Himling Isle by Himring

Chapter 2

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

'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.

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.