Note: Set in Lingering series

Author's note: Thanks goes to HaloFin17 for combing over this, fixing issues and giving me her much valued opinion and encouragement. And thank you also to my readers, many of which I know still return to this series whenever I post a new story. It's been a long time, but I'm still alive and kicking, or rather, writing.

Boromir was annoyed, both at himself and at everyone else. The sword, the Ranger, the unfamiliarity of Rivendell... it all disturbed him when it shouldn't disturb a man of Gondor. He made his way back to his rooms—it was late anyway. It seemed that most elves and their other guests had gathered in one of their halls, as there was no one about. Only when he crossed a courtyard did two tall figures appear in the corner of his eyes. Appeared was an apt word, as he had not heard either of them. He took pride in his sharp hearing, which had saved him in his years as a warrior, but here in Rivendell it failed him more often than not: the elves walked as if on air. Even their long cloaks, robes and dresses seemed to move noiselessly, as if magic aided them.

They were both tall, but one taller than the other. That taller elf's hair was fiery red, braided carefully and elegantly away from his face. He was dressed in blue, but not like the elves of Rivendell, nor like the woodelves that had arrived only recently. Boromir froze when he noted that one arm ended in a stump.

Maedhros, son of Fëanor, was in Rivendell.

He knew the stories. Even if Faramir had not read them to him countless times, he knew them. Here walked one of the greatest and most fell elves, one who was not easily welcomed, it was said, by the other elves. But here, in Rivendell, Maedhros looked calm and unconcerned.

His companion was dark-haired, similarly dressed in noble but practical clothing. He carried no harp, but it could only be Maedhros' brother Maglor, the Bard.

The younger was the first to notice Boromir. His eyes were bright and piercing. Boromir avoided them and lengthened his strides. He still felt their eyes on his back.

Mithril crowned his and Maglor's head. Robes had Withd their more practical clothing. They sat in a circle, looking upon the dwarves, hobbits, elves and men who had come together, either at Elrond's behest or through a series of coincidences, hoping to find a solution for the Ring.

Elrond had already revealed to him and Maglor the presence of what was fancifully called the "Bane of Isildur". Maedhros thought that it was more the other way around: Isildur had been the bane for the rest of them. But he knew he was being unfair. The Ring was powerful.

It was fairly clear what had to be done to the Ring; Elrond knew it too. But the half-elf hoped that the other races would come to the same conclusion and that they, in a united effort that had been lacking the last centuries, would finally throw it into Mount Doom.

Had they been a couple of decades earlier, or even when Sauron had still dwelt in the Mirkwood in disguise, Maedhros would have called it a much easier task. By now, however, Sauron had regained much in strength. His armies, orc, goblin and human, waited in masses right inside Mordor for their time to strike. Going there now… it seemed impossible; he would do it if called upon, of course, though he doubted that he would be. Anyone with two hands would be a better choice.

The council began. Elrond welcomed them all and introduced each by name. Maedhros knew most of them: the elves of course, but the hobbits, too, as he had met Bilbo in Rivendell before, and he knew that Frodo was his nephew. The dwarves he did not remember; and of course there was Elrond's last foster-son, who was introduced as Strider. The other man on the council was Boromir, the heir of Denethor of Gondor. Maedhros had known of the man's existence, of course, and seen the human the night before in the garden. He had looked like a suspicious hound, and Maedhros had not cared at the time.

At last, Elrond introduced the brothers:

"Maedhros, son of Fëanor, who was once High King of the Noldor ages past, and Maglor, son of Fëanor, his brother."

"Your names are known even in the South from tales nearly forgotten," Boromir remarked.

And one of the dwarves said: "I know you were once in Erebor to see the Arkenstone, and your father's name is known even among the dwarven smiths, for his skill was unparallelled." He did not look too comfortable admitting it, but it was the highest compliment by a dwarf. Maedhros thanked him courtly.

