It is a bitterly cold winter night in a small village by the sea in a time that most have forgotten. The tiny inn is crowded tonight and the air rings with laughter and clinking glasses. In one corner sits a storyteller and the villagers gather around, eager to hear the tale. He begins to speak and the room silences. The only sound is the crackling of the fire.
"There are many tales that humans tell. Some have been around for as long as humanity itself and some have been born more recently. Why do these tales remain? The ones told around fires and in seedy shoreline taverns. But there is one that always seems to be told. Gather 'round and I shall spin you a tale" he says and the villagers listen raptly.
This story begins on a dark, clear night by the sea where the salty breeze blows in and never blows out and creaky wooden buildings bleached by the sun and crusted with salt. It is on these nights when the lonely traveler blows into town. He has long, dark hair usually mussed into a wind swept halo around his face.
His clothes are old and travel worn and his face although young and beautiful, has a distant, haunted look that suggests a long and hard life.
He'll stop at a quiet beachside inn and will only stay the night, disappearing before the dawn and leaving the scent of salt in his wake.
Over the years he has been mostly forgotten by the few who knew his name but he goes wandering still with a silver harp by his side. Sometime he'll wander down to the shore to feel the tickle of the waves at his feet and inhale the salty air. There he will stay; singing old mournful ballads with his only audience the constant flow and crash of the waves.
Time passes as it always has and the roadside inns are few and far between before disappearing altogether. So he builds a tiny cottage by the beach and fills it with salty air and longing.
Days, months, years, centuries go by and there he stays; serenading the sea and the sky.
The storyteller finishes to the awestruck faces of the crowd.
At his feet a small child pipes up "What was his name?"
"That I do not know" is the reply.
In the dim light of the inn nobody notices the figure standing in the corner with long, dark hair and a silvery harp tucked under his arm. Afraid of discovery, he steps out the door and into the night, leaving only the smell of salt behind him.
He is Maglor son of Fëanor and his tale will not be soon forgotten.