The Downfall by clotho123

Chapter 1

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He had found a small cove, encircled by steep cliffs on three sides; a place all but inaccessible to mortals, yet not to one who had elven sureness of foot.  It was a bleak and unlovely, with a beach of bare, grey shingle, but it would serve to wait.  These coasts were ruled by the King of the Star Land, of Númenor in the West, and though most of the Dúnedain now hated the Eldar they retained enough knowledge to know one of them for what he was, especially one whose eyes still held the glimmer of Tree light. 

 

He had been stoned in these lands once, some years back.  He had stood still, attempting neither flight nor resistance, and this perhaps had unnerved his assailants, for they had let him live in the end and he had gone away in silence.

 

The great harbour of Umbar was stripped.  All ships had sailed for Númenor, for the infidel fleet the king had assembled: to bring war into the Westlands, to assault Valinor itself, the uttermost fall of Elros’s heirs at the height of their greatness in power.  He shuddered for the Doom he knew would take them.

 

Long years he had walked alone by the shores in the far south of Middle-earth, shunning the lands where others of his kind dwelt, for he had no wish to hear their curses.  It was the rumours of the Sea-men from the West that had brought him north again at last, and he had heard then something of the help they brought to the forsaken men of Middle-earth, and looked from a distance on their white ships, and been glad.

 

But shadows had come and deepened, and the men of the West, who had come at first to bring aid, became conquerors, and then tyrants ruling slaves.  He had watched their fall, watched as the heirs of his foster son slid deeper into dark, committing deeds worse than the most infamous actions of his own line, until they raised temples to the worship of the Black Foe himself and slaughtered men and women on their alters. 

 

Kinslayer, his own kind had called him, although those whose blood stained his blade had been his kindred only in that they were Elves.  Rebel, betrayer, accursed, yet the deeds of his foster-heirs numbed him with horror and he had wept for the first time in uncounted centuries, slow harsh tears, for them and those they made their victims. 

 

There was a shell lying on the bare beach.  He seated himself on the single and raised it to his lips, calling notes from it, low and limited but still music of a kind, enough to pass the time with small creation.  It was long indeed since he had struck a harp, for his left hand had been made crippled by the burning of the Jewel.  His left; for the warrior’s habit had been strong enough to take the Jewel in the hand with the weaker grip, leaving his right hand free to draw his sword if needed.  Maedhros, of course, had not had that choice.

 

He remained in his place, waiting, as the days passed.  Some rainwater had been caught in pockets on the cliffs and he drank that.  There was no food, but no matter.  In the evenings the stars rose, and it seemed to him his father’s Silmaril shone red.

 

The eagles came.  They flew low out of the West, so close they blocked the light and their voices filled his ears.  He knew then, it had come.

 

He began to sing, softly at first, barely aloud.  Not songs he himself had made, he sang the songs he had learned in his early youth.  Children’s rhymes, then some of the simpler daily songs.  The sun sank and his voice grew stronger.  It had faded with the years; he no longer had the power that he had once.

 

Another would have to sing of the Downfall of Numenor.

 

He rose to his feet and began a song to the stars, said to be one of the oldest, pouring into it all the strength he still retained.  He sang with arms held out before him, great son of a great house, mightiest singer of the Noldor.  He saw the wave come yet his song did not falter.

 

The sea took him: the punishment of the Downfallen ending the life of the Dispossessed.  The sea took his body and his spirit fled the wreck.