Himling Isle by Himring

Chapter 1

The first chapter was written as a drabble sequence for the prompts of the Coastal Challenge at Tolkien Weekly on LiveJournal (see further details in the End Notes).

According to MS Word, 6 x 100 words.

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Although Maglor now spent his life by the sea, he stayed away from all ships. But after the Fall of Numenor, great tidal waves fell on the shore and, unexpectedly, Maglor found himself again in a boat that did not belong to him, rowing for his life. He wondered whether Osse was after him to punish him for his crimes. Then he had to rescue three hens from a floating henhouse and was distracted. When Maglor’s boat reached safety, it also contained a young Avar, an old woman and a fox.

He did not mind boats so much after that.

 

He did not know that the top of Himring Hill had re-emerged above the waves. When he did learn, much later, overhearing a conversation between fishermen, at first nothing could have induced him to visit it. But, as he became aware of the swift wearing of time in Middle-earth and he himself went on surviving, despite much foolish carelessness, it occurred to him that in time the island of Himling, too, might be lost again. He would regret not having gone then.

So he provisioned a boat and set out, looking to see tall cliffs looming against the western sky.

The island was lower than he expected and bare. Only sea birds could call this rock home now. He heard their voices on the wind, as if raised in mockery, and almost turned around without setting foot on shore but, coming closer, he found a bay and a safe place to land.

He wandered aimlessly about, squawked at by gulls, and finally plunged into the sea, a dangerous dive among tossing waters. When he came up again, he held a piece of pottery in his fingers, long broken, its edges washed round like a pebble. It was then he wept.

 

He knew he would have to leave soon. Already it was getting colder; he doubted even he could survive winter on Himling. But he lingered, supplementing his provisions with shellfish, and went on diving, bringing up fragments of a past life, as if he could piece himself together again if he had enough parts of the puzzle.

He had forgotten to keep watch. Digging for clams, he looked up and a movement on the horizon caught his eye. A black sail! He dropped his spade. Corsairs! He knew them from travels in the South, but what were they doing here? 

His boat was well concealed. He succeeded in removing visible traces of his presence, but his retreat was cut off as the Corsairs’ ship approached. He hid in a crevice, pressed hard against the rock face—and in that moment of danger felt, as he had not before, that Himring knew him still and was aiding him as he tried to fade into stone.

The immediate intention of the Corsairs was soon clear. Their landing party carried casks and buckets and one thing still plentiful on Himling was fresh water.

But what was this? A body dumped on the sand?

The Corsairs departed, sailing southwards. Maglor was concerned for the safety of Lindon's coast—but more urgently for that unmoving body left on the sands. He emerged from his hiding-place in the rock to investigate.

It was a girl. Almond-shaped eyes, tight shut, broad nose, shell ornaments on the hem of her seal-skin jacket—clearly, one of the Lossoth. And she was not dead—but very ill indeed, running a high fever.

Cirdan would surely watch out for Lindon. Maglor mustered what he could of healing skills to alleviate his patient's symptoms and waited to see whether she would live.

 

‘The ship,’ she said, in strongly accented Westron, when she was strong enough again to speak and answer his cautious questions. ‘They said they came to trade for furs—but in truth they came to raid. They took the furs. They also took—people. I, they said, was a prize, a woman able to speak Westron—a rare gift for their great chief. But when I fell ill, they began to fear I would spread the disease...’

She fell silent, studying her unexpected saviour.

'What will you do now?' she asked, warily.

'Do?' Maglor echoed. 'I will take you home.'

 

 

 

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Chapter End Notes

Individual drabble titles and prompts:

Back in a boat - Wave

Voyage to Himling - Islands erode and so do attitudes - Cliff

Voyage to Himling - Noldorin Pottery, Beleriandic Period, Eastern Style, Type 2c - Pebble

Sail on the Horizon - Bucket and/or Spade

Snow Person - Shell, Ship

 

 

[ETA: Apologies if anyone finds the "almond-shaped" eyes offensive. The idea is that Maglor is comparing this unconscious stranger to descriptions that he has heard to work out where she might hail from; those descriptions are not free of stereotypes]

Chapter 2

To the original drabble sequence, I added a continuation, which is not fixed-length.

Read Chapter 2

'I will take you home,' Maglor said. 'If you can tell me the way, beyond the bounds of Eriador.'

'I am considered a good tracker, among my people!' she said, with a flash of pride.

'That is good,' said Maglor. 'For I have never yet been to Forodwaith, in my wanderings.'

She was silent for a while.

Then she said: 'I am...Lossu.'

Not quite her true name, Maglor thought, probably--but perhaps it was the name that went with speaking Westron.

'Well met, Lossu,' he replied. 'I am Noldo.'

He got up to fetch more water and, as soon as he had turned his back, she said quickly: 'Noldo!'

'Yes?' he asked, concerned she might suddenly be feeling worse.

But he saw that she had merely been trying out the name, to see whether he would respond to it.

 

Alone, making his preparations for the trip, he found himself staring at the collection he had made during his time on Himling: lined up neatly on a natural shelf of rock, pieces of pottery and glass, their edges washed round and round by the sea, fragments of masonry with faint traces of carving, merely to be guessed at.

Who would still care about such things?

Elrond would.

He took a step back, shaking his head.

Had he truly just imagined himself turning up on Elrond's doorstep, offering him a collection of ancient rubbish as though a precious gift worth keeping? After all the times he ought to have gone and had not? When Elrond might have truly needed him? (Or when the sudden appearance of a ghost out of Elrond's past might have only made matters worse.)

In the end, he left all of it behind, without a second glance.

 

Lossu did her best to persuade Noldo to stay with her tribe, at least over the winter months. But she was not surprised when he obstinately refused. They had travelled up the coast to Forochel companionably enough, but he had something in his eyes: like the old trappers who had spent too much time alone in the icy tundra, hunting on their own, and found it difficult to fit in again among people. Strange as his ways were to her, she had recognized that in him.

He said farewell to her on the edge of the village, the tribe's winter quarters, wrapped in the great white cloak of good-quality fur that the elders had insisted on giving him in gratitude for her safe return. She hoped the cloak--and whatever she had been able to teach him during their journey together about the perils of Forodwaith--would be enough to keep him safe. The first of the storms of winter threatened.

She stood watching as he went. He was capable of disappearing into the land like one of those old trappers, too. Who, was he, really? She supposed it was none of her business--was not sure if she would have been able to understand his answer even if he had told her.

Now he was out of sight. She was about to go in, to rejoin her family. Then she heard his voice.

He had not sung all the while he was with her. Maybe the song had been waiting in his throat, all that while, to burst out as soon as he was alone again. In no way did his manner of singing resemble the songs of the Lossoth, but...

'Oh,' said Lossu.

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Chapter End Notes

I think the history and description of the Lossoth, sparse as it is, can be read in more than one way, especially when taking related material in HoME into the account. So I would not claim my take here is canonical.