. The place I could – almost – call home if I wouldn’t know that we were nothing but a mock image of a family. The children were forced into living with the killers of their kin, does that sound right to you? At least they did not strangle us in our sleep, as should have been their next logical step. But they don’t do revenge, those children.

They have not been children for some time, I remember. And I should not be here. I am here, nevertheless, and the pain has stopped. I open my clenched fist. Warily at first, for I fear that it might not be a pretty sight. But the corrosive marks – those I saw on my palm before – have vanished. No burnt flesh, no visible tendons in open wounds, no blood seeping between the fingers. My hand holds no Silmaril, either. Remarkably, the radiance of the hallowed jewel has not left my palm, even though the pain has gone. My flesh shines now with the light of the West.

I look out of the window. It should be daytime, but the light is too dim. Ash clouds have covered all sky. I remember the taste of ash on my sooty lips when I was hanging on Thangorodrim. But Angband fell, did it not? And this is – later. Why is there so much ash in the air still?

So much ash, and no birdsong. The garden surrounding the house is as empty of life as the house itself. Where has everyone gone to? Where has all the life gone to –

 – and I wince as I remember myself taking a life. The light in the eyes that stare at me in horror dying out. I have seen it happen countless times, I have done it countless times, and some might say I have become quite good at it, even though I use my left hand to hold a sword.

I have lost my sword somewhere. Now I am defenceless against my enemies.

I cannot remember who my enemies are.

Perhaps I should be worried that I cannot remember coming back here, either. This part of my life should long have been over. I mean those days when my main duty for the day was to cook porridge to the twins – you only need one hand to ladle porridge in the bowls of two hungry kids. Or the days when it was pouring rain outside, and we sat by the fireplace and told each other stories that had a happy ending.

This has to be some other time, though. There is no one else in this house, and I have a feeling that they have left long ago. We all have left long ago.

Why have I returned?

Then my eyes spot a melted spoon on a table, beside a small bowl that has a painted peacock on it. I know the peacock is there, blue and golden, but I cannot see it, for the bowl is melted, too. Almost unrecognizable.

And I remember.

I won’t call it fire, for it had not the airy quality of a hearth fire. It was molten rock. It was liquid fire. The land spilled lava out from wide cracks that surrounded us, like pus oozing from a wound. We saw the fire carving its way across the land. The world was dying all around us.

A jewel in my hand was too beautiful. I could not let it go, even though it burned my flesh.

But to be marked unworthy in such a way, it was cruel. Even after everything I had done, it was still cruel. Deep in my heart, however, I knew that I deserved it. So, I bowed down and stepped into abyss. I should be dead –

– and yet, I am here. And I start to suspect that I am actually right, and this empty place is, indeed, death.

“Not the Halls of Mandos, though,” a voice of a woman says. A pleasant voice, but not one I have heard before. Or perhaps I just haven’t paid attention? She gives me a smile, but a tear is running down her cheek. She wears a veil over her eyes.

“I suppose not,” I confirm. “This place happened to be my home once.” I look at my hand that has already begun to fade. The bright light spreads along my arm. It does not hurt anymore.

She looks around, as if she is genuinely interested. I cannot see her eyes behind the veil, but I suspect she is silently crying, grieving for the former inhabitants of the house.

“I thought Mandos would send one of his own,” I say in a small voice. “Or even come himself. But – you...” I hesitate because I don’t want to sound ungrateful. “I did not expect you, Lady Nienna.”

A trace of a smile appears on her face. “I have been watching you for some time, Maedhros.” She extends her slender hand. “Well, will you come with me?”

“Where will you take me?” I ask obstinately, even though I know what the answer will be.

“To your original home.” Her extended hand is still waiting for my decision, palm upward. Welcoming. She must know that I would have refused the call if a Maia of Mandos had come for me. Ah, to be in the good graces of the Lady of grief and sorrow.

I take her hand, and even though my own hand has all but faded by now, I can feel her gentle touch guiding me forward, one step at a time.