Many Journeys by Elleth

Change of Times

Maglor wanders. (Double Drabble.)

The winters were growing colder again. It reminded him of the early days of the Exile – not Formenos, where their breaths had always stood as clouds before their mouths, but Mithrim. That withered land of few stunted trees that vanished into freezing mists before the first rising of the sun, when they had been convinced they were the only living things there, for who could exist in a place so utterly neglected by the grace of the Valar and open to the harshness of the world?

As sure as they had been then of being the first, he was now certain of being the last. The shore stretched long and grey before him, under a grey sky, beside a grey, near-moveless sea under floes of ice. In Mithrim they had soon met the folk of that land, and homes opening wide. Here, when he cared to seek shelter, more and more doors closed. The Eldar had vanished; all of them from human memory, some into forests faded to spirit, others at long last into the West, and the last meagre graces of the Valar with them.

The wind picked up and threw sand into his eyes. Maglor continued walking.

Chapter End Notes

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