[Firefoot]

As he sat down near the fire, Lómwë was privately glad that their short expedition had not gotten much past the beach. He did not know who… what… the voice had been, and he doubted that night was the time to find out. Maybe it was just a trick of the wind or rumours of the earth, or ghosts. He found Malris’ near-obsession with this dead place, with that voice, disturbing. Leave it be, leave it be, the voice in his head seemed to chant. Maglor was gone, long gone, and whatever the source of the song, it could not be Maglor, unless it was Maglor’s ghost, of which Lómwë was skeptical of, and hoped was not.

Lómwë was, however, becoming increasingly convinced that ghosts, whether tangible or not, did inhabit the isle. For the voice, whether Maglor’s or not, had been a ghost of sorts, and the long-forgotten memories that kept flashing in his mind, these were ghosts as well. Glancing up in the direction of the fortress, he recalled, as if it were yesterday…

It was a breezy summer day in the latter years of the Long Peace; Lómwë was standing on the tall battlements of the fortress at Himring, his son Aradol, seven years old at the time, was standing by him. Lómwë was pointing out the landmarks they could see as Aradol followed his gaze avidly.

“See, there are the River Aros and the Little Gelion,” he said, pointing each out.

Aradol looked out at the rivers for a few moments, then twisted around to look up at his father. “Where is our house at?” Lómwë knelt down and took Aradol’s arm and pointed to the east in the direction of their home which stood on one of the further hills. “You can’t see it from here, but it’s right about there, behind one of those hills.”

Aradol pondered this for a moment, then pointed out towards Ossiriand. “And nana used to live there, right?”

Lómwë smiled and nodded. “Yes, she did.” While the day was not chilly, he noticed that the breeze seemed to be getting to Aradol, who wore only a light tunic. “Shall we head down?”

Aradol looked out one more time longingly at the surrounding country. “I guess so…” He ran on ahead, Lómwë following behind. As they began to descend from the high wall, Lómwë noticed that his wife and Aradol’s mother Ellothiel was watching them from the ground below with a smile on her face and love in her eyes. Lómwë smiled back…

And just as abruptly as it had begun, the memory ended and Lómwë was brought back to the present. A shadow passed over his features; those had been the happiest years of his life, but they were long gone, now, merely memories, as were most of the noble and beautiful things that had once filled this place.

He was further shaken from his reverie when he was passed a piece of waybread. He tore off a bit and passed it on before biting into it. He was not very hungry, and the bread was not particularly good, but it took his mind off things. He tuned in to the conversations around him and caught some of Malris’ words: “…A great hope has possessed me. I spent years looking for him...and only found what was left of Lord Maedhros. If Maglor is here, then...then nothing else matters. But I will wait.” But other things do matter, Malris, he thought. But is that why you brought us here? To dig up ghosts and painful memories of the past? But why? Maybe we should not have come. Maybe ghosts should be left in peace.