The Minstrel
The twilight sky was dappled with many shimmering, white stars that were reflected in the calm, dark waters below. Small waves lapped restlessly against the black rocks, and the silver shore was bathed in the pale, blue light of the moon. To him it seemed as if Varda had sprinkled many small diamonds across the unending ocean that spread before him. A chilled wind blew from the west, causing his ebony hair to drift out behind him like a living shadow. In the cerulean depths of his eyes, the stars danced livelily. Silvery tears ran in small rivulets down his face, and his voice was carried on the backs of the waves.
His lament held the world's sorrows and grievances in only a few simple notes. As the mournful elegy meandered down the shore, and echoed in the hollow places, one could hear many things. The cries of the grieving Teleri, the whispers of the wind, the calls of lonely gulls, the roaring of the thunder in a wrathful storm, the sound of water trickling down a crevice in the mountains. Every listener heard a different song, each with a meaning unto themselves.
Then the song was ended, but it still echoed on sweet refrains. Maglor knelt down upon the sand, the waters rushing up as if in greeting, before receding back. The last son of Feanor stared down upon his scarred hands, burnt by the inner fire of the Silmaril which he had borne. It was as white lightning streaked across his palms. Maglor could not contain the cry of anguish that escaped his parted lips. Flame took Flame deep into the earth, and the sound of the waves took the Minstrel.