It has been a while since he realized the truth: That Maedhros would not return. He had waited centuries upon centuries after he heard tidings of his death, believing that he would simply take time to mend, that a soul as broken and jarred as his would take much longer than that of any other to heal.
But none of the Fëanorians had returned, bound by their oath even in the halls, too proud and strong-willed to repent in full - in Maehdros's case, Fingon assumed, the forgiving himself part might be what was holding him back, and if that was the case, he would truly not see him again until world's end. Even before his, Fingon's death, when so much hadn't befallen yet, there had been much that Maedhros had refused to even allow others to forgive him for (but then, of course, Fingon's own will was strong enough to easily rival his friend's, and when one literally walks into hell to bring you back home, it is hard to not accept that maybe, refusing their forgiveness is not in accordance with the situation anymore at that point).
No, Maedhros would not return until world's end. He should have been glad, still, to be reunited with his siblings and parents, with friends and cousins and so many others, but he found himself breaking in the perfect bliss of the Undying Lands that should have healed all hurt, and in the end it had been Aegnor who took his best friend aside and told him to set sail.
It had taken time to be granted passage, but Nienna's counsel had finally brought the Valar to the decision that just this once, passage should be granted to the East.
He's not sure if it is really better, now, travelling lands that he has never seen, where sorrow and death, fear and hurt, but also vibrant life itself are at everyone's side day and night. But it is; perhaps only so because he is kept on his toes and because nobody expects for all to be healed around him. His pain isn't an outlier, here, nothing that should vanish with time and yet doesn't.
And, he thinks as he considers the path before him, trying to decide if he should turn left or right on it, this place is so young, as old as it technically is. So vibrant, and new - well, now especially, that he has crossed an icy plain that uncomfortably reminded him of the Grinding Ice for almost two years. It's nice to be in lands that are actually green again. It's nice to not wear thick furs any more, but only light armour and simple, sturdy travelling gear, to wear his hair in a more open style that doesn't need to fit under a hood, the thick dark plaits intertwined with golden-yellow ribbons resting against his back again.
He chuckles softly and makes a decision, turning to the left. "A road is a dangerous thing, for we never know where it leads. Wasn't that it, Mr Baggins?"