Departure of the Feanorian Heir
Maedhros stood at the edge of Maglor's quiet, windswept dwelling by the shore, feeling the weight of the moment settle upon him. He turned to the man who had raised him like a father, a man both mentor and legend. Maglor, now older yet still bearing the strength of a mighty elf-lord, was silent as he watched his grandson prepare to depart. Maedhros felt a mix of excitement and sorrow—he had dreamed of this moment, but the finality was sobering.
Maglor broke the silence, his voice rich but edged with the pain of parting. "You remind me so much of him, Maedhros," he said, eyes fixed on his grandson. "Not just because you bear his name. There's something of his heart in you, his spirit. It's a blessing—and a burden."
Maedhros's grip tightened on his pack. "I will honor his memory, Grandfather. And yours, too."
Maglor gave a somber nod. "I know you will, but remember, the world beyond these shores is no friend to our kin. It will test you, tear at you. I would see you become stronger, but never let that strength harden your heart. And if ever you lose your way, think of what he would have wanted."
After a pause, Maglor stepped forward, carrying a large, wrapped bundle. With great care, he revealed a blackened hammer and a silver helm with intricate designs, unmistakably elven yet echoing a style long vanished from Middle-earth.
"This is the Hammer of Fëanor," Maglor said, voice thick with emotion. "It crafted things that altered the fate of Arda itself. My father forged it himself; it carries his essence, his will for creation, and...his fire." Maglor's eyes met Maedhros's, burning with meaning. "And this helm—Fëanor forged it for me during his finest years, before grief and rage took him from us all. I give it to you now, a Feanorian to carry on our legacy."
Maedhros's hand trembled slightly as he reached out, taking the heavy hammer and the helm, the weight of history and expectation pressing upon him. "I... I will bear them with honor, Grandfather."
Maglor placed a hand on his shoulder. "That is all I ask. And remember, Maedhros—there is always a choice. Darkness and pride led us once, but you have the power to forge a different path."
The two embraced, neither willing to let go until the last possible moment. But as dawn broke over the distant horizon, Maedhros stepped back, nodded a final farewell, and began his journey. Maglor watched him go, alone once more but filled with a bittersweet pride.
After days of travel, Maedhros reached the Shire, a place he had only heard of in tales. The hobbits stared at him with a mix of awe and curiosity—tall, clad in elven gear, and bearing the look of someone shaped by the wild lands and heavy tales. Yet he moved carefully, mindful of his surroundings, as if not to disturb the peace of this gentle land.
Upon finding the cozy hobbit-hole of Bilbo Baggins, Maedhros knocked, feeling a nervous thrill. When the door opened, Bilbo, now older and grayer, looked up, surprise widening his eyes. "My word, you're quite the tall one, aren't you?" He examined the visitor, a faint hint of recognition sparking. "Might I ask... who you are?"
Maedhros bent slightly, respectful but direct. "My name is Maedhros, son of Taranis Storm."
Bilbo blinked, the name striking him like a thunderclap. "Taranis... you mean to tell me that old rogue had a son?" A small, wistful smile crept onto his face. "Well, I'll be… Come in, lad, come in!"
Inside, Bilbo motioned to the fire, stoking it to a warm blaze. "Now, you must tell me everything," Bilbo insisted, eyes twinkling with curiosity. "I have so many questions about your father—he was... quite a character, to say the least."
Maedhros settled in, sharing the stories he could, careful to respect the memories of his parents. As he spoke, Bilbo listened with rapt attention, often chiming in with anecdotes of his own adventures with Taranis. The two shared a bittersweet laugh as Bilbo recalled their quest to the Lonely Mountain.
When Maedhros recounted his father's final days and the sacrifice he'd made to protect their family, Bilbo was silent, eyes distant, his heart heavy with grief. After a moment, Bilbo placed a hand on Maedhros's arm. "He would have been proud of you, lad. And if you're half as strong as he was... I'd wager Middle-earth has quite the champion now."
The fire crackled, and as the night deepened, Maedhros and Bilbo shared stories, laughter, and memories, forging a bond rooted in loss and honor, just as Taranis would have wanted.