Fear of Falling by elennalore  

Himring was his home, or the closest thing resembling a home on this side of the Sundering Seas. Maedhros was proud of his fortress, which stood adamant on a treeless hill, guarding the north-eastern regions, a beacon of hope for the people of Beleriand.

Every morning, before his sparring practice and even breakfast, he climbed the stairs of the northern tower and proceeded to the battlements to greet the night watch. They were always happy to see their Lord climb up the stairs even though he wouldn’t have needed to. He asked them how the previous night had gone, and on most mornings, they had little to report back. The looming peaks of Thangorodrim never really stopped looking threatening, but there seldom was any visible activity during the period they had already started to call the Long Peace. But then there were other kinds of nights when a grey mist filled the valleys and gorges between the two fortresses, and a red glow was seen over Thangorodrim. The wind carried strange whispers, and movement could be seen among the mist, as if Orc troops stealthily on the move, but in the blink of an eye it was gone.

After such nights, the guards were visibly shaken, and Maedhros often sent them to sleep early, reassuring them that he could keep watch until the next shift arrived. They were not soldiers, not yet, and unlike Maedhros, they were far from home.

When alone, he had a habit of walking around the battlements to go and watch the sunrise. Often, however, the weather was too gloomy for that, and the layer of clouds hid Arien’s fiery fruit out of view. On those days, a melancholic mood descended on Maedhros, and he remembered his cruel first meeting with the scorching sun, suddenly thankful of thick clouds as if he were still hanging there.

But he wasn’t, and to prove it he determinedly turned to look north-west, towards Morgoth’s realm and Thangorodrim. He stood very straight, arms crossed as he sometimes did when he didn’t want to draw people’s attention to his stump, but he had nothing to hide from Morgoth, nothing. He watched the bright red and orange glow the mountain peaks were emitting and almost heard a rumbling noise of an awakening mountain.

And just like that, the stone floor vanished from under his feet, and he knew that he had looked at the mountain peaks too long because he was suddenly back there, helplessly hanging from the precipice by his wrist, his legs kicking and desperately trying to find a foothold.

Stop that, he commanded himself. You’re not there anymore.

He came back to his senses, and his remaining hand clutched the parapet, but the fear of falling stayed. He knew it would always be there, waiting for him – a momentary lapse in reality. It didn’t need much; just a wrong step and then he would be helplessly falling again. He feared it. He loathed it.

Sternly, despite the nausea that always followed such moments, he turned his eyes back to Morgoth’s fortress beyond the hills. The red glow was gone, but he knew that he hadn’t imagined it.

“We don’t have much time,” he said to no one in particular.

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