With Nothing to Show by StarSpray

With Nothing to Show

I was left to my own devices
Many days fell away with nothing to show

And the walls kept tumbling down in the city that we love
Grey clouds roll over the hills bringing darkness from above

But if you close your eyes
Does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?
And if you close your eyes
Does it almost feel like you've been here before?

- Bastille, “Pompeii”
 

- -
 

Of all the pieces of Beleriand to survive, Maglor would not have expected one to be Himring. He spent many years on the coast of Middle-earth nearest to it, often gazing out at the dark shape of his brother ’s ancient towers on the horizon. Finally, curiosity and something else he didn’t want to examine very closely had him purchasing a small boat from an old fisherman who was too old to go out on the water anymore. With not a little apprehension, hoping to escape Ossë’s notice, Maglor pushed the boat out into the waves, and made his way with the tide out to Himling.

It was very quiet. Few animals dwelt there, and even fewer birds it seemed came to nest, though Maglor would have thought the high towers and walls would be ideal for seabirds who liked to nest upon cliff sides. He secured his small boat in a secluded hollow, covering it with a tarp, and making sure his pack and his harp were safe beneath it. Then he walked the perimeter of the island, looking for familiarity in the strangeness. When he had last come here there had been no pebbled beaches, no seaweed strung out over flagstones. Himring had been intact—it had never been overrun or conquered, even after the Nirnaeth. There was no sign here of fires or other damage done by the Enemy.

He didn ’t know how to feel about that.

All of the roofs had caved in, save a few portions here or there. Maglor wandered through old halls and up and down staircases that no longer went all the way up. Everywhere he saw signs of the life that had one filled that place. They had left it intending to return—and those who had fled it at the last had abandoned it with only the bare necessities that could be carried on their backs. He looked at the library—it had been small, but well-used—and found a few books still readable. He left them on the shelves, for he had no use for books, and they were not ones without copies elsewhere.

Before entering Maedhros ’ old study he hesitated, before taking a breath and pushing open the door. It swung on rusted and screeching hinges. Inside all was dusty and cobwebbed, moldering and faded. The desk had lost a leg and tilted at a sharp angle. Maglor stood there for a long time, seeing not what was before him but what had once been. The room had been modeled after their grandfather’s study in Tirion, though smaller and with fewer windows. Meetings between all their brothers had been held here, discussing trade routes and potential allies, and often mad schemes drawn up for getting the Silmarils back—that had all been before the Bragollach. Finrod had insisted on hanging a bright-colored tapestry on the single bare wall, that he’d brought from Nargothrond. Maglor could no longer remember who had woven it, though he did recall that it had depicted the Mereth Aderthad. Fingon had come often, especially in the lead up to the disaster of the Nirnaeth.

Celebrimbor had brought little carvings for Maedhros that had stood in pride of place on a shelf behind the desk. The shelf had broken, and many of the carvings were broken, too. Maglor finally entered the room, circling around the desk and crouching amid the plumes of dust to pick through the pieces. At last he discovered one intact. It was small, and doubtless artless and clumsy compared to whatever wonders Celebrimbor had crafted in Eregion, but all the more precious to Maglor for it. It was a cat curled up on a stone cushion with a much smaller kitten tucked into the circle of its body, protected by the tail. He turned it over, and saw the T glyph carved into the base—T for Telperinquar, rather than C for Celebrimbor.

A drop of water fell upon the cat, leaving a shiny trail through the of its small head. Maglor looked up, but the sky through the exposed rafters was a clear and clean blue. It was only when he felt another on his neck that he realized the water was tears—his own. The realization was shocking enough that no more fell; he had not wept since—he could not remember when. Since before any of his brothers had died; he had never found himself able to weep for them before. He quickly tucked the cat away into a pocket, and left the study.

His feet carried him up, up and up to the highest part of the fortress that still stood. There was a wide area there, for lookouts to pace during their shifts, and for Maedhros when he wished for fresh air and sunshine while he thought or planned. Maglor stepped onto it and his gaze immediately went to the spot where he had often sat, a harp on his lap or some other instrument in his hands. He had written music while Maedhros had paced, or had played idle scales while they talked or planned. Sometimes they had argued. Celegorm had liked to walk along the parapet, dramatically wobbling, feigning near-falls just to annoy the rest of them. Caranthir had disliked the harsh winds out of the north, and would sit beside Maglor when he visited, all the while complaining that they did not come often enough to Thargelion.

And beyond the walls—once the view had encompassed Maglor ’s Gap, his own responsibility in the lands divvied up between the Sons of Fëanor. Green grassland perfect for herds of horses and sheep, and for riding as hard and as fast as they could just for the thrill of it. Sometimes he closed his eyes and thought back to that time, remembering the wind in his hair and the smells of the earth—flowers and grass and soil, and rain in the distance. Ard Galen lay beyond, of which his Gap had been but an extension.

Then the Dagor Bragollach had set Ard Galen afire; the Gap, and all other passes southward, had been overrun. There had been no joy after that, except in brief stolen moments, few and far between. Maglor had not written much music after that, though he and Maedhros had spent many long hours atop this place, gazing north.

Now there was nothing but water. It was blue now, a reflection of the clear sky, the surface broken by choppy waves kicked up by the winds. The air smelled of salt, and tasted of it too—or perhaps that was only the tears, falling more quickly now and blurring Maglor ’s vision. He leaned against the parapet and pressed his forehead against the pitted stone beneath, knowing it to be a place that Maedhros had also leaned against.

He should not have come to this place. It had opened up all the wounds in his heart that he ’d thought scarred over, if not healed—never truly healed. His palm itched and hurt as he balled his hands into fists. For years the Men of the coast lands had called him a ghost, but the ghosts were all here on this island, conjured up now by his own presence. If he turned around he felt sure he would see them, all his brothers gathered together, phantoms pacing over the ruin, heedless of the wreckage of the passing years.

Overhead a gull wheeled and cried, but was not answered. Maglor raised his head, gazing to the West for a moment. The sun was sinking toward the horizon now, a scattering of thin clouds turning pink and golden in the slanting light. A path was starting to appear on the water, sunlight leading from the island to the far horizon. Maglor turned away, and retreated down the steps without looking back.

It would have been wise to return to the mainland, but something kept him there. He made himself a little camp and spent his nights staring at the starlight on the water, and his days wandering through the ruins, though he kept to the outer courtyards, and never went back up to the walls. He could not have said why he lingered so long on the island, aside from some bad weather and a vague suspicion that Oss ë was active in the nearby waters. Maybe it was the silence. Even the waves were quiet, here, as though the island were still in mourning for the bright and valiant Lord of Himring so long ago lost. It was a place Men would call haunted, and they called him a ghost—perhaps it was fitting, then, that he should come back to dwell there for a time.