Then Elrond began and called upon the dwarves to report what they had come for. Glóin spoke of the dark rider come from Sauron offering rings, and their comrade's attempt to retake Moria, from whom they had not heard. None of this was news to Maedhros, unfortunately. He was well-informed. Dáin, Maedhros felt, would be strong enough to deny the rider a third time, too, but he shared the dwarves' concern about King Brand of Dale. No Bard was he!

And at last they spoke of the Ring, the one Sauron dared claim to the dwarves to be a "trifle". Maedhros sneered. Even they would know better.

Elrond recounted the tale of the Ring, a tale that few knew the full version of; yes, the high elves had kept well quiet about their own failings in Eregion. And apparently the South had never heard that Isildur had cut the ring off Sauron's finger.

"So that is what became of the Ring!" Boromir cried. "If ever such a tale was told in the South, it has long been forgotten. I have heard of the Great Ring of him that we do not name; but we believed that it perished from the world in the ruin of his first realm. Isildur took it! That is tidings indeed."

"Alas! Yes," said Elrond. "Isildur took it, as should not have been(1)." And the half-elf told the tale until its end, until they left the mystery of the past and arrived at last in the present day.

Boromir then took over in speaking of Gondor's pride and woes and the reason for his coming to Rivendell. It surprised Maedhros how large the rift had become between the races, and how well Imladris' secret of its location was still kept, that in the South the valley and its inhabitants were only recalled by reputation. Yet unfortunately the same was true the other way around, for few knew what price Gondor had paid in the last decades. For a riddle the man had made the journey, and indeed, to any who did not see the entire picture, it was impossible to decipher. Aragorn then presented the broken blade and revealed himself, which led to Frodo at last revealing the presence of the Ring.

Then it lay upon the wooden block in the middle of their circle, and immediately, Maedhros could feel it work its spell.

It found its first victim in Boromir.

"It is a gift! A gift to the foes of Mordor!"

Maedhros watched with narrowed eyes as Boromir reached for It. Maedhros' every muscle tensed, and he prepared himself to interfere should the man actually touch It—at whatever cost.

Elrond forestalled him. "Boromir!" He called the man's name at the same time as Gandalf rose.

And as the wizard's recited the Ring's inscription, his voice was suddenly full of menace and harshness. Clouds threw Rivendell into abrupt darkness. The power of the wizard together with the influence of the invoked spell of the Ring made the elves flinch with mental anguish and Boromir, fear grasping him, retreated.

Maedhros threw the imagined pain off, sprung up from his chair and, before he knew it even himself, stood above the Ring with his sharpest knife in his hand.

"None shall use it!" he cried, and for a brief moment he forgot himself. Later, he would thank Maglor for saving them all.

"Varda Elentári!" His brother called upon the Valar behind him. Maglor's voice rose in song with a prayer. His voice was potent, and the Quenya flowing from his tongue was like like a spell in itself, like cool water soothing a burning wound. It was a short prayer, but Maglor's voice was more powerful than the Ring's. Seemingly without effort, the son of Fëanor overpowered the dark magic. The clouds, and the pain that tormented their minds, dissipated. Yet the memory of fear remained. Maglor could likely have taken that away as well, but he wanted those present to remember it. Maedhros lowered his arm, suddenly very much in control of himself again. The prayer had calmed the members of the council, and quelled the Ring's whispers—for a time, at least.

"The Ring is dangerous. It preys upon each and every one of us." Maedhros emphasised what should have been understood and returned to his own chair.

Elrond glared at Gandalf. "Never before has any voice uttered that tongue here in Imladris."

The wizard refused to apologise, and Maedhros could see his point.

Yet as if nothing had happened, the man from Gondor spoke up again: "Why not use this ring?"

"Did I not just say that the Ring is dangerous?" Maedhros repeated. "And did Gandalf not just say that it is 'altogether evil'? Listen to the voices of reason, Man! Not to the Ring!" But already he wondered why he even spoke at all. This Man would not hear the advice of elves or dwarves, or of any other race than his own.

