The Gap to Himring by StarSpray

The Gap to Himring

Read The Gap to Himring

Maglor had been two days’ easy ride from Himring when the battle started. It took a week of hard fighting to get within sight of it, standing as a bulwark atop its great hill.

They had had no warning. Even Maglor’s keenest-eyed watchers had not seen the orcs creeping through the tall grasses of Ard Galen until it was too late. And there were so many , overrunning them like a river in flood. And with the orcs came balrogs, shrouded in deep shadow until the last moment, when they burst into terrible flame.

As they finally approached Himring, they found Maedhros out in the field with his own forces, fighting furiously. In the distance the fortress loomed, a dark shape indistinct in the heavy, smoky air, a promise of safety—if they could only reach it. The orcs quailed and fled before Maedhros, terrible in his battle-fury. “To Maedhros!” Maglor cried, putting forth as much of his waning strength into his voice as he could, so it would reach all who needed to hear. “The Gap to Himring!”

“The Gap to Himring!” echoed his riders, surging forward, swords flashing, hoof beats like thunder over the ground as they charged.

Arrows rained down on them unexpectedly from some orcs who had charged up a nearby hill. They hit as many of their own people as they did elves, but of course they did not care. Two struck Maglor’s horse, and she went down with a horrible scream. He managed to leap free in time to avoid being crushed, rolling over the ashy ground for several feet. The air had been driven from his lungs, but he forced himself up, sword at the ready to block the first of many blows that rained down on him. He was surrounded by the enemy and separated from all friends. If he could just catch his breath —

His first real inhale, full of smoke and dust that seared his throat, was driven back out by a heavy boot to his back, and he fell forward, narrowly avoiding having his head taken off by another orc’s swing. A line of fire erupted over his shoulder and down his arm, but he couldn’t scream, couldn’t make his lungs work, couldn’t even raise his sword—he tried, but another heavy foot came down on it, and he felt the bone crack. Something struck his helm, making his ears ring and his vision go white for a moment.

And then there was shrieking and screaming all around him, and a terrible furious voice above him. Maglor couldn’t get up, couldn’t even turn his head, but he thought he heard his name. Was that Maedhros? It sounded like Maedhros—but also it sounded like Fëanor, somehow. Hands gripped him, and Maglor tried to pull away, but they were hard and unyielding. Someone kept saying his name, but everything hurt and he still couldn’t breathe right, and there was a roaring in his ears that sounded like the sea…

 

He rose out of darkness into pain and bright light, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and the stench of it mingling with smoke in his nose. Maglor tried to turn his head but it was pressed against something hard—armor? A voice rumbled just above him, but everything hurt too much and there was noise all around and Maglor couldn’t understand the words or even recognize the voice. He tried to pull away but even the smallest attempt to move hurt too much.

Then he was moved suddenly and quickly, and if his throat had not been so dry he would have screamed, rather than croaked out a pathetic whimper. A cool soft hand passed over his forehead, and a soft voice close to his ear spoke something that was probably meant to be soothing, but wasn’t, not really.

Not orcs, then. Maglor tried to open his eyes, but it was too bright, and he only caught a glimpse of dark hair, and past it the briefest glimpse of a face he thought might be his brother’s. “Maedhros,” he tried to say, but all that came out was a dry rasp.

A heavier hand rested on his forehead. “I’m here,” Maedhros said, his voice cutting through the din and the pain. Then Maglor was lifted, jostled only a little but enough to hurt.

The light abruptly cut off, and the stench of smoke lessened, as did the noise, though what noise there was took on an echoing quality. Inside? Maglor tried to open his eyes again, but the hall spun around him, and he shut them before he was sick. He had no memory of making it to Himring. “Maedhros,” he said again, and felt his brother’s hand on his shoulder. “My people—”

“Hush. They are being cared for,” said Maedhros. “All who were with you made it to Himring, and the gates have been barred. We are safe.”

 

Maglor drifted after that, in and out of troubled dreams and worse waking. Someone set his broken arm while someone else held him down, and something was lathered over the wound on his other shoulder that made it burn both hot and cold—all of him felt hot and cold, alternating between chills and sweats. Eventually he was laid on something soft, and covered with blankets. Bitter brews were pressed upon him, in between sips of blessedly cool and sweet water—spring water, a part of him distantly recognized, from the cold springs over which Himring had been built.

Through it all, Maedhros was there. Either Maglor heard his voice or felt his hand upon his shoulder or brow.

At last the fever broke, and Maglor woke in a familiar bed feeling battered and weak. It was warm in the room, almost stuffy—he always kept the window open, except on the coldest of days, but when he turned his head he saw that it was still hazy outside, the sunlight turned a sickly yellow through the smoke and fumes. He saw also that Maedhros was still there, seated beside the bed with a few papers in his hand and stop the blankets. When he saw that Maglor was awake, though, he cleared them away.

