It takes as long as the spring only because they weren't looking. They can stretch the oath that far, they can be disinterested in knowing - but now they know, and so there it is. Elwing of Sirion is twenty-three. Half-man, so fully grown. Sirion is a city of refugees. Elves and Men and, since there are Men, children. Elwing herself has infant children.
They debate whether to send messengers. Debating is allowed, even protracted debating. The Oath, these days, is loud in their minds, and louder when they're pushing it like this, but they drag out the debate for a few months. Messengers will probably be shot on sight. The last time Elwing of Sirion received news of the House of Fëanor it would have been the news that her brothers, twins, aged seven, had not survived the sack of Menegroth.
They send messengers anyway. The messengers are shot on sight. They have good armor, Fëanorian armor, and return home injured but not lethally. Maglor's songs no longer stitch them together. War makes you worse at healing. Maglor's songs are more powerful than ever - he can knock back a wave of approaching enemies, he can make a blade's next touch deadly, he can make them faster and more impervious to danger, but he can no longer do healing.
Maedhros, when he thinks about this, thinks that perhaps there needs to be part of you that is not broken for healing spells to draw on. Or perhaps the Enemy is amused to strip that away first. Perhaps the Enemy finds it suited to the theme as the Oath tugs and yanks and twists them into violence against the lands they once defended and the peoples they once sheltered.
They send messengers to Sirion again. The messengers deliver a plea for the Silmaril, an offer of anything at all in exchange. The messengers do not return at all.
The Enemy is many many hundreds of miles from here but at night Maedhros can hear him in his head. Is it so implausible that I really let you go? the Enemy likes saying. You serve me better free than you ever would have willingly.
The Oath allows them to work slowly. They begin planning the sack of the refugee camp even more slowly than the Oath allows, so slowly that its currents are constantly tugging at them. Any slower and the currents would erode all the things they care about which are not the Oath, and it would be a disaster to go to Sirion once they've been stripped of their capacity to care about anything that is not the Silmaril. So they do not hold out forever. But they work as slowly as they can.
"Would that take long enough that it would be conspicuous that I wouldn't eat or drink anything?"
"It doesn't work. It might be worth the risk if you happen to personally keep a garden and use seeds you harvest yourself every year."
"Assuming no one force feeds me or incapacitates me - I don't think I'm much harder than a mortal to render unconscious except no amount of drowning will do it - and I have the names of enough people that they can prevent everyone whose name I don't have from shooting a hole through my wing or anything - I don't suppose there's any obvious reason it wouldn't work."
"I have to know which person you mean - faces would do it - and entertain the correct hypothesis about their name and then I'll know if it's right or not."
"Depends on how free a hand I have to order the people intelligently as opposed to on a rigid plan, and whether you continue to intend to leave them alone after you have your thing. I don't - I don't intrinsically object to having names, all that does by itself is make it so they can't hurt me - and I'm assuming they'd rather not die -"
"I don't understand why you're under the oath to get the Silmaril in the first place but as long as you are this is better than massacring them."