That first day of the Council was just the first meeting in several. The days were dragging on. They made progress, yes, but not quickly enough in Maedhros' mind. They had at last been able to agree that a fellowship made up of all races should be formed and go to Mount Doom.

The hobbit Frodo Baggins had agreed to carry the Ring himself, and Maedhros pitied him. Yet he found him to be the best candidate short of an elf: that men were easy to sway had been proven enough already; and while the dwarves were hardy in resisting Sauron's direct intentions, the Ring was made of gold, and gold sickness thus remained a risk. The hobbit, on the other hand, Maedhros sensed had a pure soul. If he returned from this mission, he would be greatly harmed. But Maedhros did not doubt that he was a good, if not the best, choice from among them.

With the ringbearer chosen, and Boromir and Aragorn volunteering to support the cause in the name of Men, the elves and the dwarves came together in meetings of their own to chose who would represent their own races.

"Who of the elves should go with them? I?" Glorfindel asked.

They were in Elrond's office, they being Erestor, Glorfindel, Maedhros and Elrond.

"Or perhaps Maedhros or Maglor. Maglor has proved himself to be powerful and able to resist and battle the whispers of the Ring. A unique skill that would be quite useful," the captain continued.

"Useful perhaps," Maedhros spoke up. "I am loathe to say it, yet if either my brother or I went with this fellowship, it would attract too much attention too quickly. Sauron hates us, and I do not doubt that he tracks us. He would hunt us ever more ruthlessly if we went with the Ring, and I fear that he would know if we did. Nor do I believe that Glorfindel should go. He serves you better here in Imladris."

"Do you have a better suggestion then?" Erestor asked.

"Aye, I believe I do: Legolas, the young Thranduilion, would in my opinion be a good choice. He grew up in a place threatened directly by evil. He will not soon be broken by the Ring. He is also an excellent archer, I hear, if not the best among the elves. He is young, but his father has entrusted him with missions before. I trust him with this one."

"You would recommend a woodelf? A Sindar?" Glorfindel asked, quite surprised.

Maedhros sent him a look. "I would recommend this woodelf. I have met Legolas. If my blessing was not a curse, I would give it."

Elrond contemplated the thought. Maedhros could already tell that he would agree.

Erestor went to fetch the Mirkwood prince. Of course they would not send him to Mordor without his consent. Legolas faced them proudly and without fear in his eyes.

"You were suggested as companion for the fellowship. Needless to say, it is a journey full of peril, and your return is far from guaranteed," Elrond told him. "At worst, Sauron would torture you before putting you to death, especially if he believes that you carry information. And even before entering Mordor, your road will be hard. Do you wish to aid the hobbit Frodo Baggins in completing this mission and go to Mount Doom with him and the others?"

"If the council believes me to be suited, I will go with Frodo, yes. I would swear any oath that you require that I shall protect him and the quest."

Elrond shook his head. "We decided against putting anyone under oath. Here, in Imladris, it is hard even for me to tell what the future holds for you, and in the past, oaths have done more damage than good. Yet you said 'if the council believes you to be suited'. This decision is not one to be made by anyone but yourself! You should also ask yourself if you are free to leave your father's, the king's service, to go on this quest. Think on it. Unfortunately, we will require your decision rather quickly, in three days hence. Will you consider it that long?"

If anything, the woodelf's fine features hardened with determination. "I need no time to think on it. We must take this chance to destroy the ring, that is all that counts. I will go. But I will return here in three days as you said and confirm my decision."

Elrond bowed his head. "As you wish, Prince Legolas."

Legolas met Maedhros eyes as he turned to leave and gave him a nod.

"He knows you well," Erestor observed.

"We only met briefly," Maedhros denied.

"Do you think this quest will be successful?" Maedhros asked.

Maglor gave him a questioning look. That question in itself showed that Maedhros had doubts, and he did not often voice doubt aloud—especially when he—and everyone else—so direly needed to believe in the quest.