“News…?” Maglor asked, and coughed. His throat was dry, and his mouth was worse.

“Little, and none of it good.” Maedhros picked up a cup of water and helped Maglor to drink. “Aglon is overrun as well as the Gap. Thargelion burns. Dorthonion is taken. Hithlum might still hold, but I cannot be sure. I do not know what has happened to our brothers.”

Maglor closed his eyes for a moment as he sank back into his pillow. “Do you remember—Fingolfin wanted to stage an attack.”

“I remember.”

“We should have.”

“We would have been destroyed—all of us, there before the gates of Angband.”

“We should have long ago, then,” said Maglor, “before this strength was built up.” Maedhros did not argue with that, though Maglor thought that both of them doubted whether it would have ended differently. “How long since we came here?” Maglor asked.

“Five days,” said Maedhros. “The blade that wounded you was poisoned. Why were you not wearing armor?”

“I was.”

“I meant your good mail.”

“There was no time.” He’d thought the trade good enough—his heavy armor and the time it took to done it in exchange for his life. It had been only almost good enough, in the end. Were it not for Maedhros and the healers of Himring, his mistake would have been fatal. “And my people…?”

“All who were with you are here,” Maedhros said, “though I cannot say the same for your horses. Only two of them survived. And none of you came unscathed, though you were the worst hurt by far. Lucky it was a poison we have encountered before.” Maedhros rose to his feet and went to the window, though how far he could see through the haze Maglor could not begin to guess.

Maglor pushed himself up the pillows, wincing, until he was sitting up more than he was lying down. Even that little effort left him dizzy and breathless. His chest ached where ribs had been bruised or cracked.

After a while Maedhros said, “The peace is ended. For good.” There was no arguing with it. They could not come back from a breach like this. They had all been so proud of their leaguer, Maglor thought bitterly, gazing up at the ceiling. There were nonsensical musical notations carved across the beams—a joke of Celegorm’s during Himring’s building. There were rooms here for all their brothers, and more. They were all empty now—and perhaps would be, for ever. In That moment it was easy to imagine the orcs making it even down to Ossiriand, setting the forests ablaze and choking the rivers.

They did not speak more of the battle that day. Maglor was too tired for it, and he fell asleep again—a proper sleep, this time, though still troubled by dreams in which fire consumed everything, the whole world turned to ash and dust and bones, boiling the seas and cracking the mountains. He woke the next morning feeling only scantly more rested, but it was enough to drag himself out of bed. He washed his face in the basin, and drank deeply from the pitcher of cool water left for him. There was a covered plate as well, but he didn’t have much of an appetite. Only the knowledge that he needed to eat to recover had him picking up a slice of bread slathered with butter and honey. He carried that to the window.

The sea of orcs that had covered the plain before Himring when Maglor had last seen it was gone, though the lands were by no means empty. He could see movement through the haze, amid the ash and blackened ruins of once lush and green plains. Ard Galen was green no more. He turned at the sound of the door, and caught a glimpse of naked relief on Maedhros’ face before it was hidden again behind a mask of calm. Things must have been more dire for Maglor than Maedhros had said. Maedhros hadn’t shown such open emotion since—well. Since before Angband. Abruptly Maglor felt horribly homesick for a time and a place that they could never, ever return to. He had to blink a few times against the sudden prick of tears behind his eyes. “You shouldn’t be up yet,” Maedhros said.

“I wanted to see outside,” said Maglor, but he crossed back to the bed obediently. Maedhros followed, and pressed the back of his hand to Maglor’s forehead, and one of his cheeks. Then he uncovered the plate again, rather pointedly, and took a seat in the chair. Maglor sighed, acting more put-upon than he really felt, but picked up another slice of bread. “News?” he asked. Maedhros shook his head. “What about here? Any sorties?”

“No, but we’ve put the catapults to good use. The orcs don’t have any such things, fortunately—but they do have dragons.”

“Dragons? Like the one Fingon chased back a few years ago?”

“I don’t know where that one is,” said Maedhros. “A smaller one passed by here—not close enough to attack from our walls, even if our arrows would’ve done any good. How is your arm?”

“Which one?”

“The one that isn’t broken.”

Maglor lifted and flexed the arm that had taken the poisoned wound. The gash itself was healed, with a scar that was ugly and livid at the moment, but would fade with time. The muscles twinged a little, but it was usable. His other arm remained in a sling, and would for some time. “Nearly good as new,” he said. Something made a terrible noise outside of the window, outside of Himring's walls—something between a roar and a scream. Maedhros was likely needed elsewhere, and Maglor knew that he should assure him that all was well and he didn’t need to linger.

But he didn’t. They sat in silence, watching the light shift outside of the window, as Beleriand burned.