Strange Apparition by wind rider

Strange Apparition

Strange Apparition

I never thought nor dreamt about being defeated by a Secondborn – an old one at that.

And yet here I am, speechless as I never was, while the queer aged, silver-bearded Secondborn lounging by the fish-pond beams at me with twinkling eyes. I would deem it a horrible halusination born of too much drinking if not for the thick smell of dewy grass, thriving only in this enclosed patch of ground in my entire fortress, and the soft flops of goldfish jumping in the pond.

“Hello,” he says jovially, repeating the greeting that I still cannot reciprocate, let alone imitate.

I am simply too incredulous for speech at the moment.

How has he come to my private garden without being accosted by my guards? Who is he? Does he mean ill to me and the Noldor?

What happened to his right hand, too? For I can see that it is blackened, as if firewood left to char in the flames. And it is the only reason why I have not taken a more aggressive approach towards him. (Another one-handed, left-handed individual…)

And the clothes he is wearing—! His robe and tall pointed hat are the colour of rich sea under Vása’s light: blue-green and bright. And as if the colour alone is not enough, fishes and other sea creatures roam the garments like in the actual sea. The only thing disrupting the disturbing image is the gleaming round hour-glass resting on his chest, dangling from a golden chain around his neck.

The whole picture is too bizarre that it unnerves me.

Thus when he rises from the garden bench and approaches me with his remaining hand outstretched, I take an involuntary step backwards, grimacing inwardly at my own cowardice but unable to help it all the same. He does not laugh though. He just takes my left hand – my remaining hand – in his own and pumps it up and down several times enthusiastically, smiling all the while. “My name is Albus Dumbledore,” he says again. “What is yours, my boy?”

I want to retort that I do not even know him, but I am too morbidly fascinated with the feel of his skin on mine. It is like touching paper! His bones and muscles are still powerful enough, I can feel it, but his skin is so rough and fragile. It is… revolting – and frightening, too. Is this what is entailed in the aging process of the Secondborn: breaking and decaying?

I give myself a mental shake. It is not the time for my thoughts to wander.

“I am Maedhros,” I say stiffly. But the stranger retains his merry demeanour and nods with the smile intact.

“Pleased to meet you, Maedhros,” he says. “But I have to go now. My apologies for the brief visit. Paperwork is waiting!” And with that baffling pronouncement, he reaches up to the hour-glass and twists it several times.

He vanishes into thin air right before my eyes.

And I am made speechless again.