Míril found herself standing behind the Great Gate in the Hall of Tapestries. Vairë had snuck her in a few moments before. It was dark and brooding in the Halls. Corridor after corridor ran side by side, with rooms spaced evenly. It ran on forever, or at least as far to forever as Míril could investigate. She had been given specific directions to her target.
The dark slate floors and grey stone walls were uninviting to say the least, and the iron bar doors were reminiscent of a prison. She supposed this place was indeed like a prison, a place to hold those not yet ready to be placed out in Aman. After all, one became “released” from the halls, just like release from prison.
What surprised her was that every room was shrouded from her sight. Though they were iron bar doors, she could not see through them, as if some kind of mist lingered there. None were visible until she came to her destination.
In the center of the floor, cross-legged and head bowed low, was a man. His red hair was shiny despite the rest of him looking simply… tired. She could not see his face. An overwhelming sense of pity washed over her like a wave. Míril should've hated this elf; he had committed all three kinslayings and stolen a Silmaril.
But as she looked at his hunched over form, she realized this was also the elf who killed himself. This was an elf so overcome by pain he leapt into a fiery chasm to his death. This was Maglor’s brother, her distant uncle. Lady Nienna had taught her pity.
“Maedhros,” she whispered, kneeling down and placing her hands on the vertical cast iron bars.
He made no movement. She recalled what Maglor had told her and decided it time to try. Reaching into her sack, she pulled out the lyre Maglor had gifted to her in Middle Earth. Sitting with her side against the door, she began to play.
“First of seven, once Elven king
Weilded sword with left hand swing.
His hair as brilliant as scarlet fire.
He led his folk when times were dire.
But knowing when to step away,
He gave the crown to uncle fey.”
Míril saw Maedhros’ fingers twitch.
“Befriended cousin when all in doubt
That friendship between these kin could sprout.
Of Findekáno he did think
Beside the shores as ships did sink.
But no hope he felt for his long lost friend
Fearing Fingon would meet his end
In the Helcaraxë icy cold
Yet he knew his kin were rightly bold.”
Maedhros raised his head slightly, cocking it to the side as he listened. Still she could not see his eyes.
“He took his place as elven king
Though his father's death did sting.
Yet not long after, orcs played a game.
Stole him away, and none there came
To save their king upon the mount
Save cousin Fingon, who did not discount
Their friendship of long times past
And there he was rescued then at last.”
Maedhros raised his face and looked at last upon Míril. A question was in his eyes. Míril continued.
“Upon return he bowed his head
To the half brother his father wanted dead
Recognizing at then last
The folly of their oathsworn task
Yet even brothers here did scorn
But Maedhros stood there, tall and worn.”
Maedhros began to scoot towards her, not believing she was real. Still, Míril sang.
“Through many years, he lived his life.
Beneath the trees, beneath their light.
But also here upon Middle Earth,
He found his mettle, he found his worth.
Yet still the oath drove him ever onward
And at last he grabbed the jewel so honored.
Burning his only remaining hand,
He saw no action, no other plan,
Than to leap into the fire
Where a last he died in flaming pyre.”
Maedhros leaned against the iron bars. His head would've been over a foot above hers had he not slumped so far in exhaustion. Míril finished her playing and placed a hand on the bar closest to her.
“You have a wonderful voice,” Maedhros managed to croak out. “Though I do wonder, my lady, how you come by my brother’s harp. Makalaurë never parted from it long. Especially to a spirit such as you.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She smiled at him sadly. “Though I am no spirit.”
“That is my mind speaking.” He gave a short, humorless laugh.
Míril had an idea. “Place your hand on the bar.”
With his right hand, a hand which had been restored, he slowly and skeptically placed it in the iron door’s bars. Míril grabbed his pale hand slowly, and found it cold.
But the change in Maedhros was instantaneous. “By what great honor has Lord Mandos decided to let you in?”
“He doesn't know,” admitted Míril.
Maedhros laughed. “Of course he knows. He knows all. It must've been appointed that you should be here by Iluvatar, or Manwë.”
“Lady Vairë and Míriel showed me in,” Míril continued.
“And who,” Maedhros asked, raising his eyes to meet her own, “are you?”
Míril paused to take a deep breath before continue. “My name is Míril, I am the descendent of your brother Caranthir.”
“Míril Fëanoriel?” He looked at her in surprise. “That name is known to me. The handmaids of Vairë often tell me tales of your exploits on their visits.”
“Really?” Her face lit up in surprise. “I am honored that you know my name.”
Maedhros chuckled before something in his head made him stop. “And I am honored that you would take the time to speak to a kinslayer such as myself.”
“You speak to the Handmaidens, then?” Míril asked curiously, changing the subject quickly. “They visit?”
Maedhros smiled, nodding vigorously. “Yes, they do! I met Míriel once, you know. My grandmother.”
Míril smiled and ducked her head laughing lightly. “I just met her myself. She’s nice.”
“A rare trait for the Fëanorian family,” Maedhros said ruefully. “Most would say at least.”
“I think not,” she shook her head. “This family, our family, may be renowned for its vengefulness,” she sighed. “myself included. However I think this is not all we are about.”
Maedhros, still sitting against the bars, smiled and shook his head as he thought about her comment. “Who would've thought a descendent of Fëanor would've ended up marrying the son of Elrond. I wouldn’t have imagined it had you given me ages to think about it!”
“You did a wonderful job with Maglor,” Míril chuckled lightly, laying her hand on his own. “Raising Elrond and Elros. Elrond’s sons are perfect. Elrohir most especially.”
Maedhros laughed merrily. “Why thank you!”
“I have four children, too. Aderthon, my eldest and only son, wields my sword now.” She smiled softly, thinking of them. “My middle daughters, twins, have hair like your own. Círeth and Fëalas.” She paused. “Then my youngest…”
“No need to speak of her if you do not wish it,” Maedhros assured her, a dark look on his face shrouding his joy. “I know what happened to her. She was too alike to us.”
Míril remained silent, staring at the floor. “Yes. But she is still my daughter.” She closed her eyes and whispered. “Tinneth, I love you, wherever you are.”
Maedhros, seeing the pain in her face, was reminded of his mother’s own when he left Valinor. She had stood, at the top of the hill, watching in anguish as they swore their oaths.
“Mother’s never stop loving their children,” Maedhros reminded her. “I wish mothers realized that though we children stray, we never lose that love either, deep in our hearts.”
Míril felt tears in her eyes, but there was no excruciating pain. She thanked Estë for that. She looked at Maedhros and he took her hand. After a moment, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Vairë stood behind her. It was time to leave.
“Let my mother know that I love her, and please,” he frowned. “Visit soon.”
“Of course,” Míril nodded furiously. “I will come often.”
“It is time,” Vairë smiled lightly. “Farewell, Nelyafinwë.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Maedhros looked up at the Valie in appreciation. “This was a gift I am not deserving of.”
Vairë smiled lightly and bent down as Míril collected herself in the corner. The Valie reached forward and took his hand. “Despite what some say, you are hardly the worst elf to live in my husband’s halls. Take heart.”
As she stood back up, she nodded her head at him and he stood to bow. Miril watched in awe as his full height was revealed. Tall even among elves, Maedhros toward above her, all but even with Vairë.
“Farewell, Míril Fëanoriel.”
She sniffled. “Farewell, Maedhros.”