Ára woke blinking with a groan. She rolled over on a warm, grainy surface and tried to push herself up with one hand but it slid through…was that sand?
She blinked open her eyes then just as a nearby voice called to her, "It would be best if you sat up slowly, friend."
Ára blinked again as she sluggishly sat up, putting all her weight on her arms behind her, and then she slowly turned her head towards the strangely musical voice which spoke in one of the languages that felt like it had been downloaded into her mind, but it certainly wasn't English.
Sat only a few feet away from her on the beach—and yes, it was a beach she had…landed, or perhaps been stranded, on—was one of the most despairingly beautiful creatures she had ever seen.
His hair was long and dark with strangely patterned braids that some subconscious part of her recognized and understood—though it was as if she couldn't translate the story they told into words, even while she knew they signified something. His eyes were bright, star flecked grey, and backlit with some sort of inner light, though they held a weight of such age and sadness she felt her own heart beat in sympathy. He had a slender, noble face graced with high, aristocratic cheekbones and smooth, dark brows which were furrowed as if he was attempting to divine a particularly curious puzzle. His clothing was strange and weather-worn, as if he'd been standing in windy storms with the same faded grey tunic and cream-colored breeches for years on end, and he was sitting cross-legged with his hands in his lap, one of which sported strangely burned and blackened scar tissue on the face of his palm.
She tilted her head curiously, unashamedly continuing her careful study of him as he seemed to be studying her in return.
Her mind was still quite fogged from dying and her stint in the Halls of Mandos—which she was rapidly beginning to forget more and more of every second—but some part of her stay there must have remained. She frowned, staring at the elf—yes, the tips of his pointed ears peeking out through wild, long dark locks pointed to his heritage—and felt as if she recognized him but also didn't at the same time.
In the same tongue he spoke to her, she answered, "Well met, Singer," though she didn't know why she called him so, it felt right, even if he flinched and narrowed his eyes. "Can you tell me where I seem to have washed ashore?"
Ára herself wanted to flinch. Her voice was still hers but sounded…more. The added musical, dream-like quality was different and strange. And there seemed to be a depth to it that was distinctly magical beyond her seemingly fluent grasp of a language she'd apparently learned to be fluent in whilst in the realm of the dead.
His flame-bright eyes pierced through her as if he was reading her soul for a long, tense moment before he responded in a cautious tone, "You are on the southern coast of Harlindon in Eriador, close to the south of the Ered Luin."
For some reason, those place names were both recognized and not. He seemed to read her scrunched-up face as confusion, for he finished off with, "We are on a north-western shore of Middle-Earth, my Lady."
She nearly jerked back at that—and would have had it not been for the ache in her body and her position on the sand—for she at least knew with a certainty that she recognized Middle-Earth, and her next question was halting and wary. "Can you tell me what year it is, what Age?"
Her question seemed to shock him, however, because his eyes widened and he muttered a disbelieving oath in yet another tongue she somehow understood—and he could tell she did by her jaw going slack at the cursing—before he said, "It is the 3441st year of the Second Age, my Lady," he continued in the language he'd cursed in, the one which sounded far older and archaic than the first he'd spoken.
Ára closed her eyes and sitting forward and swinging her arms around, she rubbed at her face before muttering in kind, "The end of the Second Age, you have got to be fucking kidding me, Námo."
It seemed as if her words were heard—she'd forgotten elven hearing—because the elf in front of her stood up rapidly, scattering sand about him, and backed away from her as if she were a dangerous enemy.
Ára dropped her hands and peered at him in confusion. "Is—did I say something offensive?"
That stopped the ellon up short, for he switched back to the first musical dialect and slowly said, "You spoke of the Doomsman. As if you know him well."
Ára groaned at that and cursed as she vaulted herself off the sand into a standing position as well. "Know him?" she said incredulously, staring at the elf. "That arse took me from what was supposed to be a peaceful end to a rather short, and difficult life, due to some accident of fate, told me quite a lot of things—much of which I now cannot even seem to recall—and then dumped me here, on this beach, to be found, it seems, by whoever you are! I could call him worse things if I wished to!"
Her strange companion jerked back at her words, eyes wide and jaw hinged open in shocked surprise for a moment before he barked out into a surprisingly rough bout of musical laughter. It took him a minute or so to sober up, though he still looked far too amused at her outburst for her liking, but he ultimately sat back down on the sand and Ára followed his example. She needed information at the very least, and he seemed able to provide it.
"I thought you had recognized me, as you named me, but I can see you have no idea who I am, do you?"
"Should I? I have no clue as to why I said what I did when I woke. Only, I seemed to have spoken without understanding the words I said, in response to your question." She tilted her head, gazing at him curiously. "Does it mean something to you? What I called you? Singer?"
"You truly have no idea, do you?" he whispered, shaking his head. "I was once a singer, a bard of sorts, yes, good Lady. And I have sung many songs, laments mostly, on the coasts of these shores for many a long Age. So I suppose your address is correct. It simply shocked me, as not very many can claim to have knowledge of who I am, and of those on this side of the sea who can, I would know and recognize. But you...one of the Spirits? No, you, I know not."
Spirits? She felt as if she knew what he meant, but also didn't. She didn't press, however, because that wasn't important at the moment. She didn't even know his proper name! "Well, then, what name shall I call you by, my erstwhile rescuer and companion?"
He laughed once more, the amusement seeming to take years off his youthful face and from his terribly aged, flame-bright eyes. "I suppose there is no harm in telling one of your kind," he said with a wry smile. "I am Maglor, second son of Fëanor, once called Kanafinwë Makalaurë, though these days I do not call myself any of those names for there are none to call me by them usually."
Ára was very careful not to react to his self-proclaimed names because the fantasy novel nerd in her recognized them instantly. With a quick smile and a light tone of voice, she replied, "Oh, well that clears up the name issue then. What do you prefer to be called, for it sounds as if none of those names suit you any longer?"
Her response seemed to surprise him, for his eyes blew open for a brief moment before he offered her a small smile. "In truth, I know not. If I do ever find myself around others, they are usually of Men, and there I either do not give my name or call myself after the first natural object that comes to mind."
With a sly, amused grin Ára replied. "So I should name you something after the sea, the sand, or the sky then?"
He snorted. "If you wish, my Lady."
That title was beginning to get old, so she said, "Please stop with the my Lady business. I certainly have not been formal with you, and to be quite honest I despise formality between friends."
He shook his head in disbelief. "Nay! I shall not! But you would call me a friend, even after knowing who I am?"
"Of course! If you had not been here when I had awoken, I surely would have been far more confused and upset than I am currently." She paused. "And alone, which to me seems far worse."
He seemed to think about that for a time before he asked, "Well, in that case, I suppose I shall have to ask you for your name, my Lady. Especially if you truly desire less formality from me. Though I do not believe you will achieve your aim."
"I am El—" she stopped short and looked away from him and at the sun rising out over the sea. "I am Elára. Just Elára, though I prefer Ára."
His star-fleck, flame-bright eyes struck a lance through her but he nodded. "Well met, Ára."
"Well met, Eärlindotur Fëanorion."