"You have been with Frodo. How is he?" the redhead continued. "Does he recover from his wound?"

"He is better," Maglor confirmed. "Elrond asked me to sing for him, for his nightmares. Whether they stem from his encounter with the Ringwraiths and his wound, or from the Ring's presence, we cannot tell. But song eases his mind a great deal."

And Maglor felt no small satisfaction at that, at knowing that he held at least some sway and power still with his voice and could stand against the Enemy.

"I dreamt of Finrod yesterday," Maedhros revealed the cause of his sudden anxiety. "Of Felagund and Beren; they went right into Sauron's lair."

Their own brothers, Tyelcormo and Curufinwë, had been guilty, in part, in Felagund's and his companions' deaths; without their interference, the people of Nargothrond might not have abandoned their King to an assured, merciless end.

"Can we afford to doubt?" Maglor returned. "This may very well be the last opportunity Middle-earth has against Sauron, short of the Valar crossing the sea again."

"And they would not," Maedhros voiced what his brother had not.

Maglor shrugged his shoulders. Really, they could not presume to know what the Valar planned. Perhaps they would come to Middle-earth's aid if there was no way out, perhaps they would not. Perhaps he and Maedhros would take a ship to supplicate the Valar, as Eärendil had done ages ago, or perhaps they would sink and drown before ever reaching home.

The fellowship stood—or so Elrond thought. But when he named them—Frodo, Boromir, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli—the other hobbits protested loudly.

"You did not think we would send one of our own alone on this quest?" Pippin glared frankly at them, although this glare was not very frightening at all—nor surely intended to be so.

"While you closeted yourself away, and the dwarves did the same, we agreed much quicker and-if I may add-sensibly, that Frodo shouldn't go alone," Merry continued. "We are going to support him. See it as the Hobbits working together with the other folks of Middle-earth to rid it of evil, or as us supporting our cousin and friend."

"Either way," Sam finished, "we will not be left behind. So you may add Merry, Pippin and me to that list of yours."

If Elrond had been the type to gape, he probably would have. As it was, he just looked down speechlessly upon the hobbits with wide eyes, while Bilbo grinned with pleasure and great satisfaction at seeing the old elf lord so flustered. And Frodo smiled as well, his eyes bright with joy; he and his uncle had probably known before the dwarves and the other "big folk" that the other hobbits wanted to come along.

Maedhros threw his head back and laughed out loud, drawing quite a few shocked looks. It felt good, even though there was really nothing to laugh at about another three hobbits, the most innocent of races, if one was to believe the rumours, travelling to Mordor. But if they kept fast to their determination and if they proved to be as clever in evading the enemy as in plundering Elrond's stores of food and drink, they would return to their Shire. Maedhros dearly wished that they would, and he resolved to pray to Mandos and Yavanna as he had not done in centuries.

"Very well," Elrond said. "I have no right to prevent you from going on that quest."

Maedhros could not have wiped the smile off his face if he tried. But later, when Maglor and he were alone, he clenched his one remaining fist, ignoring any pain from the scars. And while Maglor looked calm, he was restringing his harp quite absent-mindedly, not to mention needlessly.

At last, Maedhros stood abruptly and went to the door.

On his brother's questioning look, he said: "Truly, we can do nothing but pray for this quest, if our prayers are worth anything." And he left. Perhaps he went to seek solitude in one of the many remote, beautiful outlooks, or in one of the lone, hidden spots in Imladris. The valley, too, had lost much in recent years; none of its beauty, but many of its people.

Maglor tightened the strings on his harp. There was a hymn that came to him now, one he had not sung since Valinor. The beginning at least, was quite clear in his mind now; he hummed the notes to the first few lines, finding the right pitch and the right tone of his harp. Perhaps he would get to the end of the song.

(1) The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter 2: The Council of Elrond

Thanks for reading. Reviews are always welcome.